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Troy A.I. Marquis

Dr. Meredith Evans

ENGL 694 – Graduate Research Essay

Monday, March 6th, 2011

Henry V and the Politics of Change: Proportional Subjection after the Fall of Richard II

Critical interventions into the politics of Henry V have, for the most part, adopted one of three

positions, all of which focus their critical energies on Henry as the centre of the state-power construct. At

one end of the spectrum are critics like Andrew and Gina MacDonald, Henry Edmonston and C.G

Thayer, for whom the play is a national narrative and Henry personifies either the ideal Christian

monarch, or is the exemplum of a successful Machiavel, or both. At the other end are critics like Harold

Goddard, for whom Henry is duplicitous, and Alan Sinfield and Jonathan Dollimore, for whom the play

represents a series of conflicting binary relationships that perpetuate state domination over the weaker

classes. In response to these irreconcilable interpretations, critics like Norman Rabkin and Cyndia Clegg

adopt the middle path and argue, among other things, that the meaning of the play is intentionally

ambiguous for reasons stemming from “a spiritual struggle in Shakespeare”, to the “simultaneity” of the

reader’s” deepest hopes and fears about the world of political action” (Rabkin 296), to Machiavellian

rhetoric. Despite the diverse scholarly interests that bring with them their different interpretive priorities,

there does exist within the text, a native political identity that inspires the disparate readings by

consistently subverting attempts to impose a political narrative from without the text. By this, I mean that

the politics of Henry V are inextricably dependent on, and tightly bound by the politics in Richard II and

the two parts of Henry IV. Hence, efforts to interpret Henry V’s politics must consider causality within the

context of the previous three plays as well as take into account the historical scope of Henry V, itself. I

realize that my claim to prioritize meaning from the text is disconcerting for contemporary literary

scholars for whom a text has an infinite number of possible meanings. Therefore, I should clarify that I

am not devaluing critiques of Henry V that take extra-textual factors into consideration; nor am I

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advocating that a New Criticism-like approach will yield the play’s “true” political identity. However, as

my argument unfolds and the text’s political identity begins to take shape, it will become apparent that

magnitude of Shakespeare’s politics exceeds the capacity of one monarch, one monarchy, and by

extension, one play.

In this essay, I will examine Richard II’s deposition and the Agincourt walkabout in Henry V and

I will argue that in Richard II, Shakespeare dismantles the Medieval, monarchical institution and

reconstitutes it in Henry V as a constitutional monarchy: a monarchy no longer sponsored by God but

rather a monarchy sanctioned by God, with a mortal monarch confirmed by the people, and subject to the

state. Furthermore, I will show that the Agincourt walkabout is a didactic exposé on nature and function

of proportional subjection that models the relationship between the constitutive elements of a reformed

monarchy in terms of its subjectivity. The consequences of my argument are nothing short of completely

redefining the paradigms used to interpret Henry V and King Henry, himself. The contribution of my

argument to the critical discourse about Shakespeare’s politics is one of potentialities: opening up new

ways to understand Shakespeare’s engagement with contemporary politics by encouraging a re-evaluation

of the traditional critiques of Henry V and Henry. It is my hope that by the end of my argument, I have

established an interpretive framework that can be used to resolve some of differences between the

conflicting interpretations of the play so as to draw the two ends a bit closer together, so to speak. Also, I

use the term constitutional monarchy with the full knowledge that no such term existed in Shakespeare’s

vocabulary. Nevertheless, that does not negate the possibility that he could imagine a form of civic

government similar to a constitutional monarchy. I also realize that in Henry V¸ the monarch retains

certain powers that might, in a constitutional monarchy, normally be given to parliament. However,

inasmuch as a constitutional monarchy allows the monarch to have reserve powers, there is enough

flexibility in this term to allow Henry to retain sovereign authority while opening up a space for the

subject to participate in civic discourse. Therefore I invoke these caveats and will use the term for the

sake of simplicity.

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My interpretive approach to Henry V is Ricoeurian in that I believe that the text can only

“[present] a limited field of possible constructions” (Ricoeur 79). In order to define that field, it is

important to comprehend what potential meanings the text can offer, and what meanings the real world

imposes on the text. In his theory of interpretation, Paul Ricoeur presents readers with two choices when

approaching a text; one, to “remain in a kind of state of suspense as regards any kind of referred to reality

or” two, the reader “may imaginatively actualize the potential non-ostensive references of the text” in

relation to the reader (81). Critical approaches to Henry V that impose meaning from without the text are

more akin to Ricoeur’s second type of reading in that they derive meaning from external references that

might, or might not actually be reflected in the text. The first type of reading, Ricoeur explains, “means to

prolong the suspension of the ostensive reference and to transfer oneself into the ‘place’ where the text

stands” (81). Ricoeur goes on to relate this type of reading to linguistics, but for my purposes, it is

sufficient to adopt this type of reading in order to position myself “within the ‘enclosure’ of this worldless

place” (81) in order to understand in the intra-textual discourse before looking to ostensive references to

find more meanings. That being said, I would like to make a distinction between critiquing the play as a

text and critiquing the play in performance. Critiquing performance is always problematic in that the

spectacle of performance impact audience’s reception and adds meanings that would not be apparent in

the text. To complicate matters further, should the play’s performance be interpreted in the moment of the

play’s production or are we at liberty to choose the November, 2010, performance at the Monument-

National in Montréal? For these reasons, I prefer, in this instance, to privilege textual analysis over

performance. Also, I would like to define my terms so as to avoid, as much as possible, any confusion in

my argument. As Richard’s deposition will show, the office of the monarch is divided into the kingship

and real power. By real power, I mean the ability to enforce sovereign authority in the Bodainian sense1.

For the monarch to be the locus of power, kingship must be united with real power. The monarchy is the

government whose avatar is the monarch, and the state consists of the monarchy, the monarch, and its

1 I define sovereign authority in the Bodianian sense as being the site where the “power of making and repealing law” is situated (Bodin 58); also comprehended therein is the power of “declaring war or making peace” (59).

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subject. Although there might appear to be no difference between the state and the monarchy, I prefer to

make a distinction between the two because during my argument, the nature of the monarchy changes (i.e.

absolute to constitutional), but its governing role in the trinomial that constitutes the state as a concept of

national identity remains constant. As for the “locus of power,” I cannot precisely define something about

which I have yet to completely come to terms with myself. I can say that it is the site through which

power flows, but it is not power itself. Yet, in the moment in which it uses power to carry out its will, it

becomes filled with a sufficient quantity power to give the appearance of being power itself. As the

vehicle of power diffusion, one’s ability to wield power in the name of the state, directly and indirectly, is

proportional to one’s proximity to the locus. This point will become clearer as I work through Richard II.

The legitimacy, if I may use such a term when writing about Henry V, for performing a close

reading of the Agincourt walkabout, I attribute to Harold Goddard: Henry’s chief detractor and one of

Henry V’s staunchest critics. Goddard, himself, states that the Agincourt walkabout is “one of the most

dramatic and symbolic scenes that Shakespeare, up to that time, had conceived” (240). Considering

Goddard’s harsh opinion about Henry V’s “lack of the dramatic” (215), it would not be an understatement

to say that the value of the Agincourt walkabout’s contribution to understanding Henry is immeasurable.

Moreover, the walkabout creates the conditions in which the monarch is put under direct cross-

examination by an uninhibited subject – Michael Williams - a voice from the margins of society calling

the vicegerent of power to justify his actions without the fear of retribution, and without the interference

of social conventions that would otherwise temper the intensity of the interrogation. If we agree with Alan

Sinfield, that Henry V “was a powerful Elizabethan fantasy simply because nothing is allowed to compete

with the authority of the king2,” (Sinfield 121) then the one instance where the ontology of the king’s

authority is being hotly contested surely deserves a closer look. In what I call the “Williams dialogue,”

John Bates and Williams, who for all intents and purposes represent the word on the street, define

2 I understand the “authority of the king” to mean sovereign authority in the Bodianian sense of the site where the “power of making and repealing law” is situated (Bodin 58); also comprehended therein is the power of “declaring war or making peace” (59).

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knowledge and responsibility in relation to individual and collective subjectivity as they call the disguised

King Henry to account for his war. Hence, what is at stake in the Williams dialogue is nothing less than

accessing the political consciousness of the text. In addition to the Williams dialogue, the Agincourt

walkabout gives us the opportunity to examine Henry, isolated from his power through disguise, and it

gives us the opportunity to explore the monarch’s subjectivity in relation to the state. Even Norman

Rabkin, who argues that ambiguity is the interpretive denouement of the play, states that Henry’s

soliloquy (on Ceremony) “is the thematic climax of the entire tetralogy” (Rabkin 287). However before

we can get to the pith, we must first eat through the flesh.

Goddard observes that no other Shakespearian character besides Henry has had such “meticulous

preparation” (218) – preparation that goes as far back as Richard II. In making this point, Goddard

indirectly establishes the value, if not the indispensability, of reading Henry across the Henriad if one

wishes to get the complete picture of Henry’s successes and his failures in Henry V. Taking Goddard’s

lead, I suggest that if one wishes to get the complete political picture in Henry V one must begin with the

most important political event in Henry V – Richard II’s deposition.

Whatever Richard II’s failures are as a monarch, his decision to “undo” himself (Richard II

4.1.203) is the act that preserves the inviolability of theological sovereignty and establishes the

relationship between kingship and real power; how so, I explain again later on. I do acknowledge that

there are different opinions as to whether or not Richard was deposed or gave up the throne himself.

However, it is important to make a distinction between the conditions that forced Richard to give up the

throne and the physical act of transferring the accoutrements of power to Bolingbroke. I do not dispute

that Bolingbroke is a usurper. However, it is hard to dispute the fact that Richard, himself, performs his

deposition when he says, “Now mark me how I will undo myself” (4.1.203, italics mine) as he gives

Bolingbroke the crown. Let us take a look at the scene in which Richard gives Bolingbroke the

accoutrements of state and therewith the kingship:

BOLINGBROKE: Are you contented to resign the crown?

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KING RICHARD: Ay, no. No, ay; for I must nothing be.Therefore, no ‘no’, for I resign to thee.Now mark me how I will undo myself:I give this heavy weight from off my head,And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand,The pride of kingly sway from out my heart;With mine own tears I wash away my balm,With mine own hands I give away my crown,With mine own breath release all duteous oaths.All pomp and majesty I do forswear;My manors, rents, revenues I forgo;My acts, decrees and statutes I deny.God pardon all oaths that are broken to me;God keep all vows unbroken are made to thee.Make me, that nothing have, with nothing grieved,And thou with all pleased that hast all achieved.Long mayst thou live in Richard’s seat to sit,And soon lie Richard in an earthly pit!`God save King Henry’, unkinged Richard says (Richard II 4.1.204 -221)

The difference between giving and taking may simply be a matter of perspective. However, the giving

and the taking of sovereign authority in a divine monarchy have important repercussions on the

constitutive nature of the monarch. Theoretically and theologically, God chooses His earthly avatar and

therefore, hereditary kingship is seen as the legitimate continuation of God’s mandate through His

avatar’s progeny. Therefore, although Bolingbroke seizes real power, he cannot seize God’s mandate and

therefore he cannot become King Henry the IV until Richard commands it to be thus. This subtle, yet

profound check on Bolingbroke’s imbalance is the reason why Bolingbroke must request that Richard

resign the crown. However, the irony of this scene is not lost on those of us who love Richard. Once

Bolingbroke seizes real power, the only power that remains with Richard lies in his personal capacity as

the king. At this point, power’s infidelity is revealed as is its powerlessness to act in the name of the state

without the king as its agent becomes apparent. That being said, the question of whether or not Richard

consents or relents is a delicate one, but, consenting or relenting is not relevant to the final outcome of his

deposition. All power cares about it reuniting with it agent and therewith is ability to act in the name of

the state.

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In the midst of all the “I,” “my,”” me and mines” in this scene, one might confuse Richard’s

focus on the first person with narcissism, and thereby miss Richard’s act of selflessness in his ultimate

moment of truth. Richard’s “Ay, no. No, ay,” at the beginning of the scene is easily attributable to his

extreme cleverness as he weighs the rhetorical advantage of each response. But also, it is similar to the

oscillation of indecision that we experience when trying to firm up our resolve to do something that we do

not want to do, but know must be done. Richard calculates the potential cost of Bolingbroke’s ambition

and sacrifices himself to preserve the monarchical institution. The alternative would have been for

Richard to refuse and thereby light the fuse that would ignite a crisis that might have destroyed the

English national narrative “of the state as corpus mysticum” (Hutson 166).Were Bolingbroke to retain

power without kingship, sovereignty would be violated, and once violated; it would be vulnerable to

further violations until eventually, the monarchy would lose its sense of “corpus mysticum.” and regicide

would be destigmatized. If Bolingbroke kills Richard and takes kingship, the sanctity of the monarch

would effaced and the “metaphysical authority” (Cannon 85) for the monarch to wield real power would

be nullified. Hence, “taking” creates a dangerous precedent for the incumbent monarch and jeopardizes

English national identity. Considering the potential outcomes of Bolingbroke’s usurpation, it becomes

evident that only Richard can save the sanctity of the monarch and restore the monarchy as the locus of

power, but there is a price to be paid. “The breath of worldly men cannot depose / The deputy elected by

the Lord” (Richard II 3.2.56, 57), and judging by what Richard actually gives to Bolingbroke, it appears

that Richard is correct.

The price for blasphemy against God’s avatar is the loss of God’s grace in the body of the king.

Hence, Richard may ask God to “save King Henry,” but he cannot ask God to bless him. It seems that

with the simple act of wiping away his “balm,” Richard, in fact and in fiction, embalms divine kingship.

From this perspective, C.G Thayer’s observation that Richard “broke the rules” and opened up the door

for “the death of divine kingship” (17) not only has merit, but it also explains why Henry cannot be a

divine king. The mitosis created by Bolingbroke holding real power and Richard holding divine kingship

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demonstrates that the two are, in fact, separate elements of the whole monarch. And even though Richard

gives away his kingship, he cannot give away what only God can bestow – the divine right of kings. It is

God’s prerogative to choose upon whom He will bestow his grace, and as Richard is obviously not God,

the decision to pass that grace Bolingbroke is not his. This is not to say that ultimately, God does not

grace Bolingbroke, or that Richard is God’s choice over Bolingbroke. In fact, the space for debating

whether or not God extends his grace to Bolingbroke is part of the larger debate surround Henry and

legitimacy. Without getting into too many details, I think it is safe to say that neither Bolingbroke nor

Henry speak of their relationship to God in the same way Richard does. Hence, I would go as far as to say

that with Richard`s deposition, we also see the death of the kind of rhetoric required to eloqute divine

kingship. This is not to say that Henry is not eloquent and rhetorically gifted in his own, but those

familiar with Richard and Henry’s rhetoric can bear witness that the fullness of Richard’s rhetoric is not

reproduced in Henry V.

Because Richard cannot bestow his divinity upon Bolingbroke, a further division must take place

within kingship itself for Bolingbroke to become king. Richard’s deposition leaves us with a monarch

reduced to its core components: real power (Bolingbroke) and kingship (Richard), and within kingship we

have the divine right of kings and the corporeal body of the king. What we learn from Richard II is that

real power can exist without kingship, and kingship can exist without the divine right of kings, but a

monarch must have both real power and kingship in order for the monarch to be the locus of state power.

With the reunification of kingship with real power, the place of the divine right of kings is called into

question. As I stated previously, Richard does not have the power to transfer divinity because it is against

the basic premise of the divine right of kings that the king be the author of his own divine authority.

Hence, the reconstituted office of the monarch that Bolingbroke receives has power and kingship, but the

office of the monarch has no authority to legitimate Bolingbroke because he is not the divine king.

However, for the monarchy to change from absolute to constitutional, the authority of the monarch must

switch from divine to civic. Therefore, Richard’s retaining the divine right of kings becomes essential for

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two basic reasons: one, to excise the divine from the king and two, to open up a space for the people to

confirm the king.

The immediate effect of vacuum of authority left in Richard’s wake is that Bolingbroke is

without legitimacy as he has neither divine approbation nor civic confirmation. Hence, Richard giving

Bolingbroke the kingship does not, and in fact, cannot make Bolingbroke legitimate. However,

Bolingbroke, lying there on his deathbed after his rocky séjour as king, bequeaths to Henry, and to us, the

secret of legitimacy: “better opinion [and] better confirmation” (2 Henry IV 4.3, 317) of the people. I take

up the question of legitimacy a bit later on, so I will put it aside for the moment.

The discourse surrounding the division of the monarch’s body in Richard II into a corporeal and

a divine body can be traced back to Ernest’s Kantorowicz’s well-known, and oft cited theory of the

“king’s two bodies.” In his discussion on Richard II, Kantorowicz explores the “twinned nature of a king”

(25) in which the divine and corporeal are conjoined and function as the image and the embodiment of the

monarchy. Among other things, Kantorowicz argues that with Richard’s deposition, “kingship itself

seems to have changed its essence” (30). Kantorowicz identifies the change in essence as the dissolution

of the link between the “body natural with the immortal body politic” and, according to Kantorowicz,

“[g]one is the fiction of royal prerogatives of any kind” (30). In broad terms, my argument that divine

kingship ends with Richard is not much different from Kantorowicz’s “changed essence in kingship.”

However, Kantorowicz and I differ in that he places the monarchy within the monarch, and I place the

monarch within the monarchy. Therefore, his argument takes place within the body of the monarch

whereas my argument takes place within the monarchy as a political institution. Although it seems that

our perspectives are completely opposite, they are actually complementary in that Kantorowicz’s

argument applies to the divine monarch before Richard’s fall and my argument applies to the divine

monarchy after Richard’s fall. Meaning that with the shift from divine monarch to a monarchy sponsored

by God comes a shift in the constitution of the “king’s two bodies.” The theory of the “king’s two bodies”

is a useful construct to explicate the division’s that take place within the office of the monarch during its

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transformation from divine to corporeal as well as the post-fall division of the public and the private

persona of the king.

However, Lorna Hutson’s detailed analysis of Kantorowicz’s theory convincingly argues that

Kantorowicz application of the “king’s two bodies” stems from his “decision to ignore the hermeneutic

activity” of Edmond Plowden’s Commentaries, from which his two bodies theory is derived. Hutson also

argues that the source document “actually marginalizes, rather than makes central, the symbolic power of

the monarch” (177). Although I incline towards Hutson’s argument that Kantorowicz’s theory stems from

a misreading of “two sixteenth-century English tests” (Hutson 166), it does not necessarily follow that the

“king’s two bodies” theory is not applicable to Richard II. In fact, my interpretation of the transfer of

divinity from the monarch to the monarchy in consistent with Hutson argument that Plowden’s

Commentaries “actually marginalizes… the power of the monarch” (177). Therefore, Hutson’s objection

indirectly reaffirms the applicability of the “king’s two bodies” theory to Richard II, albeit not in the way

Kantorowicz might have intended. In any event, the change in the ontology of the “king’s two bodies”

marks the first step in the transition away from a monarch sponsored by God towards a monarchy

sanctioned by God. Losing its divinity, the societal role of the king’s bodies changes from theological to

semiotic. That is to say that with the end of the divine, slash, corporeal body of the king, the connection

of the corporeal body to the kingship is through the accoutrements of kingship that Richard gives to

Bolingbroke.

Walter Cannon takes up the trope of the “king’s two bodies,” and adds thereunto a third, textual

body, that represents the spectacle of the monarch as a physical manifestation that connects the corporeal

monarch with the incorporeal power of sovereignty. Cannon contends that if subjects identify the

monarch, syntactically and semantically with their concept of monarchy, then the subject legitimizes the

monarch’s right to rule and obedience is “real” rather than imposed. Cannon’s “third body is the total

presentation deployed by the monarch – ceremony, royal progresses, exhortations, proclamations, speech,

gesture, even the marshalling of armies” (85). The “third body” recognizes the iconic role of the monarch

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in relation to the state while also defining the relationship of the monarch to his or her subjects. Cannon’s

observations are consistent with my argument about the changing role of king’s body after Richard’s

deposition. In the absence of the divine as a legitimizing agent that demands the obedience of the king’s

subjects in the name of God, the “third body,” if it conforms to the subjects’ conception of the monarchy,

inculcates obedience. However, the most important statement Cannon makes in relation to my argument

is that, “The king’s public presentation – his textual body – is so powerful a force that it will indeed alter

people’s beliefs and change people’s actions” (88). This statement can be read positively or negatively

depending on whether the king has a commanding presence or a weak presence. Anyone who knows

Bolingbroke or Hotspur will immediately see the truth in Cannon’s maxim. Through Hal’s participation

in Henry’s legitimacy, and through Bates and Williams’s expressions of subjectivity, we see that civic

consensus relies heavily on the “third body” of the king. Therefore, Cannon’s argument is important

because it provides a framework for us to work through the mechanisms Henry deploys to inculcate

obedience and obtain “better opinion [and] better confirmation” (2 Henry IV 4.3, 317). The Agincourt

walkabout sets up the circumstances for us to work through these points, and the Williams dialogue is our

opportunity to test them. Before I move on to the Agincourt walkabout, there is one more aspect of the

corporeal monarch that must be considered.

Understanding Henry, the man and the king, is the key to understanding Shakespeare’s politics

not because he represents one of the constitutive elements of the state, but rather because Henry is the one

who explains, in word and deed, the ontology of the monarch. Before the fall of divine kingship, fleshing

out the nature of kingship was problematized by the dichotomy inherent in the concept of corporeally

divinity. After the fall, the body of the monarch, detached from divinity yet constrained by corporeality,

divides into a public persona – the symbol of the monarchy, and a private persona – the personality and

caprices of the private person of the monarch. The challenge critics are now faced with is trying to

determine what is public and what is private insofar as the deeds, the words, and the intentions of the

monarch are concerned? Unlike Richard, into whose heart we are able to peer before, during and after his

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deposition, Henry is enigmatic. Henry declares Hal to be a ruse that will serve as a foil against which he

will make a spectacular ascendency to the throne (1 Henry IV 1.2.184-203). He abandons his friends in

his moment of glory and in their moment of need. He lulls traitors in to excluding themselves from his

mercy by their own mercilessness. He threatens rape and pillage, yet looting is forbidden upon pain of

death. Henry proves himself to be a Machiavel – a trait which has won him both friends and foes among

literary critics – and he also proves himself to be a failure at Machiavellian politics. And Henry’s retort to

us all is that he is “subject to the breath / Of every fool, whose sense no more can feel / But his own

wringing” (Henry V 4.1, 222-224); notice here that the king no longer possesses the “breath” but rather,

has become subject to it. Yet, in the face of all this damning evidence, there are critics who look beyond

these negative examples of an amoral king and see the ideal monarch; critics like Henry Edmondson, who

identify Henry as Shakespeare’s ideal Christian king and the ideal example of a monarch’s “capacity for

moral reflection (62); and critics like Derek Cohen, who argue that Henry V “is a celebration of the

coherence of the English nation, bound together by civil bonds… that [show] a commonwealth of many

essentially and potentially equal participants” (314) – Henry is truly a success; is he not? Although I

disagree with Rabkin and other like-minded critics who “argue that in Henry V Shakespeare creates a

work whose ultimate power is precisely the fact that it points in two opposite directions” (Rabkin 279), it

is hard to deny that Henry does present conflicting interpretive possibilities. However, Shakespeare does

not leave audiences, readers, and critics without a clear guide through the miasma. As meticulous as was

Henry’s preparation, Henry’s monarchy and the state-power construct is even more meticulous prepared.

Shakespeare’s careful separation of the monarch into real power, kinship and the divine right of kings,

and his even more careful reconstitution of the monarch containing kingship and real power without the

divine right of kings is a sophisticated intervention in the political discourse of the day; an intervention,

the full impact of which, only really becomes apparent during the Agincourt walkabout.

Henry IV’s kingship was plagued with a struggle for legitimacy and the want of obedience and

thus, he is hardly a suitable candidate to represent the monarchy. Henry IV has the kingship and the

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sovereign authority; however, he lacks the public persona necessary to personify the state in the minds of

the people. Were it that Bolingbroke’s public persona was sufficient to represent the state, there would be

no questions of legitimacy, no civil war, and perhaps no Agincourt. Through Bolingbroke success in

obtaining the kingship and through his failure to bring stability to England, Shakespeare reminds that

legitimacy is elemental to a stable monarchy. Unfortunately for Henry, his kingship is the fruit of the

poison tree; meaning that “an honour snatched with boist’rous hand” (2 Henry IV 4.3, 321) may obtain

kingship, but it does not make it legitimate. Therefore, the question of Henry’s legitimacy could not, and

is not settled by primogeniture. Henry IV, himself, sets out the conditions for a legitimate monarch:

“better opinion [and] better confirmation” (2 Henry IV 4.3, 317). Shakespeare resolves the seemingly

irresolvable quandary of legitimizing the illegitimate monarch by quelling disobedience and the

buttressing the monarch’s public persona through a most unlikely source - Hal.

Aside from providing the hero for a sub-narrative of the wayward prince remarkably turning

himself around and becoming the iconic English monarch, Hal is the character tasked with creating better

opinions and better confirmation for Henry’s kingship. Essentially, Hal is the legitimizing identity that

enables Henry’s public persona and completes his kingship. Warwick rebukes us as well as Henry IV for

tending to “look beyond [Henry] quite” (2 Henry IV 4.3, 67). Warwick understands that Henry “but

studies his companions / Like a strange tongue, wherein, to gain the language / ‘Tis needful that the most

immodest word be looked upon and learned… Turning past evils to advantages” (2 Henry IV 4.3, 68-71,

78). In simple terms, Hal, the “bawcock and a heart-of-gold, A lad of life, an imp of fame” is loved “from

[the] heartstrings,” (Henry V 4.1, 44-45, 47) of the common people because he appears to be one of them.

From the peoples’ perspective, Hal embodies the story of the neighbourhood kid rising to stardom and in

his success, rides the hopes of the masses for their own personal success. Hal is the only person who

could drum up the support on the streets that is necessary to restore the peoples’ emotional attachment to

the monarch without defiling the public persona of the monarch. In essence, Hal wins the peoples’

confirmation for Henry by giving them, as Cannon puts it, a monarch “constructed, read and interpreted

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by the people” (Cannon 85). From the aristocrat’s perspective, once Henry emerges, they marvel at “the

strawberry” that grew “underneath the nettle” ripened beside neighbouring “fruit of baser quality” (Henry

V 1.1, 60-63) and they, too, create a Henry “constructed, read and interpreted” as they would like him to

be. Gina and Andrew MacDonald’s argument that Hal was necessarily put down so that Henry could

assume his role as king, is largely applicable. However, Henry is never far away when Hal is the

dominant personality. Therefore, Henry’s ascension does mean that Hal must be put down, but Hal must

be toned down. Each personality manifests itself in inverse proportion to the other on an as needed basis.

With the Henry-Hal symbiosis, Shakespeare completes the reformation of the monarch and thereby

legitimizes Henry’s kingship through a process of building a civic consensus and aristocratic approbation.

In all that I have discussed thus far regarding the political infrastructure in Henry V, nowhere

have I given credit to the Agincourt walkabout for contributing to reconstituting the monarchical

institution after Richard’s deposition. The primary reason the Agincourt walkabout is excluded from

Shakespeare’s reconstituted monarchy is because by the time Henry inherits the throne, the framework for

the corporeal monarch and the constitutional monarchy is already in place. Once the Henry-Hal symbiosis

legitimates the illegitimate crown, the transformation to a constitutional monarchy is complete. All that

then remains is to set out the “place, degree, and form” (Henry V 4.1, 234) of those subject to the

monarchy.

The Agincourt walkabout places the subject in direct contact with a monarch, who has lowered

his degree and in so doing, he opens up a space for us to peer into the heart of the state and explore the

forms of subjectivity represented therein. Also, the Agincourt walkabout teases out the relationship

between the state and its subjects as it demonstrates subjectivity based on the freedom of speech. This

approach to understanding the Agincourt’s function and purpose in the politics of Henry V is consistent

with Stephen Greenblatts argument of the play’s method of “[t]esting, recording, and explaining” (44).

Greenblatt argues that the theatre is a co-operative in power’s continual effort to consolidate and maintain

order, and the theatrical spectacle tests the dominant ideology on the audience; the subversive elements

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recorded in the text are displayed, and how they should be interpreted is also then explained. The

audiences’ applause at the end of the theatrical spectacle reaffirms the dominant social order and thus,

whatever is subversive is demonstrably contained. I agree that the Henry V tests the constitutive

components of Shakespeare’s constitutional monarchy, namely the monarch, the monarchy and the

subject. I also agree that the text, itself, records the results of the test, and the performance models several

possible outcomes to the audience. However, Williams represents a subversion that is demonstrably not

contained. Because Greenblatt argues that subversion cannot succeed, we are never given a contingency

plan should containment fail. If, for subversion to succeed, the existing power must immediately be

replaced, then I agree with Greenblatt; subversion is contained in the text. However, I suggest that any

manifestation of subversion is prima facie proof that containment has failed; ideas may be repressed, but

once the idea is out it cannot be put back. I would not go as far as to say that the Agincourt walkabout or

the play itself is Shakespeare actively dispelling the Tudor Myth and putting an end to “Arthurus

redividus” (Tillyard 30); thought I would say that the Agincourt walkabout plants seeds for thought and

the Williams dialogue is a plan for action.

In the introduction to the Oxford Shakespeare, Gary Taylor makes a very important observation

about Henry’s motives for the walkabout. Henry, Taylor observes, most likely never intended to engage

with his soldiers because his intention was for him and his “bosom” to “debate awhile” (Henry V 4.1.32).

Taylor interprets this apparent anomaly within a larger pattern of isolation beginning in 1 Henry IV which

“shows Henry increasingly burdened and isolated” (Taylor 45) by the loss of his social attachments. The

Agincourt walkabout, Taylor opines, is the beginning of a healing process that “harmonized [Henry’s]

political and his private selves, the king’s two bodies” (46). Taylor’s isolation argument is consistent with

how Stephanie Antalocy describes the function of the disguise trope in the play. However, Taylor’s

observation profoundly problematizes the inherent assumption that the Williams dialogue should be

interpreted as a didactic exposé. How could something of such colossal importance be presented as a

chance encounter? My immediate response to this conundrum is that the unintentional is, in fact,

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intentional, and narratively necessary. Considering his eloquence, his capacity for rhetoric, and his

demonstrated ability for cold calculation, Henry’s floundering and his inadequate responses while under

pressure from a mere soldier are incredible, and un-credible; unless we take into account that he never

intended to engage in a polemic debate and his responses are an unscripted reaction to a very abrupt

reality check on the state of the union. The context of the walkabout gives the impression that Henry is

caught off guard makes for a more consistent reading of Henry’s character.

Insofar as the function of the disguise trope is concerned, Antalocy segments the ruler’s disguise

effect into three parts: anonymity, elemental existence, and fragmentation; all of which serve to sever the

monarch, psychologically and physically, from the monarchy. Antalocy bases her analysis of the disguise

trope on Victor Turner’s exposition of the stages of separation and reunification through which the

sovereign passes in his departure from and his return to the “royal persona” (17). The relationship

between the state and the disguised king, according to Antalocy, represents

“the polity becoming one of the members of the community, and exploring the way the ideal entity of the corporate kingdom degenerates into a disordered ‘body’ without the ordering presence of the active, attentive human person in the royal office” (20).

Insofar as the disguise trope applies to Henry V, Antalocy points out that Shakespeare departs from its

standard use as she expands the trope’s application across the play itself. Antalocy argues that not only

does Henry’s disguise separate him from his structured, socially proscribed identity, she argues that his

“campaign in France is a liminal quest to achieve an inner identity as king that will complement his

outward attainment of the crown” (149). I agree with Antalocy’s argument about the function of the

disguise with regards to Hal, because I consider Hal to be Henry’s first disguise. Consider these parts of

Henry’s soliloquy on Hal:

PRINCE HENRY: Yet herein will I imitate the sun,Who doth permit the base contagious cloudsTo smother up his beauty from the world,That, when he please again to be himself… (1 Henry IV 1.2.184-188)

And,

So when this loose behaviour I throw off

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And pay the debt I never promised (1 Henry IV 1.2.196,197)

And,

My reformation, glitt’ring o’er my fault,Shall show more goodly and attract more eyesThan that which hath no foil to set it off…(1 Henry IV 1.2.201-203).

Clearly, Henry articulates some very precise objectives that he wishes to accomplish through Hal that he

cannot accomplish as Henry. Also, Henry leaves us with no doubt that Hal is a disguise designed to meet

those objectives. In theory, Hal represents the danger of the polity becoming one with the people, and his

claim to the throne presents the real threat of kingdom degeneration due to an inattentive royal persona

holding the office of the monarch. In this respect, Hal presents a good case study for Antalocy’s disguise

theory. Antalocy does recognize that Shakespeare uses the standard disguise tropes differently than it is

normally used in Elizabethan drama, but the Agincourt walkabout confines her theory to Hal alone.

Insofar as Henry is concerned, it is true that Henry’s disguise in Agincourt separates him from his

structured, socially proscribed identity, but it would be facile to read Henry Agincourt walkabout as

Henry using disguise to work through his identity issues because his royal persona is to rigid. Also,

concluding that Henry’s walkabout is an attempt to recapture the days of Hal confines the walkabout to its

primary level of significance; meaning, that it is only natural that in a moment of crisis, Henry longs to

return to his carefree days. Hence, I cannot say that Henry does not long for the pub, but the Agincourt

walkabout is not only about nostalgia. Henry’s visual separation from his kingship is necessary in order to

solicit the kind of candour required to explore subjectivity in Shakespeare’s constitutional monarchy. The

monarch, the monarchy, and the subject must be clearly identifiable so the audience, or the reader, can

identify and locate behaviours and/or attitudes and evaluate them against their own socially constructed

worldviews.

Now that the monarch is no longer divine, there has to be some differentiating aspect in the

person of the monarch that justifies that person being the monarch. Because the legitimacy of the

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monarch depends on civic confirmation, the monarch must be close enough to the people for them to

identify with him without him losing his royal aura, so to speak. For example, Hal separates Henry from

the “gross brain little wots” (Henry V 4.1.270) until Henry becomes king. Once Henry is king, he can no

longer be Hal otherwise he would lose the aristocracy. The Agincourt walkabout brings Henry, once

again, into the midst of his subjects by way of a cloak, but there is no Hal to allow Henry to cast aside the

cloak and draw nearer to the people. In order for the walkabout to be realistic, Henry must be close

enough for Williams to assail, but far enough to maintain the royal persona that makes his responses the

voice of the monarch.

Shakespeare preserves Henry’s connection to his royal identity by wrapping him in Sir Thomas

Erpingham’s cloak – permeable yet resistant to the elements which would otherwise soil his royal garb.

Physically, Erpingham’s cloak is a device of disguise; however symbolically, it represents the royal

mantle that separates the mortal monarch under the cloak from the common person outside the cloak.

Whereas earlier I argued that Henry’s kingship is legitimated through a process of building civic

consensus by being in close proximity to his subjects, here, I argue that the Henry’s legitimacy depends

on him maintaining the mantle of aristocracy and a clear distance away from his subjects. As Henry

draws nearer to his subjects, he is challenged to identify himself and twice he self-identifies as “a friend”

(Henry V 4.1. 37, 90). The word “friend” has many possible meanings and as such, it actively resists

attempts to pin it down to one, specific interpretation. The matter becomes even more complex if we

consider that just because someone considers him or herself your friend does not make it so; and then we

should consider that friends sometimes betray us; and we should also include in the definition of a friend,

someone who might hurt you for your own good, or might hurt you inadvertently. The very least I can say

about Henry and friendship while staying on topic is that he has been all of these kinds of friend at one

point or another in the text. However for the purposes of the Agincourt walkabout, I would argue that

Henry believes he is a friend to his subjects. However, Williams shows Henry, in no uncertain terms, the

inherent falseness of this belief and therewith, demarcates the border between monarch and subject.

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Henry’s description of the king as a man with “senses that have but human conditions,” (Henry V

4.1.101,102) confirms that the king is no longer divine. Henry, as the king, defines for us the ontology of

his kingship, and divinity is clearly not among his attributes. “His ceremonies laid by…[Henry] appears

but a man... [yet] his affections are higher mounted” (Henry V 4.1.102-104). In this simple description,

Henry has captured all that differentiates the monarch from his subject from the monarch’s point of view.

Apart from the ceremonies, the notions of appearance and affections higher mounted are the twin

essences of a corporeal monarch. Having heard the monarch define his ontology, the discourse then shifts

to the ontology of the subject as Bates and Williams define their relationship vis-à-vie the monarch and

the monarchy.

Bates’s recognition that there is a difference between the king’s interior and exterior emotions is

our first clue that the common subject penetrates the semiotic of the king’s public persona, and that the

subject reads the King through both personas. Bates’s role is small in relation to Williams’s, but the issues

he raises are of the utmost importance insofar as subjectivity is concerned. What does it mean when the

subject perceives the difference between the king’s two personas? Bates’s belief that Henry “could wish

himself in Thames up to the neck” (Henry V 4.1.111, 112) suggests that a subject can emotionally identify

with the private persona of the king to such a degree that he projects his own private fears unto the king.

Even though Bates sees through the public propaganda, he is still willing to risk his life for Henry’s

“adventures” (Henry V 4.1.115). At no time during the discourse does Bates visually see the King;

therefore, the fact that he is willing “to fight lustily for [the king]” (Henry V 4.1.180, 181) undermines the

argument that real obedience is inculcated by the appearance of the monarch. For Bates, the attachment to

the King is conceptual which bring us back to Hal and the process of identifying with the common man

by being one of them. However, Bates’s desire to flee the battle hardly constitutes voluntary obedience -

in fact, quite the opposite. Bates rationalizes his participation in a war based on questionable motives

because “obedience to the King wipes the crime” (Henry V 4.1.126) of his participation from his personal

accountability before God. Because Bates is willing to flee, he believes the King wishes he could flee and

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thus is the limitation of a wilfully blind subject; they can participate in civic discourse but they will not

challenge the King because they are content with their limited access to the knowledge of state. Bates’s is

an acquiescent subjectivity reminiscent of subjectivity in a divine monarchy. Although the Henry V’s

politics has moved beyond this kind of subjectivity, it still appears to be an acceptable position given

Williams’s silence on the matter. However, if we look at the same dialogue but from Williams’s

perspective, we get a different, but not incompatible reading.

In an effort to reassure Bates that his opinion about the private person of the King is wrong,

Henry offers Bates and Williams some insider information on the King’s private thoughts and feelings.

On behalf of himself and Bates, Williams’s immediately brackets Henry’s rejoinder by saying, “That’s

more than we know’” to which Bates adds, “Ay, or more than we should seek after” (Henry V 4.1.124,

125). Bates appears content with, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he is able to better

come to terms with his subjectivity based on the knowledge that he is the King’s subject and he is doing

his duty to the state by obeying the King. What lies beyond that is not his concern. At first glance, it

appears that Bates is trying to limit Williams’s implied request for the knowledge that would allow him to

make an informed decision as to whether or not the King’s cause is “just and his quarrel honourable”

(Henry V 4.1.122,123). However if we consider what goes unsaid in these lines, we see that Bates and

Williams implicitly acknowledge that they cannot judge the justness of the King’s cause because they are

not close enough to the locus of power to obtain the knowledge to make an informed decision. As Isaiah

Berlin points out, “Techniques of government exist… although the facts, and therefore the methods of

dealing with them, may look different to a ruler and to his subjects” (284). Therefore, Williams silence on

Bates’s wilful blindness is not an affirmation that subservience is the correct position for a subject to

adopt; rather, it is tacit confirmation that there is certain knowledge that one obtains in proportion to one’s

proximity to the locus of power. Bates and Williams’s reaction to their inability to access monarchical

knowledge models two subject behaviours in relation to political decisions which affect the subject, but

over which the subject has no control. Also, Bates and Williams’s disagreement on the need for

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knowledge represents a civic debate taking place in a civil manner that stands in contrast to Bolingbroke’s

usurpation and the civil war that ensued. At this point, the Williams discourse then shifts from modeling

knowledge and civil disagreement to defining the rights and responsibility of the monarch and the subject

in relation to one another and to the state.

Williams’s assault on the justness of the King’s war, as graphic as it is, does not take issue with

the King’s right to declare war. Therefore, we can at least assume that that the power to declare war

remains within the sovereign’s prerogative – contrary to Kantorowicz’s belief (30). Also noteworthy is

the fact that Williams does not take issue with war itself, even though Williams is fully informed as to its

human cost. The political historian Arthur Hassall informs us that, “In entering upon war with France,

Henry V was acting in accordance with the accepted views of his day. But his reasons for attacking

France were somewhat different from those of the ordinary Englishman” (53). In light of Hassall, we can

better understand the true nature of Williams’s objection that “[i]f these men do not die well it will be a

black matter for the King that led them to it” (Henry V 4.1.138, 139). Williams’s use of the conditional

suggests that despite the horrors of war, men can die well if the cause is good (Henry V 4.1.129) Clearly it

is Williams’s intention to foist the burden of responsibility for any hidden agendas on King and to hold

the King accountable to God. The frustration felt in Williams’s comment stems from the fact that he

knows he has no access to the knowledge to decide for himself if the cause is good or not and thus, he

lambastes the King with a fire and brimstone sermon on responsibility and accountability. Goddard

suggests that Williams is questioning the “justice of war” (242), which I have shown is not the case;

Goddard also suggests that Henry’s response is “side-stepping the issue” through “squirming sophistry”

(242), which I agree might have been the case had not Williams ended his sermon with a declarative

pledge of allegiance based on proportional subjection. The problem with Henry’s answer is not that he

does not respond to Williams. The problem with Henry’s answer is that it goes beyond the scope of

Williams’s terms. Henry does not argue that Williams is wrong; Henry clarifies Williams’s argument

from the monarch’s perspective. But let me not get ahead of myself.

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The culmination of subjectivity in Henry V is succinctly summed up in Michael Williams’s

ruminative comment, “who to disobey / were against all proportion of subjection” (Henry V 4.1.139,

140). The ambitiousness of my claim is given license by the flexibility of a term like “proportion” which,

in essence, gives us cause to consider a more fluid state-subject relationship as opposed to the standard

ruler-ruled binary normally associated with an absolute monarchy. Although it seems fairly obvious for

Williams to self-identify as a subject, what is far less obvious is why he articulates his subjectivity as one

of proportion and subjection. Furthermore, the immediate question that comes to mind in response to

Williams’s proportion of subjection is what would constitute a disproportionate subjection? However, to

answer this question we must first define subjectivity – to the extent that we can – before we can take up

the question of proportional subjection.

Subjectivity, in the context of subjection, functions antonymically in relation to its connotative

and denotative meaning. Generally, subjectivity can be described as the process of internalizing and

interpreting an external element and describing the element from on one’s personal perspective. However,

subjectivity in terms of subjection is the process of internalizing and interpreting an external element and

describing oneself from the external element’s perspective. As I have intimated earlier, Bates’s

subjectivity is from the perspective of the King. Bates is contented with his subjectivity and as such, does

not move beyond it, nor does he seek knowledge that is beyond his station. Williams’s subjectivity is also

from the perspective of the King; however, Williams’s is a sceptical subjectivity struggling to become an

informed subjectivity by gaining access to the knowledge of state. If we compare Bates and Williams,

subjectivity with subjectivity in Richard II, we see that really not much has changed for their social strata

in society. Richard’s former Groom made “much ado… / To look upon [his] sometimes royal master’s

face” (Richard II 5.5.73.74) reminds us of Bates’s subjectivity. Also, remembering the retort of one of the

Gardener’s men to the Gardener, “Why should we in the compass of a pale / Keep law and form and due

proportion / …When our sea-walled garden, the whole land / Is full of weeds…” (Richard II 5.5.40-41,

44-45) reminds us of Williams’s blunt commentary about the King’s questionable motives for the war.

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Henry’s subjectivity, however, is two-fold. On the one hand, Henry’s subjectivity is from the perspective

of his subjects because he must be confirmed by the people as the symbol of the monarchy; the proof of

his subjectivity lies in Henry’s admission that “no man should possess [the king] with any / appearance of

fear, lest, he, by showing it, should dis / hearten his army (Henry V 4.1.107-109). Henry’s subjectivity is

also in relation to the state as the soliloquy on Ceremony makes abundantly clear. The intersection of

Henry’s two subjectivities is obliquely explained by Cannon’s “third body,” and his Machiavellian

political strategies that Clegg argues “seeks to accommodate both the good and the useful” (187) and in

so trying, explores both Machiavelli’s virtu and the Humanist ‘good rhetorician-good man axiom.’

However, the monarch’s concern about his subjectivity in relation to his subjects is not apparent in

Richard II, and this marks a significant difference between Henry and Richard, and between the two

governments.

Looking back at the power struggles from Richard II to Henry V, we get a clearer sense of the

aptness of a term like proportion in relation to subjection. Details aside, each contest for power from

Bolingbroke, to Hotspur, and even Falstaff is an effort to bring them proportionally closer to the locus of

power. Bolingbroke and Hotspur’s intention is to seize sovereignty and through it, to wield state power.

Falstaff dreams of getting closer to the locus of power through Henry so as to benefit from its favours.

Bolingbroke, Hotspur and Falstaff are all operating on the principle that the ability to wield power or to

benefit from power is directly proportional to one’s proximity to the locus of power. Also, as one draws

proportionally closer to the locus of power, the necessity of subjection to the king decreases. Hence,

Bolingbroke and Hotspur’s insurrection negates their subjection to their Kings because they internalize

and interpret the office of the monarch and “describe” it in terms of their personal desire to occupy the

locus of power. By describe, I mean renaming, or reimaging the monarch in their own name and with

their own visage. Hence, Bolingbroke and Hotspur’s sedition violates their subjectivity and is

disproportionate to their expected subjection. Falstaff is different in that he internalizes and interprets the

office of the monarch in relation to his capacity to ignore state law based on his proximity to Henry.

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Falstaff does not violate the principle of proportional subjection in relation to the monarch; however, he

violates that principle in relation to his duty to uphold the laws of the monarchy. He is an aristocrat after

all. Undoubtedly there is much more fine tuning to be done regarding proportion and subjection; however,

insofar as understanding the relationship between the monarch, the monarchy and the subject is

concerned, it is sufficient that we understand that Williams and Bates are proportionally too far away

from the locus of power to alter their subjectivity and hence, to disobey Henry would be out of their

proportion of subjection. For Henry, failing embody the semiotic of the state is out of proportion of

subjection in relation to his responsibility to Ceremony; failing to act in accordance with what is best for

the state is” against all proportion of subjection” in relation to his responsibilities to the monarchy. Now,

let us return to the dialogue and discuss Henry’s answer to Williams’s charge of absolute responsibility.

In what follows Williams’s declaration of proportional subjection, Henry mounts a defence of the

King against being blamed for the death of his subjects in war. I will not reproduce a line by line analysis

of Henry’s rebuttal as it has oft been quoted and at length debated. In short, Henry’s position is that

providence kills the king’s subject when the subject dies in the service of the king. Each subject is

responsible for their own sins, and those who through “peradventure have on them the guilt of

premeditated and contrived” (4.1. 154,155) crimes, death in war is their recompense for violating the

king’s law. As I stated earlier, the problem with Henry’s answer is not that it is incorrect. Actually, Bates

reaffirms the truth of Henry’s response in that “every man that dies ill, the ill [is] upon his own head. The

King is not to answer it” (4.1.178,179). The problem with Henry’s answer is it goes beyond the scope of

Williams’s question. “[N]o more is the King guilty of their damnation” says Henry, “than he was before

guilty of those impieties for the which they are now visited’ (Henry V 4.1.167, 168, italics mine).

Damnation and visitation are clues in rhetoric that indicate that Henry is not countering Williams’s charge

directly but rather, Henry is defining the scope of the King’s accountability in terms of God. Bearing in

mind that the king is but a man, Ceremony aside, Henry does not argue that the King is above God’s

judgment for premeditated and contrived crime, which would include waging war on false pretences.

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Henry realizes his accountability with regards to waging war on specious pretences when he warns

Canterbury not to “fashion, wrest, or bow” his advice “[w]ith opening titles miscreate, whose right | Suits

not in native colours with the truth” (Henry V 1.2.14, 16-17). Critics dissatisfied with Henry’s response,

and those looking for some self-recrimination from Henry should consider that Henry is subject to the

divinely sponsored monarchy. Because Henry is not a divine monarch, he can answer Williams’s question

in no other way; his accountability is before the same ultimate judge as his subjects. Furthermore,

Williams’s question necessitates a response in that requires Henry to admit firsthand knowledge of the

King’s motives. How would a common subject be privy to that kind of knowledge? Hence, Henry cannot

defend from the first person and the direct rebuttal critics’ seem to crave is denied by the very disguise

that opens Henry up to criticism.

Williams is right – from his subject position, and Henry is also right – from his subject position to

the monarchy. Finally, Williams’s arguments become “too round” (Henry V 4.1.195) and we see the Hal

in Henry come to the fore as he accepts a challenge that is well beneath his status to accept. Marilyn

Williamson offers some interesting insight as to what might have finally invoked Henry’s ire. Williamson

points out that “[i]t is ironic that Henry’s subjects know something that he cannot seem to face: that the

king is not just another man…he has privileges that [they] do not have” (277). The realization that some

in the lower classes resent him for his status stands in direct contrast to the approval he received as Hal.

As King, Henry finds himself exposed to criticism from a quarter from which he has never before been

criticized. Therefore, it is only natural that he resorts to Hal to deal with Williams’s direct challenge to the

integrity of the King.

I stated earlier that in order to solicit the kind of candour required to explore subjectivity in

Shakespeare’s constitutional monarchy, there needed to be an uninhibited dialogue between the

constitutive elements in the constitutional monarchy. Henry set about on his walk not having any

intention of engaging and a political debate with anyone, let alone two soldiers. I submit that what we

were able to glean from Henry’s responses was a result of his unpreparedness. Yet his rhetorical skills

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were still intact enough to give us a clear picture of the ontology of the monarch and the dual nature of his

subjectivity. I do not believe that any character, of such a low degree, in any Shakespeare play had had

the leisure to assault the monarch as intensely and as precisely as did Williams. The fact that Williams is

the one who receives the “glove with crowns” (Henry V 4.8.56)3 is a testament to the value of the subject

who holds the King to account and aspires to an informed subjectivity without disregarding his duty to

obey. Williams reward also draws attention to Bates’s conspicuous absence. Should we infer that Bates’s

services are less valuable that Williams’s? Is Bates dead and along with him the kind of subjectivity

required to forge a constitutional monarchy? One does wonder… In any event, the freedom of speech

Bates and Williams enjoy that allowed for us to peer into the heart of Shakespeare’s constitutional

monarchy must have its limits. Unchecked freedom of speech is like an absolute monarchy headed by an

inattentive or capricious monarch, both of which lead to a “disordered spring” that meets “with the fall of

leaf” (Richard II 3.4.48, 49). Undermining the word of a monarch confirmed by civic consensus will lead

to anarchy. Henry, or rather Hal at that point, puts a stop to Williams’s tirade.

The benefit of Hal’s return is twofold. First, Hal stops the argument with Williams and in so

doing establishes a boundary on critical debate. An invective against the integrity of the office of the

monarch is off limits. Second, Henry is so shaken to his core that he appeals to his master and enters into

a soliloquy on the ontology of Ceremony in an attempt to dissipate the bile built up during the course of

the Williams dialogue. With Henry’s soliloquy on Ceremony, Shakespeare concludes his exposé on

proportional subjection and subjectivity in a constitutional monarchy.

In the Williams dialogue, Henry reaffirms his man-ness and identifies Ceremony as the difference

between monarch and subject. Ceremony creates “awe and fear in other men,” and is the one who

“command’st the beggar’s knee” (Henry V 4.1.235, 244). Richard, on the other hand, never relinquishes

the idea that he is God’s deputy. The clear difference between Richard and Henry is that in Richard’s

3 Although some opine that Williams refuses Henry’s money, I believe that this is incorrect. Williams cannot refuse the King as his declaration of subjection clearly states. After Henry offers Williams the glove, Fluellen offers him twelve pense. Williams refuses Fluellen’s money not Henry’s. The proof of this is that the amount refused will serve to mend shoes – a glove full of crowns will serve to mend a lot more (see Henry V 4.8.56-70).

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mind, the divine right of kings is his authorizing agent whereas Henry personifies the state as long as he

conforms to Ceremony. Henry is empowered by Ceremony, and Ceremony is advanced as being the

semiotics of state. Therefore through Ceremony, Henry is subject to the state, and his ability to wield

power is directly proportional to his “seamless presentation” (Cannon 85) of Ceremony. As Cannon

points out, “the more unified or seamless the… presentation is read… the more likely that subjects will

accept the king’s legitimacy” (85). Based on my syllogism, one could argue that Ceremony is the locus of

power given Henry’s subjection to it and that Bolingbroke receives kingship through it. But that goes

beyond the scope of this paper.

There are many stones left unturned in this paper; among them is the relationship between

ceremony and the rituals of state that inspire subjection in the absence of the visual presence of the

monarch. Certainly this is an important study considering Bates and Williams’s obedience to the King is

not inspired by Henry in disguise. However, ceremony and ritual opens up a whole new discussion the

size of which exceeds the mandate of this paper. In order to understand the politics of Henry V, one must

first understand the impact of Richard’s deposition on the office of the monarch and on the monarchy. As

I have shown, looking at Henry V in isolation is not sufficient to contextualize the political in Henry V. It

is no wonder that the complexity of Henry V’s politics resists both subversive and celebratory

interpretations as well as any attempts to place interpretive priorities over the politics native in the play.

Ambiguity is expected when not all the facts required to reach a conclusion are being assessed.

I have argued that Richard II and Henry V are interrelated inasmuch as they show the

transformation from an absolute monarchy to a form of monarchy the likes of which had not begun to be

put in place until the Glorious Revolution of 1688. Yet I purposely stop short of declaring Shakespeare

was of a specific political orientation because Henry V does not present a completed political project –

rather it represents political possibilities that move government in the direction of a constitutional

monarchy. I share Thayer’s opinion “that Henry V is designed to provide serious answers” to

Shakespeare’s questions about contemporary politics in 1599, those being: “what kind of ruler do…

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Englishmen want,… what sort of government, what kind of monarchy, what kind of civil polity, what

kind of world” (151)? Although I would not go as far as Thayer in saying that “Shakespeare has set about

representing on the stage the quintessence of kingship” (151), but rather I would say that Shakespeare has

set about establishing the monarch’s mortality, the quinta essentia of the monarchy, and the rights and

obligations of those subject to the state. God save the King!

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