Achilles Reborn
Henry IV opens with the news that fierce battles are taking place on the borders of England. Skirmishes have broken out between the English on one side and Scottish and Welsh rebels on the other. The king’s trusted advisor, the Earl of Westmoreland, relays the bad news that Edmund Mortimer, an English military leader, has lost a battle against a band of “irregular and wild” Welshmen, who are led by the mysterious Welsh rebel Owain Glyndwr. From the other English border, Westmoreland adds, he has just received information that “the gallant Hotspur,” Harry Percy, is currently engaged in a heated battle with a large band of Scottish rebels. Upon hearing this news, King Henry postpones his planned crusade to chase pagans out of Jerusalem, and he shifts his attention to keep at bay the pagan-like warriors causing problems on his own country’s soil. One important aspect of the opening scene is the fact that King Henry, a Christian, is attempting to do battle with men with the ferocity of ancient pagans—men who have wives who are willing to castrate dead Englishmen. Henry is torn in the opening scenes. He needs to be strong but feels remorse and insecurity about having usurped the throne from Richard II. He is looking for a way to reconcile himself with God. We see dilemmas such as these—a warrior whose Christian soul feels immense guilt for his un-Christian actions—throughout Shakespeare’s histories and tragedies.[1] Henry’s problem is that as King of England and as an older man he can no longer fight the way he used to, and instead must manage political issues from the court. For this reason he needs great noble warriors who are willing to fight in his name and win honor for his kingdom—Henry needs an Achilles fighting for the English throne.
It appears he has found just what he is looking for in Henry Percy, nicknamed Hotspur. Bolingbroke tells Westmoreland the news that young Hotspur has already defeated Douglas and his army of ten thousand and has taken several important figures prisoner:
The Earl of Douglas is discomfited;
Ten thousand bold Scots, two and twenty knights
Balked in their own blood did Sir Walter see
On Holmedon’s plains. Of prisoners, Hotspur took
Mordake, Earl of Fife and eldest son
To beaten Douglas, and the Earl of Athol,
Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith.
And is not this an honorable spoil?
A gallant prize? Ha, cousin, is it not? (I.i.67-75)[2]
King Henry seems to have exactly what he needs in Hotspur—a gallant warrior who is superior in battle to the barbaric Scots. With a soldier like Hotspur, the king is able to stand up against warrior cultures like the Welsh and Scots, while remaining a Christian King. He can fight fire with fire without risking the chance of getting burned himself. For this reason, Hotspur appears as the most praiseworthy character at the beginning of the play, for he is classically virtuous at a time when this type of heroism is needed most—war.
King Henry does not hesitate to praise Hotspur and even goes as far as wishing that he were his own son:
Yea, there thou mak’st me sad, and mak’st me sin
In envy that my Lord Northumberland
Should be the father to so blest a son:
A son who is the theme of honor’s tongue,
Amongst a grove the very straightest plant;
Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him,
See riot and dishonor stain the brow
Of my young Harry. (I.i.77-85)
At this point in the play Henry greatly favors Hotspur, with his natural heroic skills, over his own son. When Henry dreams of Hotspur being his son, he is showing that he believes that he would make a better prince than Hal would, and therefore, subsequently, a better king. Henry describes Hotspur as the “theme of honor’s tongue,/ Amongst a grove the very straightest plant.” The way Henry compares Hotspur to a plant shows that he believes that Hotspur is by nature more fit to rule than his son, who is next in line according to conventional laws of primogeniture. Yet immediately after Bolingbroke praises Hotspur, he goes on to question the young warrior’s actions.
What think you, coz,
Of this young Percy’s pride? The prisoners
Which he in this adventure hath surprised
To his own use he keeps, and sends me word
I shall have none but Mordake, Earl of Fife. (I.i.91-94)
The King has ambivalent feelings regarding his noble warrior. On the one hand, he sees that there is something naturally magnificent about his spirited soldier, but on the other hand, he realizes there is a degree of danger in his aggressiveness and belligerence. Hotspur is an asset in war, but a threat during peace. In this he is similar to Homer’s Achilles, who is an invaluable resource while in battle but is socially inept when it comes to peacetime politics. Both can function on only one side of Achilles’ famous shield—the war scene. Naturally this leads to problems for the political leader or king. Bolingbroke’s relationship with Hotspur must be a love/hate one. He needs him in battle but wants him to go away peacefully once the battle is won. In 1 Henry IV Shakespeare evaluates one of the longest running questions in politics—what does one do with an aggressive warrior when the war is over? What happens to the natural aggression of nobles when the outlets for release are shut off? The answer is: they turn violently against the person they believe is holding them back, preventing them from living up to their full potential as noble warriors.
This question was particularly relevant in Shakespeare’s own time. Hotspur’s character is tied up with what has been termed by Lawrence Stone and others “the crisis of the aristocracy.” Since the time of Homer’s great epics, the Iliad and the Odyssey, the aristocratic male has been expected to win honor and prove his worthiness in battle. Achilles is the most famous example of the Greek aristocratic man, or, in Greek terms, the pinnacle of the aner. He is the greatest pure warrior in literary history. The Achaean soldier nearly single-handedly defeated the entire Trojan army in the Iliad. He is stronger, faster, fiercer, and simply more noble and beautiful than any other Greek. Achilles’ appearance and feats on the battlefield allow him to receive the most fame (kleos), making him immortal in the world’s imagination. This classical form of heroism was still very much alive during Shakespeare’s lifetime. “The quintessence of nobility in the Renaissance…was still inextricably linked with the career of ‘a great soldier’” (McCoy, 12). For many aristocrats during the Renaissance magnanimity or “greatness of soul” still meant the same thing it did for Aristotle—“a certaine excellencie of courage, which aiming at honour, directeth all his doings therevnto, and specially vnto virtue” (from an Elizabethan translation of the Nicomachean Ethics quoted in McCoy, 12)
Shakespeare may well have had Homer in mind when writing 1Henry IV. There are striking parallels between the opening scene of his play and the opening scene of the Iliad, the quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon. In both the Iliad and 1Henry IV the central problem of the plot arises out of a quarrel over war booty and a monarch’s failure to give just recognition to his best soldier. Hotspur flies into a rage when King Henry orders him to hand over his prisoners of war to an effeminate courtier. He sees this request as a direct jab at his personal honor—not only does he not receive immediate applause from his king, but he also is asked to hand over spoils from battle, leaving him with neither praise nor a prize. This scenario is much like the first book of the Iliad when Agamemnon demands that Achilles give up Briseis, his prize after sacking a town allied with Troy. When Agamemnon learns that he must give up his own beautiful maiden taken from the same battle in order to end a plague in the camp, he flies into a rage and says that he will do so only if Achilles gives him Briseis as compensation.
But I am willing to give her back, even so,
if that is best for all. What I really want
is to keep my people safe, not see them dying.
But fetch me another prize, and straight off too,
else I alone of the Argives go without my honor.
That would be a disgrace. (Iliad, I.135-140)
Agamemnon is willing to hand over his own war prize but only if he receives another one—to him it is a matter of honor. In both Shakespeare and Homer we see a king taking away his best soldier’s prize of war. To Achilles, “the loss of Briseis means the loss of honour and glory, and the anger that leads Achilles astray and dooms him is an anger that fixes his eye on one thing only, the sense of glory. He cannot be the hero he is and not protest” (Brower, 37). When Agamemnon and King Henry demand the war prizes of their greatest warriors, they are demanding more than just prisoners of war, they are forcing their soldiers to hand over their honor and glory.
Agamemnon’s demand humiliates and infuriates the proud Achilles. When Agamemnon threatens to go to Achilles’ tent in the army’s camp and take Briseis himself, Achilles stands poised to draw his sword and kill the Achaean commander.
The heart in his rugged chest was pounding, torn. . . .
Should he draw the long sharp sword slung at his hip,
thrust through the ranks and kill Agamemnon now?—
or check his rage and beat his fury down?
And his racing spirit veered back and forth,
just as he drew his huge blade from its sheath,
down from the vaulting heavens swept Athena. (Iliad, I.223-229)
Achilles has a quick debate with the spirit pounding in his chest and then gives in to his anger and goes to strike down Agamemnon. It is only because Athena sweeps down and stops him that Achilles does not kill his commander right there in the Achaean camp. This same scenario is played out in Shakespeare’s play. After King Henry demands Hotspur’s prisoners and refuses to ransom his uncle, Mortimer, the hot-headed warrior yells,
And if the devil come and roar for them,
I will not send them. I will after straight
And tell him so, for I will ease my heart,
Albeit I make hazard of my head. (I.123-126)
When Hotspur says he is ready to risk his head to ease his heart, he sounds just like Achilles. And, just as happens with Achilles, Hotspur’s impulsive behavior must be checked—in his case by Worcester and Northumberland. Both Achilles and Hotspur are willing to kill their king and ultimately put their own life in jeopardy in order to save their honor. Each prioritizes his individual glory—his kleos--above all else.
These parallel clashes help Shakespeare emphasize Hotspur’s dedication to one of the dominant values of the ancient Greek system: the vital importance of personal honor. It also helps show that Achilles and the Iliad in general were on Shakespeare’s mind when he developed the character of Hotspur. But Achilles may not have been the only heroic figure on Shakespeare’s mind when he wrote 1 Henry IV. Queen Elizabeth’s court offered another famous warrior and a remarkable parallel to Achilles, Robert Devereaux, the second Earl of Essex. He was viewed by some as the greatest soldier in England in his day and he had ambitions to earn a reputation as a hero in the classical mold. As a handsome and courtly young man, he became Elizabeth’s personal favorite. But his ambitions led him to clash with Elizabeth on a number of occasions in quarrels that resemble the one between Achilles and Agamemnon or the one between Hotspur and Henry IV. Like Hotspur and Achilles, Essex was a talented and aggressive warrior in a world ruled by a figure with less military prowess. As a woman in a world dominated by men, Elizabeth was in a position potentially more precarious than that of Agamemnon or Henry IV. In creating the figure of Hotspur, Shakespeare may have had an eye on his contemporary, the Earl of Essex, as well as on Achilles, the great hero of classical antiquity.
Shakespeare was looking in two directions when composing 1 Henry IV. He was looking back to Homer and the Iliad in order to view English history against the background of the classical heroic tradition. At the same time, he was looking at contemporary events in the court of Elizabeth, which seemed to illustrate the same problems Homer deals with in the figure of Achilles. As we will see, Shakespeare was not the only one to draw upon Homer in looking at events in England. The first translation of the Iliad was done by a man, George Chapman, who was courting favor with Essex and hoped to use the translation to advance the earl’s position at court. The character of Hotspur becomes more interesting when viewed in this larger literary and historical context. We will see that Shakespeare was using the figure of Hotspur to explore an age-old and universal problem—the role of the aggressive warrior in a peacetime community. I will begin in Chapter I by looking at the tension between the soldiers and the courtiers in Elizabeth’s court, and specifically how the career of Essex embodied and increased these tensions. I will then look in Chapter II at how the story of Essex became bound up with the story of Achilles in the mind of Shakespeare’s fellow poet, George Chapman. Finally, in Chapter III, I will return to 1 Henry IV to show how the stories of both Achilles and Essex illuminate the story of Shakespeare’s Hotspur.
CHAPTER I
ESSEX AND THE DECAY OF THE ARISTOCRACY
In the world of the ancient Greeks and Romans, the ruling-class was made up predominantly of warriors. In the Homeric epics they are referred to as the andres and they were expected to win honor and fame through heroic feats in battle. War was a way of life in this archaic world and the aristocrat’s reputation was directly linked with his abilities on the battlefield. During this early period in history, honor and prestige were won in an objective manner—how well one fought in battle. The accomplishments of a warrior are usually easy to determine—he returns home either victorious or defeated. Many of the noble class in England during the Elizabethan era would have preferred this simpler system to their own. In England in the sixteenth century a crucial power shift occurred. The political system began to move from a feudal system to a centralized monarchy. One of the results of this shift was a new, far less militaristic, group of aristocrats. In the feudal system the aristocrat maintained his own army and had a significant amount of political and military power. With the emergence of the centralized monarchy, the crown began to maintain its own armies and the once powerful barons left their lands and began to reside in the court. Once in the court, as opposed to on the battlefield or on their own lands, the aristocrats began to move away from the more traditional forms of honor and learned to win praise from their monarchs through flattery, rhetoric, and even fashion.
This new system crystallized during the reign of King Henry VIII; as G. M. Trevelyan writes: the “exclusion of the aristocracy remained a first principle of Tudor statecraft” (Trevelyan, 21). After the War of the Roses, Henry VIII stripped the rebellious aristocrats of their titles and gave them to his personal friends. In doing so he created a court filled with noblemen who were in power only because of their devotion to the King and not because of their military exploits. As result the aristocracy began to move from its roots as a class of warriors and into a class of court flatterers. Our best guide to this decline is Lawrence Stone’s The Crisis of the Aristocracy: 1558-1641. Stone shows that as the crown slowly gained ascendancy over its once mighty subjects, the aristocrats began to lose their self-confidence, prestige, and authority. As Stone describes the process:
The first task of the Tudors was to rid the country of the overmighty subject whose military potential came not far short of that of the monarchy itself. This meant destruction of individuals by attainder or confiscation; refusal to create new great families by gifts of lands and swelling titles; encouragement of a counterpoise in the more numerous families of lesser rank and pretensions; diversion of noble time, energy, and money to royal service at the Court; and development of the monarchy as the one overriding focus of allegiance and loyalty. (Stone, 97)
Stone points out that part of the problem during the early Tudor period was that it seemed that everyone with a large amount of land was being given a coat of arms. In a society that was largely illiterate it was easy for the higher ranks of society simply to alter genealogies and claim noble bloodlines. The consequence was a dramatic increase in the number of gentry. Coats of arms quickly began slipping into the social marketplace. They were bought and sold in the highest levels of society as bread and butter were in the lower-class world. During this period the duties and expectations of the gentry class turned away from the traditional military virtues of previous eras.
The title of knight originally involved military obligations, and even in the sixteenth century it preserved some vestiges of its ancient function in that it was often given under royal commission by military commanders in the field. But now, however, this aspect was falling into the background, and in 1583 Sir Thomas Smith could observe that knights were usually made ‘according to the yearly revenue of their lands.’ (Stone, 39)
In the classical world the andres were looked upon with awe and admiration. Their noble actions in battle and their often superior physiques set them apart from the rest of society. The original conception of the English aristocrat tried to maintain this prestige—whether it was through warfare, or their noblesse oblige actions as large land owning barons. During the Tudor Dynasty this ideal was slipping into an imaginary world of the past. The average aristocrat had never been in battle and spent most of his time in the luxurious world of the court. As Stone points out: “Between 1552 and 1642 England enjoyed several prolonged periods of peace, and the opportunities for military service were consequently sharply reduced. About three-quarters of the peerage—which means virtually every able-bodied adult peer—had seen service in the wars of the 1540s, but by 1576 only one peer in four had had any military experience” (Stone, 130-31).
The idea of the aristocracy in decay is not just an observation that has been made by modern historians and literary critics. In his dedication to The Collection of the History of England Samuel Daniel reflected in 1626 that the regime of the “fiue Soueraigne Princes of the line of Tewdor” was not a period with an abundance of classical virtue.
A time not of that virilitie as the former, but more subtle, and let out into wider notions, and bolder discoveries of what lay hidden before. A time wherein began a greater improvement of the Soueraigntie, and more came to be effected by wit than by the sword. (As quoted in McCoy, 9)
The dismay that Daniel felt about the aristocracy helps confirm the observations of Lawrence Stone and helps us see more clearly the world in which Shakespeare was writing his history plays. Even though his history plays deal with an earlier era, they reflect political problems that were relevant to his own day.
As with any historical trends, the decay of the aristocracy was not a universal change. Even though many aristocrats were content living a luxurious life in the safety of the court and were happy winning prestige through “wit” as opposed to the “sword,” there were still some aristocrats who clung to the classical virtues. In ancient Greece the aristocratic warrior was possessed with what was referred to as thumos. While there is no simple English translation of this word, it can be most easily described as the spiritedness of a warrior—the internal drive that allows him to accomplish great feats in battle. It is the energy that allows warriors to be aggressive and fearless, the fuel that drives them through years of fighting. In translations of the Iliad, Achilles’ thumos is often rendered as his “raging heart” (Iliad, XXIV.666) and in the epic, if he is not given a chance to exercise this “raging heart,” he becomes more and more belligerent. For example, while he is angry with Agamemnon, Achilles denies the requests of his closest companions, most notably Odysseus, to return to battle and help save the Achaean army from certain defeat. But after he expends his thumos when he finally returns to battle and slaughters thousands of Trojans and revenges the death of Patroclus by killing Hector, Achilles’ “raging heart” seems to be temporarily cooled. In the closing book of the epic Achilles agrees, without much persuasion, to return the body of his worst enemy, Hector, to the King of the opposing army, Priam. This suggests that thumos is an expendable force that both can and needs to be released periodically in order for a warrior to function in civilized society.
For the aristocrats in sixteenth-century England who still clung to the traditional expectations of the ruling class, and, who were full of the same thumotic energy as the ancient Greek warriors, the idea of sitting passively in court all day was not acceptable. Spirited aristocrats in Elizabeth’s court craved action and excitement—they needed an outlet for their thumotic energy as well as a way to prove their martial virtues. While generally the nobility was losing much of their prestige, for some their pride was undiminished and they needed an outlet for their spiritedness. An excellent study of the ways in which some of the nobility exercised their martial virtues is Richard McCoy’s The Rites of Knighthood: The Literature and Politics of Elizabethan Chivalry. McCoy points out that the monarchy still depended on the nobility to raise troops and that many nobles’ predilection for warfare and violence was undiminished by the power shift. “Indeed, war remained the supreme vocation for many noblemen, who regarded it as an opportunity for winning honor and renown” (McCoy, 9).
In spite of the new ways in which one could achieve recognition during the Renaissance, such as administration, diplomacy, and letters, it was still the duty of the true noblemen to be the protectors of the community, to follow the path of arms. The shift from the feudal system to the centralized monarchy helped create a split within the ruling class— the courtiers and the soldiers. As a result Elizabeth’s court was filled with two kinds of nobility—those content to adapt to court life and those bursting with aggressive energy. For the latter the court was like a cage for a lion—it pent them up and forced them into an unnatural domesticity and inactive existence. As a result “Elizabeth’s court swarmed with unruly men of the sword, who rushed off to do battle in the Netherlands, Ireland, and the New World” (McCoy, 9). With fewer opportunities to fight in their own country, the spirited nobility traveled across the globe to find an outlet for their aggressive energy and to reclaim the disappearing prestige once linked with their titles. We see a similar scenario in 1Henry IV. It is important to notice that Hotspur is fighting on the borders of England—border lands in Shakespeare’s plays often serve as places to escape the modern world and return to a more archaic one where martial virtues are more respected and necessary for survival. Shakespeare reflects in his plays on the contemporary fact that nobility were going out of their way to find action outside of England, which was becoming more and more centered on life in the court as opposed to warfare.
If the warrior aristocrat was not fighting on the English border or in some far off land, he was more than likely in the court and therefore had to compete against the unwarlike nobles for the attention of the monarch. As stated earlier, the court was separated into two factions. These two antithetical groups were referred to as the militia and the togati.[3] In general the militia were the warriors and the togati were the courtiers. Often the togati were more successful in winning the favor of the Queen in the court than the militia were. Part of their success can be traced to the fact that they were pliable—willing to submit to the requests of Elizabeth and others at court. They went with the political current and won honors by always insuring that they were on the winning side of any quarrel or debate. One of the most successful courtiers of the Renaissance was William Paulet, Marquess of Winchester, a noble who lasted through the reigns of four Tudor monarchs from Henry VIII through Elizabeth. He was once questioned “‘how he stood for thirty years together amidst the changes and ruins of so many counselors and great personalities.’ ‘Why’ quoth the Marquess, ‘ortus sum ex salice non ex quercu. I was made of the pliable willow, not of the oak’” (McCoy, 12). A high level of pliancy helped courtiers in Elizabeth’s court win the favor of the Queen. Unlike the togati, the militia had a hard time bending their principles to win the monarch’s favor.
Like their classical counterparts, the militia often refused to bend their principles for any form of authority. One way of looking at these two factions is to see the togati as character types who would fit well into a Shakespearean comedy—willing to bend and be flexible in order to achieve a pleasing outcome—and to view the militia as characters who fit into Shakespeare’s world of tragedy—unwilling to bend their principles even at the cost of their own lives. The militia clung to a code of honor that still considered virtue to be linked with the career of a great soldier—men like Shakespeare’s Coriolanus and Harry Percy. For these men the idea of lowering oneself by bending one’s principles to win the favor of the monarch was unacceptable. They wanted to be “lone-wolves” who were admired and praised for their military virtue, not for their political savvy. Naturally this caused a great deal of conflict in Elizabeth’s court. In order to maintain peace and civility Queen Elizabeth had to come up with some way to allow her militia to expend their aggressive energies, while at the same time keeping a close eye on them. She had to ensure that they were vying for her attention in the same way the courtiers were without taking away from them their code of honor and aristocratic pride.
In Rites of Knighthood, McCoy shows that the revival of fifteenth-century chivalry provided both an outlet for the aggressive energy of aristocrats and a way of trying to keep them contained in the court. Elizabethan chivalry centered on tournaments, especially the Accession Day tilt, in which the thrill of combat was center stage in the court for a day. In these tournaments the aristocratic contestants entered the tiltyard in a chariot or on horseback. They were often heavily armed from head to toe in shining armor and were usually accompanied by a line of retainers in uniforms. These grand entries were a rare opportunity for the nobleman to show his martial greatness and splendid appearance, as well as a way for him to pay tribute to the Queen. After the grand entry the actual tilt began and it provided another opportunity for the nobles to show off. “Two knights on horseback charged along a tilt, or barrier, their rebated lances aimed at each other’s helmets or breastplate; points were awarded for each lance broken” (McCoy, 21). These shows of martial prowess were an opportunity for the nobles to release pent up aggressive impulses in the safe confines of an organized and regulated event.
Still, even though there were rules and guidelines to follow during these combat competitions, it was not uncommon for a participant to be seriously injured or even killed. Naturally this dangerous aspect of the games made them more exciting for both the audience and the participants (who were using them as a substitute for real combat). Before the reign of Elizabeth the games were even more dangerous. “Henri II of France had been killed when a splintered lance penetrated his visor and pierced his brain, and Henry VIII narrowly escaped a similar fatal injury” (McCoy, 21). Elizabeth took steps to avoid such accidents by making the tilts less hostile by installing increased safety measures, such as breakable lances. This allowed the competitions to remain friendly as well as helping to prevent the humiliation or serious injury of a nobleman (McCoy, 21).
Although under the control of Elizabeth the tilts became less brutal and dangerous, they did still work to serve their original purpose. The tournament remained a “strenuous and dynamic event, and like any sporting contest it allowed the release of aggressive energies. Moreover it was a symbolic substitute for war” (McCoy, 24). Elizabeth seemed to have arrived at the perfect solution to her dilemma. The aggressive members of the court could win honor and prestige in a noble manner without leaving the court. Elizabethan chivalry offered a compromise with which both the Queen and the militia could be content:
Its ceremonial forms constitute a kind of cultural resolution of one of the central contradictions of Elizabethan politics, the conflict between honor and obedience, the “customary rights” of knighthood and the duty to “right royal majesty.” Through its conventions of feudal loyalty and romantic devotion, Elizabethan chivalry affirmed Tudor sovereignty. At the same time, it glorified aristocratic militarism and traditional notions of honor and autonomy. The chivalric ideology thus combined deference and aggression, accommodating these dangerously incompatible, often contradictory impulses within its codes and customs. When chivalric rituals worked, they allowed a compromise between the conflicting interests of the Elizabethan ruling class; this capacity to satisfy both crown and nobility explains the enduring popularity of chivalry in the sixteenth century. (McCoy, 3)
According to McCoy, Elizabethan chivalry functioned as a “safety valve, allowing a socially sanctioned and carefully regulated release” of pent-up aggression for spirited aristocrats (McCoy, 24). The question that remains is whether these mock jousts were a sufficient release or did they just fuel the nobles’ desire to fight in real battles? Did the tournaments have a cathartic effect or were they just the opposite--merely added motivation for real fighting?
This is a complicated question and the historical evidence is mixed. But as McCoy shows, despite the general success of the chivalric system in Elizabeth’s court, it sometimes had results directly opposite to its intended effect. Sometimes the nobles left the tilts with the same pent up aggression that they entered with and, if they were winners in the games, more motivation to win prestige in real life battles. Furthermore, when a noble was highly successful at these tournaments, he could be elevated to celebrity status in the court and in the public arena. It was hard if not impossible for such men not to feel an aching desire to see just how powerful they could become if given the chance in real battle. In many ways the chivalric tournaments led the public as well as nobles to question who should be on the throne—a victorious knight or a female monarch? The debate over whether the best soldier is more fit to rule than a reigning but militarily less accomplished monarch goes all the way back to Homer in the classic Achilles versus Agamemnon quarrel in the opening book of the Iliad. This same debate was an obvious point of tension during Elizabeth’s reign.[4] Having a female ruler surrounded by young and strong male knights led some to believe that England was being ruled by the wrong person. Of all the possible replacements available, the Earl of Essex ultimately proved to be the greatest threat.
One could argue that the second Earl of Essex, Robert Devereux, was the closest thing the English Renaissance had to the revival of a living, breathing classical hero—or at least that is how Essex wished to be viewed. The Earl of Essex was the “heroic paragon of Elizabethan chivalry” (McCoy, 2). He was launched into celebrity status during the late sixteenth century for both his reckless and brave exploits in battle and his stunning and dominating appearances in the Accession Day tilts. Essex is the equivalent of what today we would call a “superstar” and is the best example of the militia we have been discussing. Fighting was always on the noble’s mind. In 1585, when he was only eighteen years old, he accompanied his stepfather, Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester, on an expedition to the Netherlands. He served as the master of the horses on this particular expedition and made sure to spare no expense when outfitting his men and himself.
The Earl of Essex mastered both the real world of combat and the theatrical performances in the court—he seemed to triumph in fact as well as fiction. At his best, and when he was in control of himself, he was able to combine the talents of a courtier with those of a soldier, especially of course in his efforts to court Elizabeth. But ultimately his military ambitions overcame whatever courtly impulses he had, and in his urge to achieve glory on the battlefield, he seems to have been inspired by classical examples. In a strange way the Earl of Essex made sure that his real life was as close as possible to the fictional expectations one would have of a classical warrior. The fact that he impressed his contemporaries as a figure out of the classical world is evident in a comment by Francis Bacon. In an account he wrote of Essex, he described him this way:
For first of all, the world can now expound why it was that he did aspire, and had almost attained, unto greatness like unto the ancient greatness of the Praefectus Praetorio under the Emperors of Rome, to have all men of war to make their sole and particular dependence upon him. (Abbott, Appendix II, 2)
As for other contemporary attempts to draw parallels between Essex and classical figures, G. B. Harrison notes: “one of the most telling passages in Bacon’s Speech for the prosecution of Essex was his apt comparison of Essex with Pisistratus; Ben Jonson, in the margin of his copy of Greenaway’s translation of The Annals of Tacitus, noted opposite the account of the fall of Sejanus ‘The Earl of Essex’” (Harrison, “National Background,” 165-66). Finally, John Hayward’s dedication of his Life of Henry IV to Essex is replete with classical allusions:
To the best and most noble, says Euripides, at which thought you first and almost only came to mind, most illustrious Earl, whose name, should it shine on our Henry’s forehead, he would more happily and more safely go forth among our people. . . . If, therefore, you would deign to take this up with a happy countenance, it shall rest safely under the shelter of your name, like Homer’s Teucer under the shield of Ajax. (Translated out of the Latin in Manning, 61)
Essex’s own obsession with the classical past was so great that he pictured even Queen Elizabeth as a classical hero. In a peculiar letter to Robert Cecil (July 28, 1597), Essex spoke of Elizabeth’s appearance at a court occasion:
It was happy for her majesty that she was stirred and had so worthy an occasion to show herself. The heroes would be but as other men if they had not unusual and unlooked-for encounters. And sure her majesty is made of the same stuff of which the ancients believed their heroes to be formed: that is, her mind of gold, her body of brass. (Marcus, 335)
This seldom noted passage proves that Essex tended to view his world in terms derived from classical antiquity. Even in his private correspondence, he brings up images out of ancient mythology.
Essex used the classical past as a model in his actions as a warrior. For example, while fighting in Lisbon in 1589, “as the rest of the English force withdrew, the Earl stayed behind to strike a heroic pose” (McCoy, 80).[5] After this he ran up to the gates of the city and demanded to be allowed to fight one-on-one with any Spaniard who felt he could defeat him. The Spaniards decided to remain within the safety of the city walls and the Earl left without the pleasure of killing an enemy soldier on the perimeter of their own city—when he made his heroic gesture, the Earl seems to have been re-enacting Achilles’ challenge at the walls of Troy. Later, in 1591 the Earl traveled to France to join with Henri IV. Soon after his arrival Essex could not resist making a brave, but entirely meaningless raid into the heart of the royal camp, where he stole the enemy’s jewels and horses (McCoy, 81). Essex seemed to be incapable of controlling his immense ego, attempting to boost his personal honor whenever possible. He is similar to Odysseus in Homer’s Odyssey, when after safely escaping from the Cyclops, he is unable to control his pride and yells back to the blinded giant his name and how excellent his escape has been. As we all know, Odysseus’ lack of self-control led to years more of turmoil in his journey home. Likewise, the Earl’s exploits led to the reproach of his superiors as well as the Queen. Essex’s military career seemed to waver between reality and fiction. He was constantly putting on a show for his fellow soldiers—trying to make sure that his actions were always the most memorable part of any given battle.
Queen Elizabeth hoped that the pageants and spectacles of the Accession Day tilts would help tame the seemingly out-of-control Earl. At first it seemed that they were doing just that. The Earl of Essex was an enthusiastic participant in the “rites of knighthood,” and his appearances were frequent and always memorable (McCoy, 81).
In 1586 he was the second challenger in the Accession Day tilt, and the next year he led the challengers, riding out first against Sir Henry Lee and then against the Earl of Cumberland. In 1588 he began and ended the tilt, and in 1589 he led again. He ran three courses out of ten in 1593, and two out of nine in 1594, and he was the sole challenger in two additional tilts in 1594 and 1596. (McCoy, 81)
Just as in battle, the Earl was set on outshining everyone in the tiltyard competition. He was always the crowd’s favorite to watch and rarely lost a bout. Still the tournaments did not have the effect on Essex that the Queen had hoped for. On the contrary, the “tournaments seemed to inflame Essex’s competitive aggression instead of providing a cathartic release” (McCoy, 83). As Harrison sums up the problem with Essex: “His romantic desire for military glory degenerated into vanity, and it was easy for his less scrupulous followers to inflame his jealousies by the mere suggestion that his honour was being touched” (Harrison, “National Background,” 177).
The Earl’s competitive aggressiveness led to his downfall, when on February 8, 1602, he orchestrated and led a confused and disorderly rebellion to overthrow the Queen.[6] Unlike his previous exploits, the rebellion was quickly and easily put down and the Earl was executed on February 24. The night before his revolt he had Shakespeare’s Richard II staged, in the hope that the play’s “scenes of courtly corruption and tyrannous abuse would rouse the London populace to join them in armed insurrection” (McCoy, 2).[7] The way Essex had Richard II staged to help spark rebellion against Elizabeth is the culmination of the interaction of literature and real life in his career. It shows that the Elizabethans did in fact draw parallels between the events happening in their day and the events portrayed in Shakespeare’s history plays, specifically the Second Tetralogy, which begins with Richard II. In a related development, at the time of Essex’s trial for treason, Elizabeth ordered an investigation into John Hayward’s The First Part of the Life and Reign of King Henry IV (1599). The book had originally appeared with a dedication to the Earl of Essex and seemed to portray Bolingbroke’s rebellion against Richard too sympathetically. Elizabeth and her supporters were concerned that Essex had conspired with Hayward to bring out a book that would encourage rebellion against her by showing a weak monarch overthrown by a more soldierly opponent (Harrison, Earl of Essex, 214, 257, 267).[8] If Elizabeth’s legal authorities, including the Attorney-General, Edward Coke, drew parallels between Essex’s career and events in the reigns of Richard II and Henry IV, it is likely that Shakespeare did too.[9] But Richard II was not the only work of Elizabethan literature with ties to the career of Essex. As we will see, the great Homer translation of the Elizabethan age was closely linked with the story of the tragic earl.
CHAPTER II
ESSEX AND ACHILLES IN CHAPMAN’S TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD
The Earl of Essex was one of the best-known soldiers during the English Renaissance. But, while he may have been a famous solider, the Earl was not exactly the portrait of a perfect nobleman—he did, in fact, attempt to usurp the crown. Essex can be both praised as honorable and brave and criticized as foolish and dangerous. He is both an English hero and an enemy to order. The Earl’s mixed reputation is parallel to the reputation of the classical figure he may have been attempting to imitate—Achilles.
We often forget how shocking it must have been for a predominantly Christian society to rediscover ancient Greek texts and find that they celebrated a figure like Achilles as the pinnacle of humanity. “The centrality of Achilles as hero within classical culture tells us something about the ancient Greeks (and Romans as well): the way they prized the whole spirited side of human nature—what the Greeks called thumos—the complex of pride, anger, indignation and ambition which fueled the great classical heroes (in fact as well as fiction)” (Cantor, Hamlet, 5). In the classical world it was the spirited soldier who was held up as the model youth and who was celebrated. Machiavelli in his Discourses on the First Ten Books of Livy (1531) wrote:
The Pagan religion deified only men who had achieved great glory, such as commanders of armies and chiefs of republics, whilst ours glorifies more the humble and contemplative men than the men of action. Our religion, moreover, places the supreme good in humility, lowliness, and a contempt for worldly objects, whilst the other, on the contrary, places the supreme good in grandeur of soul, strength of body, and all such other qualities as render men formidable; and if our religion claims of us fortitude of soul, it is more to enable us to suffer than to achieve great deeds. (Machiavelli, 285)
It is clear from this passage that the virtues Achilles embodied clashed with those of sixteenth-century England. For someone to take on the role of Achilles in the sixteenth century would cause awe and admiration but also distrust and condemnation. It was difficult enough for most people to deal with the rebirth of classical antiquity in translations of classical texts. It was far more difficult to accept what appeared to be the actual rebirth of an Achillean figure. To understand the complex relationship the Earl of Essex had in Elizabethan England with both the nobility and the general public, one should be aware of the difficulty England had accepting the classical heroic model—Achilles.
Achilles is the natural hero in a war epic. In battle the Achaean warrior moves and fights with the same grace and rhythm as Homer’s poetic song. Thousands of men fought in the Trojan War, but the results of the war balanced on the actions of one man. Achilles’ importance in the war epic is simple—with him the Achaeans will win the ten-year battle and without him they will certainly lose. In this context one can see why Homer celebrates Achilles as the pinnacle of humanity and why the ancient Greeks admired him. But if it is easy to celebrate the best warrior during a war, what happens when the battle is over? His warrior virtues may start to become problematic. Vicious watchdogs are great to have circling the perimeter of one’s property, but they are less welcome when brought inside the doors of one’s home. Homer could celebrate Achilles, because the warrior never returned home and reentered a peaceful society. It is fair to speculate that a man born to kill and dominate other men would want to continue doing so regardless of whether he was in battle or in peaceful society. There is little doubt that Achilles would have been a threat to society if he had not been killed by Paris’ arrow. Based on this portrait of Achilles, one can understand why Renaissance England was largely divided in its views of Achilles.
For some, he was the antithesis of everything conventional religious and social codes deemed good. On the other hand there were many who regarded Achilles as an impressive and necessary hero. John Briggs points out that some people believed Achilles should be admired and praised.
Achilles does receive occasional admiring glances even in Lydgate’s Troy Book, and in Chapman’s own time there were significant, positive reactions to Achilles’ character. The 1595 edition of A Myrrour for English Soulders makes a typical comparison: “Homer in his Achilles, Virgil in his Aeneas, and Xenophon in his Prince, all sought but to pourtrayt a perfite soulder.” Sidney makes a similar comparison in his Defense, as does Thomas Heywood in his Apology for Actors: “[Achilles, Theseus, and Hercules] bred in them such hawty and magnanimous attempts, that every succeeding age hath recorded their worths, unto fresh emulation.” (Briggs, 60)
The Iliad was first translated into English in 1598 by George Chapman. Earlier we looked at the two emerging character types of Renaissance nobility—the togati and the militia. George Chapman believed that the militia was the better of the two forms of nobility and that England should return to an era when warriors were held up as the pinnacle of society. In many ways, Chapman’s translation of the Iliad is an attempt, not only to revive the classical world in poetry, but more importantly to give a rebirth to military virtues in Renaissance England. One of his chief goals in bringing Achilles back to life appears to be to revive the traditional sense of honor and heroism during the Renaissance. Besides being a poet and translator, Chapman tried to be a moral teacher.
Briggs shows how Chapman used the life and actions of the Earl of Essex to breath modern life into his translation of Homer’s epic. “The 1598 translation of books 1, 2 and 7-11 of the lliad is George Chapman’s extraordinary attempt to discover contemporary topical meaning in a text he seems to have worshipped” (Briggs, 59). If Chapman believed that England’s nobility were lacking in classical virtues, then it makes sense for him to be attracted to the Earl of Essex. For Chapman, the Earl was a beacon of light in the darkness of weak courtiers. Essex was the hope of England in Chapman’s mind—and he deserved to be celebrated the same way Achilles was celebrated by Homer. The best way for Chapman to do this was to ensure that, when people read the first translation of the Iliad, they would immediately draw connections between Achilles and Essex. Just as “Homer rescues and preserves the fame of ancient heroes” (Briggs, 59), Chapman believed it was his responsibility to sing the praises of the man he believed was the living Elizabethan hero. Furthermore, Chapman wanted to make Essex discover himself in Homer’s story of Achilles.
Like most poets and playwrights of the day, Chapman wanted his work to have a noble patron. He went out of his way to ensure that his patron was the Earl of Essex. In the opening lines of the dedication to his translation, Chapman writes “To the most Honored now living Instance of the Achilleian vertues eternized by divine Homere, the Earle of Essexe, Earle Marshall” (Chapman, 503). This dedication offers perhaps the clearest evidence that some Elizabethans believed that Homer’s Iliad was relevant to their own day and in particular that the Earl of Essex seemed to be a kind of reincarnation of Homer’s Achilles. In this dedication we see the great hope that Chapman was pinning on the Earl when he translated the Iliad. Chapman was already seeing the signs of decay in the aristocracy. It was his hope that by translating Homer’s epic he would inspire more aristocrats to achieve a classical form of honor, or a least it would help individuals like Essex continue to strive for this form of honor and not succumb to the pressures of court life. Chapman seems to be speaking to Essex and to any other Achillean noble when he writes in his dedication:
Most true Achilles (whom by sacred prophecie Homere did but prefigure in his admirable object and in whose unmatched vertues shyne the dignities of the soule and the whole excellence of royall humanitie), let not the Pessant-common polities of the world, that count all things servile and simple that pamper not their own private sensualities, burying quick in their filthie sepulchres of earth the whole bodies and soules of honour, vertue and pietie, stirre your divine temper from perseverance in godlike pursute of Eternitie. (Chapman, 504)
This dedication is a marvelous example of how Chapman was trying to merge the Homeric and Christian worlds peacefully together in his translation. Reuben Brower points out in Hero & Saint: Shakespeare and the Graeco-Roman Heroic Tradition that “the man who speaks feelingly of the ‘dignities of the soule’ and ‘the whole excellence of royall humanitie’, who is concerned to save ‘honor, virtue and pietie’ is not very different from the heroic poet and philosopher of later years” (Brower, 63). Furthermore, the fact that Chapman refers to the ‘godlike pursute of Eternitie’ shows Chapman’s “twofold allegiance to heroic effort and religious faith, ‘godlike’ implying both earthly and heavenly glory, Homeric and Christian” (Brower, 63).
The rhetoric of Chapman’s dedication to the Earl of Essex is important on various levels. First, it shows that Chapman believes that a morally good person is someone who acts according to the classical model of heroic action. Thus, Renaissance readers should not view Achilles, and more importantly, Essex, as morally evil persons because of their pursuit of glory, but instead, they should be honored and imitated. Besides helping future readers and admirers of Essex feel greater moral self-confidence, Chapman’s rhetoric gives needed confidence to his patron-to-be. Recalling the opening scene of 1 Henry IV should clarify this point. Henry IV is feeling an immense amount of guilt for usurping the throne of Richard II and is attempting to save his soul by sending troops to fight in the Crusades. He is trying to give a Christian purpose to his martial virtues. During the Renaissance or any Christian era, one cannot expect that one will earn entrance into heaven if one spends one’s life acting like Achilles. In his dedication Chapman helps the Earl of Essex and other admirers of Achilles deal with any moral guilt they might be feeling. He does this by making classical heroism seem paradoxically to be a prerequisite for Christian salvation.
This dedication also shows Chapman’s quasi-religious belief in classical heroism and his whole-hearted disgust for the emerging togati. During the Renaissance individuals were being bombarded with new understandings of the words honor and virtue. In his translation of the Iliad and his dedication to the Earl of Essex, Chapman hoped to persuade his countrymen that honor still had its old meaning of martial virtue. In addition, Chapman intended his translation to show that the man who deserved the most honor and praise was the Earl of Essex, because he was the man who shared the most virtues with the classical hero. Still, no matter how much clever rhetoric Chapman used in his dedication, he was still left with the difficult task of making Achilles an admirable mirror for Essex, while remaining true to Homer. This challenge becomes one of the predominant themes of Chapman’s 1598 edition of the Iliades (Briggs, 61).
Chapman’s translation is a good example of how literature often indirectly reflects current social issues of its day. Chapman’s Iliad contains a carefully planned link between Homer’s plot and the political happenings during Elizabeth’s reign. As Briggs points out, the translation is nearly a mirror image of current political issues—mainly the intense rivalry and constant disputes between Queen Elizabeth and her most famous soldier, Essex. Chapman used the current popularity of the Earl and the topic of who is the fitter ruler—a military leader like Essex or a female monarch—to launch his first edition of the Iliad.
To understand just how relevant Essex was to Chapman’s project, it will be helpful to know more details about Essex’s career and his constant quarrels with the Queen. The Earl of Essex was in a situation in England similar to Achilles’ in the Iliad. He was a physically strong and impressive young aristocrat under the command of Queen Elizabeth. The Achilles-like Essex was also a serious political player, since his potential powers as a popular courtier-soldier had immense influence on the imagination of the general populace, the court, and even the Queen herself. It was in what has been termed “this tumultuous season” (Briggs, 61) that the Iliad-like events took place between Essex and the Queen.
England was embroiled in a debate over war policies. On one side of this debate were Essex and his allies, who advocated a more aggressive policy against Spain.[10] On the other side of the debate were Elizabeth’s diplomatic advisors, Burghley and Cecil, the peace party who urged caution. The Queen wavered. She did not take the advice of her best soldier and avoided large-scale preparation for war as much as possible. In addition, when Essex returned from his raid against the Azores, she failed to recognize his efforts with a promotion. Instead the Queen recognized a rival of Essex—Admiral Howard (who had not sailed in the raid)—by naming him to a military rank exceeding that of Essex. The Earl’s ambitious expectations of reward were bitterly disappointed, and he angrily withdrew from the court for an entire month, causing a great uproar in Parliament. The way Essex withdrew from Elizabeth’s court resembles the way Achilles storms out of the Greek camp in the Iliad. After a month without her most famous soldier, the Queen in her changeable temper relented and she appointed Essex Earl Marshall, the highest military rank among the earls. Only then did Essex’s “raging heart” cool and he returned to court.
Chapman used these current events to his advantage when he published his 1598 edition of Iliades. There is printing evidence that Chapman rushed to get his first edition out as quickly as possible in order to “ride the Essex crest” (Briggs, 66). It is interesting that he chose to release only seven books of Homer’s epic in the first publication. “He was later to maintain that he could translate twelve books of Homer in fifteen weeks, but in 1598 he could only present the public with seven nonconsecutive ones” (Briggs, 66). This does not seem particularly remarkable until one pays close attention to which books Chapman chose to deliver. It seems probable that his choice of the seven books was made out of topical considerations. Realizing that Essex’s actions were close to those of Achilles in the Iliad and wanting people to see the Achilles/Essex connection, Chapman chose only the books that highlight Achilles and show him as an absolutely necessary figure in the Trojan War. As Briggs explains:
The seven books (1, 2, and 7-11) highlight the story of Achilles in a way which amplifies its applicability to Essex in 1598, while it also focuses the action for an effective abbreviation of Homer. Achilles’ original dispute with Agamemnon and subsequent withdrawal (1) is followed by a display of Greek indecision and Agamemnon’s apology (2); Chapman excludes books 3 to 6, which cover indecisive matters such as the duel between Paris and Menelaus, politics among the gods, the momentarily successful Greek attack led by Diomedes (4-6), and Hector’s leavetaking (6). Books 7 to 9 are prominent, however, since Hector’s counter-attack obliterates Diomedes’ successes. The consequences of Achilles’ withdrawal from the battle can no longer be ignored, and indeed his absence is most painfully felt by the Greeks at this point. . . By the end of book 9 the Trojans have driven the Greeks in panic back to their ships, and Agamemnon must make the humiliating embassy to Achilles. (Briggs, 66).
In the pages of Chapman’s translation, Essex appears to be the mirror image of Achilles and that image is a very flattering one indeed. Agamemnon’s humbling embassy to Achilles might remind readers of the Queen giving into Essex’s stubborn behavior by appointing him Earl Marshall in order to have him return to court. Chapman’s willingness to modify and emphasize certain aspects of Homer’s epic allows him to exaggerate specific parallels between Essex and Achilles. It even appears that Chapman suggested in his translation that the Earl of Essex actually had a right to the throne. “Homer’s epithet, ‘son of Peleus’ (line 166), becomes in Chapman’s line 288 ‘a king’s heire,’ emphasizing the tie to royal blood which Chapman uses to flatter Essex in one of his dedications” (Briggs, 67).
It appears that Chapman wanted people to identify Achilles with Essex, but did he also want people to identify Agamemnon with Elizabeth? Chapman does not directly associate Agamemnon with Elizabeth as he does Achilles with Essex, but he did emphasize the striking correspondence between the argument of Achilles and Agamemnon over the right to Briseis and the argument of Essex and Elizabeth over who had the right to ransom the prisoners Essex took in Cadiz. He does this by changing the adjective that Homer uses to describe Thebes, the town where Briseis was taken, from “sacred” to “wealthie” (Briggs, 67). Chapman’s adjective would have had topical meaning to Elizabethan readers—“wealthie” does not describe Homer’s Thebes well, but it is appropriate for the rich, treasure-laden Cadiz that Essex had raided and wanted to ransom. Chapman’s strong interest in political life suffuses his 1598 translation. He wanted to elevate Essex’s reputation to a superhuman stature by comparing him with Achilles. One problem that he faced in doing this is that Achilles is not always an admirable character. We have already noted that Chapman translated only the books that are most flattering to Achilles. But even within these books there are scenes in which Achilles’ rage overshadows his more appealing traits. As Briggs argues:
To resolve the dilemma, the translator attempts to enhance and justify opposite sides of Achilles’ character that are perhaps ultimately related: his capacity for showing extreme outrage over injury to his honor, and his extraordinary restraint—aided by higher powers or wisdom. (Briggs, 69)
By making Achilles a more well-rounded figure—more than just a killing machine—Chapman makes it easier for his readers to side with Achilles in his quarrel with Agamemnon. His translation makes it clear that Achilles is the one who has been wronged by a less militarily talented ruler. Consequently, with all of the topical references in the translation, it is implied that Essex too has been wronged by Queen Elizabeth.
Unfortunately for Chapman, by the time he was ready to release the complete edition of the Iliad, the Earl of Essex had proven to be just as dangerous as Achilles—Essex led a failed rebellion against the Queen in 1601, only three years after the release of Chapman’s first edition. In 1608, the release date for books 1-12, Chapman’s earlier references to Essex now were proving to be a liability. Chapman worked to mute the specifically political implications of the 1598 version. As Briggs points out:
Where Achilles calls Agamemnon “Thou sencelesse to all Royaltie,” meaning the king is not sensitive to Achilles’ royal blood, the 1608 version uses the more accurate phrase “thou dog’s eyes.” Reference to Achilles as “a king’s heire” in 1598 is replaced by the phrase “Great sonne of Peleus” in 1608. Similarly, “though better borne thou bee,” Agamemnon’s concession to the hero’s better birth in 1598, is replaced by the observation that Achilles has “strength superior.” Missing entirely is Chapman’s compliment to Achilles for his restraint when Briseis is given to Agamemnon. (Briggs, 72)
As Briggs shows, the downward turn in Essex’s fortunes forced Chapman to write the earl out of his complete translation of the Iliad. The parallels Chapman had sensed between Achilles and Essex had proven to be too close for Essex’s or Chapman’s good.[11] For Chapman the career of Essex illustrated the same problem Homer deals with in the Iliad—the tension between a great warrior and a militarily less gifted ruler. But in Essex’s case, this tension became too problematic. Essex’s Achilles-like refusal to accept a subordinate position in Elizabeth’s court eventually led to his downfall. Playing the role of Achilles turned out to be too difficult for Essex in the complexities of a modern aristocratic court. The fall of Essex showed the problems involved in trying to revive classical heroism in an Elizabethan setting. Chapman’s attempt to draw parallels between Essex and Achilles lends plausibility to idea that Shakespeare may have been thinking of the Homeric background when he wrote 1 Henry IV.[12] The opening of the play seems to point to the same issue we have seen raised by the Iliad and the career of Essex. Shakespeare’s difference from Chapman is that, even before Essex’s fall, he seems to have understood how problematic it is for an aggressive warrior to try to fit into the world of modern courtiers.
CHAPTER III
ACHILLES IN THE MODERN COURT
As we have seen, the late sixteenth-century English ruling class was deeply divided. On the one hand Queen Elizabeth had her “Hotspurs” and on the other she had her non-aggressive courtiers. As we have seen, this situation inevitably caused tension between the two. This tension between the two brands of aristocracy surfaces in 1 Henry IV when Hotspur is commanded to hand over his prisoners of war by an unwarlike nobleman sent by King Henry.
But I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, and trimly dress’d,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin new reap’d
Showed like a stubble land at harvest home.
…
And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He called them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms
He questioned me, amongst the rest demanded
My prisoners in your Majesty’s behalf. (I.iii.28-34)
The image of Hotspur leaning on his sword after battle contrasted with the neatly dressed lord brings together the two opposing forms of nobility in Shakespeare’s time and suggests how the conflict between them can have tragic consequences. This is clearly an important passage for Shakespeare. Holinshed in his Chronicles, the main source Shakespeare used to write his play, merely says at this point: “the King demanded of the Earl and his son such Scottish prisoners as were taken at Homeldon. . .” (Mack, lxx). Shakespeare created Hotspur’s elaborate speech entirely on his own.
Here we see two English nobles who appear to have equal standing with the King, and each assumes that he is superior to, or, nobler than the other. Hotspur is obviously more like the classical aristocrat—a great warrior who expects to win honor in battle. He is the natural leader and believes that his body proves his virtue. He speaks of being physically exhausted, “breathless and faint” and having cold “wounds.” On the other hand, the “certain lord” who demands that Hotspur hand over his prisoners is not naturally virtuous—he is noble by convention only.
Nature versus convention is one of the central themes in Shakespeare’s plays and the theme is expressed as clearly as ever in this scene. Hotspur is disgusted by the noble’s trimly dressed appearance and his perfume. At this moment he cannot deal with the conventions of the court world. He is still bleeding from battle and a fop dressed in fancy clothes assumes that he can boss him around—for Hotspur this is just not natural. Nature dictates that Hotspur is the superior warrior, “Amongst a grove the very straightest plant,” yet here we see his natural magnanimity being questioned by someone simply dressed magnificently. This is unacceptable from Hotspur’s point of view and is the reason for the initial conflict in the play. King Henry’s greatest warrior cannot function in a world where one’s nobility is justified by the clothes one wears rather than by the wounds one bears. He is in the grip of classical notions of “greatness of soul” and strives to live up to the standards set by the aner of the past. Hotspur’s first speech in the play carefully illustrates the “crisis of the aristocracy” in Shakespeare’s time. Renaissance nobility retained much of their power and even more of their prestige, while their pride was diminished by a society that no longer valued military greatness as the only measure of one’s virtue. More than anything else, Hotspur’s pride is offended when an accusation made by a man who never lifted a sword in battle has made the King question his greatest warrior’s loyalty.
Hotspur’s pride and insatiable quest for a classical form of honor prevent him from fitting into the conventional world of the court. Essentially he is so trapped by his stubborn belief that he is the most natural leader by virtue of his martial prowess that he is unable to realize that there are things to be admired and respected in the conventional and peacetime world. King Henry likens Hotspur to the straightest plant in a row. The warrior’s problem is that he cannot bend. Once he is removed from the battlefield, Hotspur no longer seems quite as magnificent, but on the contrary appears to be acting like an “untaught knave.”
We have looked at Hotspur in comparison with Achilles and seen that they both have the same thumotic characteristics. In the pre-civilized Homeric world, Achilles’ rage wreaked havoc on those around him—it is his temper tantrum after all that leads to the Achaeans’ near defeat. Now try to imagine Achilles being reborn in the middle of the sixteenth century—a civilized, Christian, and political world. As we have seen, this happened figuratively when the Iliad was translated for the first time into English in 1598 by George Chapman. In 1 Henry IV Shakespeare appears to bring Achilles back to life in the character of Hotspur.[13] He does this to show how classical heroism has certain virtues that should be respected and admired but more importantly Shakespeare illustrates in Hotspur the faults and insufficiency of Achillean heroism—he examines just how out of place Achilles would have been during the Renaissance.
After we hear of Hotspur’s heroic feats in battle and his somewhat rhetorical defense of why he did not send the prisoners upon the King’s request, Shakespeare goes on to reveal the less civilized side of the warrior. Immediately after the King refuses to ransom his brother-in-law, Mortimer, Hotspur flies into a temper tantrum and plans on rushing to the King in defiance. In classical terms, Hotspur’s thumos has been stirred and the only way to cool his raging heart is through immediate and impulsive action.
And if the devil come and roar for them,
I will not send them. I will after straight
And tell him so, for I will ease my heart,
Albeit I make a hazard of my head. (I.iii.123-126)
In this passage Shakespeare seems to be echoing the Homeric language used to describe Achilles’ wrath. Hotspur describes the need to ease his heart and admits that he is willing to risk his life in order to do so. Northumberland seems used to Hotspur’s quick temper and urges him not to go rushing into action so quickly.
What, drunk with choler? Stay, and pause a while.
Here comes your uncle. (I.iii.127-128)
Shakespeare begins in Act I to examine why the pure warrior will fail in the political realm—a subject that he will later develop fully in the tragedy of Coriolanus—by showing Hotspur’s inability to communicate or think rationally when his thumos is stirred. This kind of impulsive and reckless behavior is beneficial in only a few places—most notably in battle. But just at the moment when Hotspur needs to be rhetorically savvy, he acts most foolishly. What has happened to the Hotspur we met earlier in the scene?
It is important to remember that the Hotspur we met earlier in the scene had just returned from a brutal battle and it is fair to assume that he had sufficiently released his aggressive impulses in fighting. To understand Hotspur’s actions more clearly it may be helpful to recall Achilles’ behavior in the Iliad after he finishes fighting. In the closing books of the epic Achilles seems to be acting like a reasonable political leader—he organizes and manages the funeral games and even seems to act sympathetically when he returns Hector’s body to Priam. But before one claims that Achilles has had a complete transformation of character, one must realize that he has just finished his spectacular battle with Hector and thereby has sufficiently released all of his thumos. It seems that Hotspur has experienced a similar catharsis when we first meet him, but this quickly ends when his temper is ignited by King Henry’s refusal to ransom Mortimer. Shakespeare is careful to show the problem with classically virtuous warriors in Hotspur’s next rant:
Speak of Mortimer?
Zounds, I will speak of him, and let my soul
Want mercy if I do not join with him!
Yea, on his part I’ll empty all these veins,
And shed my dear blood drop by drop in the dust,
But I will lift the downtrod Mortimer
As high in the air as this unthankful king.
As this ingrate and cank’red Bolingbroke. (I.iii.128-135)
Compared with his composed and well-balanced defense in I.iii.28-75, this speech seems childish and foolish. If Hotspur had been thinking here, he would have approached the King with a rhetorically planned argument about why it would be in England’s best interest to ransom Mortimer.[14] He could have suggested that Mortimer is one of the King’s best soldiers and that his martial virtues would be invaluable in the planned crusade. The fact that Hotspur cannot do this helps show how thumotic impulses prevent people from moderating their actions and speech. Shakespeare reinforces this point poetically by having Hotspur in line 132 slip one beat out of the controlled iambic pentameter in which the rest of the scene is written. Just as Hotspur cannot restrain his passions, he likewise cannot keep his language bound in the confines of the blank verse.
While analyzing Hotspur’s language and actions is helpful in seeing how irate and impulsive he is, it is even more useful to examine the reactions of those around him to understand just how irrationally he is behaving. Just like a skilled Hollywood director, Shakespeare takes advantage of the power of reaction shots to give a complete view of one of his characters. In Act I, scene iii Northumberland’s and Worcester’s reactions to Hotspur’s enraged behavior are important. As Hotspur rants and raves about his anger and how he will get his revenge, his father and uncle try desperately to calm him down and explain to him their plan to overthrow the King. It takes them more than one hundred lines before they can even communicate with young Percy. Before they calm him down, they are only able to say things such as “Peace, cousin, say no more,” “You start away/ And lend no ear unto my purposes,” “I’ll talk to you/ When you are better tempered to attend” (I.iii.185, 215-216, 232-233). Hotspur has worked himself into a rage as he thinks ten steps ahead about how he is going to get his revenge on King Henry. The reason Hotspur cannot settle down and listen is that he has become so excited by the prospect of winning honor that his imagination has gone into overdrive. He seems to be dreaming of being as heroic as Achilles and winning fame and glory just like the Achaean warrior.
By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap
To pluck bright honor from the pale-faced moon,
Or dive into the bottom of the deep,
Where fathom line could never touch the ground,
And pluck up drowned honor by the locks,
So he that doth redeem her thence might wear
Without corrival all her dignities;
But out upon this half-faced fellowship! (I.iii.199-206)
Hotspur cannot contain his excitement because he is so utterly consumed by the idea of winning honor in battle. Northumberland sees this dangerous fault in Hotspur when he says “Imagination of some great exploit/ Drives him beyond the bounds of patience” (I.iii.198-199). Hotspur seems to be planning his actions and life according to an imaginary set of standards—everything needs to be perfectly heroic in his mind. This false ideal of how to win fame and glory prevents Hotspur from actually ever succeeding in leading a successful revolt—he is too wrapped up in the poetic expectations of a great warrior to learn the details necessary to defeat King Henry.
In Shakespeare’s comedies young lovers often are unable to be satisfied with each other because they are consumed with the Petrarchan notion of finding the “perfect” lover. They muddle relationships because they are blind to the realities of love and base their conception of it on false poetic standards. Shakespeare is doing something similar with Hotspur in Act I—but instead of reading Petrarchan love sonnets, Hotspur seems to have been reading Greek epics or chivalric romances. Hotspur ultimately is a failure because he sets his standards too high and expects to win honor just like a classical hero. Like Shakespeare’s young lovers in the comedies, Hotspur forms imaginary expectations that prevent him from achieving real world success.
He apprehends a world of figures here,
But not the form of what he should attend.
Good cousin, give me audience for a while. (I.iii.207-209)
Worcester sees that Hotspur is getting carried away with his imagination and that he is not paying attention to the important details he needs to know if he is going to accomplish his political goals.
As much as Hotspur appears to desire to be an Achillean figure, it is simply not possible for him. He lives in a world much different from the one portrayed in the Iliad, and attempting to revive classical antiquity without modifying it to fit the modern world is a formula for failure. As a result Hotspur ends up looking more like a child than a noble hero in much of the play.[15] It is interesting to compare how Hotspur views himself with how his wife describes him. In the Homeric epics, Achilles is often compared to a wild animal—most commonly he is viewed as a lion—the king of the animal world. This comparison makes sense— a lion is the strongest and fiercest animal and seems incapable of controlling its actions when angered. We still use this analogy today when we describe athletic stars. It is common to say “He was a lion out there,” or “this player has the heart of a lion.” There is even a professional football team named after the king of the beasts. Hotspur is quick to picture his rage as powerful enough to enrage a lion:
If he fall in, good night, or sink, or swim!
Send danger from the east unto the west,
So honor cross it from the north to south,
And let them grapple. O, the blood more stirs
To rouse a lion than to start a hare! (I.iii.192-196)
His rage must be comparable to that of a lion because he believes that his future exploits in battle will be just as fierce and memorable as those of a classical warrior like Achilles. His obsession with fighting would be acceptable if he were living in the Homeric world that revolved around war. But in the modern world in which Hotspur has to go home after planning the revolt and spend time with his wife, his attitude begins to seem out of place. Achilles never had to try to function in the domestic sphere and this made his beast-like behavior more acceptable.
In fact, one of the central themes of Homer’s Iliad is the predominance of military glory over family. The Iliad clearly celebrates the reciprocal bonds of deference and obligation that bind Homeric families together, but it elevates even higher the pursuit of kleos that one wins in the eyes of others by performing great deeds. Homer constantly forces his characters to choose between their loved ones and the quest for glory, and the most heroic characters invariably choose the latter. In a touching moment in the Iliad, Andromache pleads with Hector not to risk orphaning his son by returning to battle, but Hector knows that fighting among the front ranks represents the only means of winning glory. Likewise, even Achilles is tempted to return home to live in ease with his aging father, but of course he chooses to remain at Troy to win glory by killing Hector and avenging Patroclus. Martial values of honor, noble bravery, and glory take precedence over family life in the Iliad as well as in the mind of Shakespeare’s Hotspur. The difference between the two is that in the Homeric world martial values were far more exclusively accepted and appreciated than they were in Shakespeare’s time. This is why Hotspur seems less heroic and noble when he has a conversation with his wife similar to that between Hector and Andromache in the Iliad.
When we first see Hotspur in Act I, scene 3, he is just back from storming on the battlefield; when we next see him in Act II, scene 3, he is sitting at home with his wife. Kate, Hotspur’s wife, is not impressed by her husband’s obsessive behavior.
Hotspur. That roan shall be my throne. Well, I will back him straight. O Esperance! Bid Butler lead him forth into the park.
Kate. But hear you, my lord.
Hotspur. Why, my horse, my love—my horse!
Kate. Out, you mad-headed ape! A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen as you are tossed with. In faith, I’ll know your business, Harry, that I will! I fear my brother Mortimer doth stir about his title and hath sent for you to line his enterprise; but if you go—
Hotspur. So far afoot, I shall be weary, love.
Kate. Come, come, you paraquito, answer me directly unto this question that I ask. In faith, I’ll break thy little finger, Harry, and if thou wilt not tell me all things true. (II.iii.72-89)
In the world of the Iliad the warrior did not have to explain to his wife that he was going to war to win personal glory and probably die. Shakespeare is showing in this scene that in the modern world this is no longer the case. It is just as important for Hotspur to communicate with and respect his wife as it is for him to be a lion in battle. But he fails at this task—he is more interested in straddling his horse than he is his wife. Kate compares him with a different kind of animal than he would probably like, but one more in line with the image Shakespeare is developing. The only animals Kate can liken her husband to are a “mad headed ape,” “a weasel,” and a “paraquito.” It would be hard to imagine Achilles asking his wife for permission to storm the Trojan army. But this is basically what is happening in this scene between Hotspur and Kate. Shakespeare shows how odd Hotspur’s behavior looks in the conventional world.
Hotspur. Away, away, you trifler! Love! I love thee not;
I care not for thee, Kate. This is no world
To play with mammets and to tilt with lips.
We must have bloody noses and cracked crowns,
And pass them current too. Gods me, my horse! (II.iii.90-94)
Hotspur is unable to function in the domestic world. He claims that this is not a world in which to play with dolls and kiss his wife, but he is sitting in his house when he says this, not fighting in a battle on the English border. This is Hotspur’s greatest flaw—he is not able to reenter the domestic world and leave his warrior spirit behind him.
Throughout his plays Shakespeare shows that a certain sterility develops in the conventional world and that humans need periodic convulsions to expel dammed up energy. Usually society allows for some sort of refuge or play space in which this release can take place. In Shakespeare’s comedies, it usually comes in the form of an escape into a more natural world like a forest, where individuals can expel their pent-up thumos and eros. Individuals are able to leave the city and escape into a more natural pagan-like world. In the case of Hotspur, he escapes the conventional world by running off to the borders of England where he can fight against barbaric rebels. This is where he has just returned from in the opening scenes of the play. In this regard, Hotspur is similar to Shakespeare’s comic characters—they all need to leave the city and release energy in a more natural order.
What differentiates Hotspur from most characters in the comedies is that he is unable to return to the conventional world. He is more comfortable and at home outside the city’s conventions. This is why he acts so belligerently in Act I when Northumberland and Worcester are trying to explain to him their plan and why he comes across as a “paraquito” when he is with his wife. His actions can be explained by the fact that he is obsessed with living up to the classical standards of how the aristocratic man should win honor. Hotspur’s great anxiety about getting back to battle can be linked with the “crisis of the aristocracy” in Shakespeare’s time. Still, Hotspur, as much as he would like to be, is not Achilles and to be a successful aristocrat he must learn to function in the conventional world. As we have seen, Hotspur is not able to function in the community. He is a man without a city. In the first book of his Politics, Aristotle says: “One who is incapable of participating or who is in need of nothing through being self-sufficient is no part of a city, and so is either a beast or a god” (Aristotle, 37). That is to say, if one can function outside the conventional world, one is either lower or higher than the average human being. Shakespeare is showing in 1 Henry IV that Hotspur’s behavior makes him seem more like the first option—a beast. While Achilles could fulfill himself most fully outside the community and appear godlike, in the modern world this is no longer possible.
1. See Paul Cantor’s “Macbeth and the Gospelling of Scotland” for a complete analysis of this issue.
2. I have used Maynard Mack’s edition of 1 Henry IV; all passages are cited by act, scene, and line numbers.
3. Sir Robert Naunton, Fragmenta Regalia (as quoted in McCoy, 10). Historians today may argue about the sharpness of the separation of the two parties in Elizabeth’s court, and to some extent the boundaries between them were fluid. But from the point of view of my thesis, what really matters is how the Elizabethans themselves perceived their situation. As Naunton’s analysis shows, and as I am trying to show from Shakespeare’s 1 Henry IV, Elizabeth’s contemporaries thought of her court as sharply divided between two factions.
4. In many respects, Elizabeth was of course an extremely powerful and successful ruler, and proved equal to any challenges to her throne, whether from foreign or domestic enemies. Nevertheless, given her situation, she had an inescapable weakness as a ruler—she could not lead her armies into battle. As we will see, this led some of her subjects to question her authority, sometimes by drawing parallels to the situation of Agamemnon and Achilles in the Iliad.
5 For similar descriptions of Essex’s military exploits, see Lacey, 158-59.
[6] For a detailed account of the Essex rebellion, see Akrigg, 108-19.
[7] For further discussion of the role of Richard II in the Essex rebellion, see Lacey, 282-83 and Akrigg, 250.
8. As the Haywood affair indicates, Essex was sometimes identified in the popular imagination with Bolingbroke rather than Hotspur. For this parallel, see Harrison, Earl of Essex, 215. Thus I do not mean to suggest that Shakespeare simply identified Hotspur with Essex. In fact, in the prologue to Act V of Henry V, Shakespeare famously identifies Henry V with Essex; he compares Henry’s triumphant return from France with the hoped-for triumphant return of Essex from Ireland (which unfortunately for him never materialized). The point is that Essex evidently appears to stand behind many figures in Shakespeare, including Hotspur. Any young military hero may point in the direction of Essex for Shakespeare. Accordingly, some have seen Essex as a model for Shakespeare’s Coriolanus. A full exploration of the importance of Essex to Shakespeare’s plays would require a whole book, and lies beyond the scope of this thesis.
9. For more on the Hayward affair, see Cadwallader, 63-64, Manning, 28-31, and Harrison, “National Background,” 166.
[10] All factual information in this section is taken from Briggs, 61-65.
[11] For a treatment of Essex later in Chapman’s career, in his The Tragedy of Charles Duke of Byron, see Rees, 79. Chapman actually has his hero compare himself to “the matchless Earl of Essex” (Rees, 79).
[12] I am of course not claiming that Shakespeare’s Henry IV plays were influenced by Chapman’s translation of Homer, since they were almost certainly written earlier. My point is that both Shakespeare’s plays and Chapman’s translation emerged from the same cultural environment—a time when the Elizabethans were drawing parallels between Homer’s heroes and their own contemporary political figures. For some interesting speculations about the relations among Shakespeare, Chapman, and Essex, see Akrigg, 233.
13. For a comparison of Hotspur and Achilles, see Spiekerman, 102-103. Spiekerman is comparing Hotspur specifically with the character of Achilles in Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida. This raises the complicated question of how this play fits into Shakespeare’s understanding of Homer—an issue that has been much debated by critics. The focus of my thesis, however, is on the Achillean aspects of Shakespeare’s portrait of Hotspur in 1 Henry IV. Thus Troilus and Cressida lies well beyond the scope of my argument. For a discussion of Troilus and Cressida in light of Chapman’s Homer, see Brower, 239-76; for a treatment of the play in connection with Essex, see James, 112-18.
14. King Henry would still probably have refused, since, out of self-interest, he does not want to ransom Mortimer. But at least Hotspur would have done his best to convince Henry.
[15] On Hotspur’s childishness, see Tillyard, 321.
