The Divisibility of Henry the Fourth
by Jenny Clendenen
A Response to Paul Yachnin’s
“History, Theatricality, and the “Structural Problem” in the Henry IV Plays”
Philological Quarterly 70 (1999); 163-79
Paul Yachin’s article about the “structural question” in the Henry IV plays contends that the plays are individual and not interdependent – that they are two plays in sequence, rather than one play divided into two parts. He believes that his view allows for an illumination of Shakespeare’s development of Renaissance historiography, encompassing ideas of historical change and operations of political power. After acknowledging similar critical thought by scholars Johnson and Hawkins, he argues that neither of them went so far as to apply the “sequel” idea as an interpretative approach. Yachnin believes that most critics crave a unity of literary texts that would make Shakespeare’s meaning seem permanent; if all the parts are together in one place at one time, a static continuity is ensured. If, on the other hand, as he believes, the text stands inside of time, its meaning fluctuates depending on what point in the story the reader has reached. This leads to his thesis that the story is reliant on change, and that change implies flexible and revisionary meaning; therefore, because unity is not part of the meaning, the two plays can stand separately. He makes his case by reviewing and rebutting specific critics, specifically Upton’s Aristotelian argument for unity, Johnson’s text-dependent argument for a sequel, and Jenkins’ paradoxical argument for “complementary yet incompatible” parts. After addressing what he perceives to be Hawkins’ inadequate rebuttal to Jenkins, Yachnin transitions to his own argument.
His own argument consists of two main points. First, though he agrees with Jenkins that the curve of the plot in Part One is complete -- there is a linear progression from repentance to redemption to reformation – this does not mean it is “one whole play,” because its “structural” sense of permanency is disrupted by periods of revisionism which force a reevaluation of previous scenes. Using Hal’s conversion as an example, Yachnin claims that characters’ words and actions are produced to convince themselves, and that their true intentions are only revealed by later, and therefore revised meaning. Hal’s promise to his father, for instance, is compromised by his attitude when he returns to the tavern, but his integrity is restored during the battle, which then compromises his attitude earlier at the tavern. Therefore, as readers, Yachnin argues, we cannot accurately assess truth or meaning until we have finished the play, and this fact precludes a unified, structuralist reading.
Second, Yachnin stipulates that Shakespeare used Hal’s conversion scene in both plays simply because it provided the best drama; it is “incredible” to suppose, upon viewing the Part Two conversion, that we are to forget it already happened in Part One. Rather, we are to critically reevaluate Hal’s original conversion and understand that he had been insincere. This underscores the fact that he did not truly reform in the first place -- he was just “pretending” -- and so Part Two is a revision of Part One in the same way that scenes in Part One are “undone” by subsequent scenes. According to Yachnin, the revisionism within each play is an inevitable reflection of human nature, but this play-to-play revisionism was an option exercised by Shakespeare in order to incorporate a more pessimistic political view. Adhering neither to the linear (providentialist) model of history followed by Holinshed or to the cyclical (humanist) model followed by Plutarch, the playwright’s ambiguity is meant to leave us wondering if each event is a step toward progress, or a point on a circle. Yachnin concludes his argument with a reference to Sidney’s assertion that the ability to step outside of the constraints of real events renders poets superior to historians. Shakespeare, he says, meant to counter Sidney’s assertion by the mixed use of both historical models, thus cross-canceling any perceivable pattern to history, and leaving it up for interpretation.
Yachnin’s strongest point, I believe, is his claim that the play (Part One) is revisionist in nature, and that revisionism by its very nature disrupts unity. His example of Hal’s conversion aligns with my own impressions of Part One -- that the prince’s repentance was rather blithe, and perhaps only given to cut short his father’s lecture, and that his flip attitude later, in the tavern, belies his original intentions -- which are then redeemed in the life-saving battle scene. I would also agree that expecting a second conversion to supercede the first is “incredible,” which implies that we are intended to review the first in light of subsequent events -- that nothing can be taken at surface value. I find Yachnin’s use of these examples to be a convincing argument for revisionism, and I agree that revisionism is in conflict with the idea of a stable text.
Whether or not stability is a necessary component of unification, though, is unclear. The weaknesses of Yachnin’s argument lie in the stretches he makes to connect these two ideas. It is an oversimplification, I think, to say that critics only insist on unification because they seek “full, stable, and permanent meaning.” To claim that such a desire is the driving force behind the structural label ignores critical assessments of form or recognition of precedents, to name just two other possibilities. Furthermore, he states that structural terms cannot be applied to “material whose meaning is produced temporally and sequentially.” Is not all sub-God creation produced in such a way? And is there then no structure to any manmade thing? Within or without the literary arena, this abstract argument seems illogical. My skepticism is increased by his claim that Shakespeare uses both models of history to keep us guessing. This sounds like Yachnin’s way of shrugging his shoulders rather than admitting that he cannot identify the playwright’s historical point of view. It even sounds like a reductio ad absurdum of Yachnin’s own: If, throughout these plays, we “simply cannot know where we are or what kind of ‘where’ we are in,” and “the full significance of events is unknowable at any time,” then how can he know that the plays are not consistent, not combinable as a unified structure? If it is all up for interpretation, and all a matter of perspective. who is to say what constitutes a reversal or a moment of forward progress? Revisionism becomes relativism, and relativism does not accommodate the absolute claim that these are two separate plays.
Overall, I find Yachnin’s revisionist examples to be concrete evidence for revisionism, but am doubtful of his abstract arguments against structuralism. I am persuaded, both by my own reading of Part One and by Yachnin’s analysis of Hal’s performances, that Shakespeare intended us to reevaluate prior scenes and therefore keep truth in a state of flux. However, I am not convinced that this necessarily translates to a two-play form.
by Jenny Clendenen
A Response to Paul Yachnin’s
“History, Theatricality, and the “Structural Problem” in the Henry IV Plays”
Philological Quarterly 70 (1999); 163-79
Paul Yachin’s article about the “structural question” in the Henry IV plays contends that the plays are individual and not interdependent – that they are two plays in sequence, rather than one play divided into two parts. He believes that his view allows for an illumination of Shakespeare’s development of Renaissance historiography, encompassing ideas of historical change and operations of political power. After acknowledging similar critical thought by scholars Johnson and Hawkins, he argues that neither of them went so far as to apply the “sequel” idea as an interpretative approach. Yachnin believes that most critics crave a unity of literary texts that would make Shakespeare’s meaning seem permanent; if all the parts are together in one place at one time, a static continuity is ensured. If, on the other hand, as he believes, the text stands inside of time, its meaning fluctuates depending on what point in the story the reader has reached. This leads to his thesis that the story is reliant on change, and that change implies flexible and revisionary meaning; therefore, because unity is not part of the meaning, the two plays can stand separately. He makes his case by reviewing and rebutting specific critics, specifically Upton’s Aristotelian argument for unity, Johnson’s text-dependent argument for a sequel, and Jenkins’ paradoxical argument for “complementary yet incompatible” parts. After addressing what he perceives to be Hawkins’ inadequate rebuttal to Jenkins, Yachnin transitions to his own argument.
His own argument consists of two main points. First, though he agrees with Jenkins that the curve of the plot in Part One is complete -- there is a linear progression from repentance to redemption to reformation – this does not mean it is “one whole play,” because its “structural” sense of permanency is disrupted by periods of revisionism which force a reevaluation of previous scenes. Using Hal’s conversion as an example, Yachnin claims that characters’ words and actions are produced to convince themselves, and that their true intentions are only revealed by later, and therefore revised meaning. Hal’s promise to his father, for instance, is compromised by his attitude when he returns to the tavern, but his integrity is restored during the battle, which then compromises his attitude earlier at the tavern. Therefore, as readers, Yachnin argues, we cannot accurately assess truth or meaning until we have finished the play, and this fact precludes a unified, structuralist reading.
Second, Yachnin stipulates that Shakespeare used Hal’s conversion scene in both plays simply because it provided the best drama; it is “incredible” to suppose, upon viewing the Part Two conversion, that we are to forget it already happened in Part One. Rather, we are to critically reevaluate Hal’s original conversion and understand that he had been insincere. This underscores the fact that he did not truly reform in the first place -- he was just “pretending” -- and so Part Two is a revision of Part One in the same way that scenes in Part One are “undone” by subsequent scenes. According to Yachnin, the revisionism within each play is an inevitable reflection of human nature, but this play-to-play revisionism was an option exercised by Shakespeare in order to incorporate a more pessimistic political view. Adhering neither to the linear (providentialist) model of history followed by Holinshed or to the cyclical (humanist) model followed by Plutarch, the playwright’s ambiguity is meant to leave us wondering if each event is a step toward progress, or a point on a circle. Yachnin concludes his argument with a reference to Sidney’s assertion that the ability to step outside of the constraints of real events renders poets superior to historians. Shakespeare, he says, meant to counter Sidney’s assertion by the mixed use of both historical models, thus cross-canceling any perceivable pattern to history, and leaving it up for interpretation.
Yachnin’s strongest point, I believe, is his claim that the play (Part One) is revisionist in nature, and that revisionism by its very nature disrupts unity. His example of Hal’s conversion aligns with my own impressions of Part One -- that the prince’s repentance was rather blithe, and perhaps only given to cut short his father’s lecture, and that his flip attitude later, in the tavern, belies his original intentions -- which are then redeemed in the life-saving battle scene. I would also agree that expecting a second conversion to supercede the first is “incredible,” which implies that we are intended to review the first in light of subsequent events -- that nothing can be taken at surface value. I find Yachnin’s use of these examples to be a convincing argument for revisionism, and I agree that revisionism is in conflict with the idea of a stable text.
Whether or not stability is a necessary component of unification, though, is unclear. The weaknesses of Yachnin’s argument lie in the stretches he makes to connect these two ideas. It is an oversimplification, I think, to say that critics only insist on unification because they seek “full, stable, and permanent meaning.” To claim that such a desire is the driving force behind the structural label ignores critical assessments of form or recognition of precedents, to name just two other possibilities. Furthermore, he states that structural terms cannot be applied to “material whose meaning is produced temporally and sequentially.” Is not all sub-God creation produced in such a way? And is there then no structure to any manmade thing? Within or without the literary arena, this abstract argument seems illogical. My skepticism is increased by his claim that Shakespeare uses both models of history to keep us guessing. This sounds like Yachnin’s way of shrugging his shoulders rather than admitting that he cannot identify the playwright’s historical point of view. It even sounds like a reductio ad absurdum of Yachnin’s own: If, throughout these plays, we “simply cannot know where we are or what kind of ‘where’ we are in,” and “the full significance of events is unknowable at any time,” then how can he know that the plays are not consistent, not combinable as a unified structure? If it is all up for interpretation, and all a matter of perspective. who is to say what constitutes a reversal or a moment of forward progress? Revisionism becomes relativism, and relativism does not accommodate the absolute claim that these are two separate plays.
Overall, I find Yachnin’s revisionist examples to be concrete evidence for revisionism, but am doubtful of his abstract arguments against structuralism. I am persuaded, both by my own reading of Part One and by Yachnin’s analysis of Hal’s performances, that Shakespeare intended us to reevaluate prior scenes and therefore keep truth in a state of flux. However, I am not convinced that this necessarily translates to a two-play form.
Opposites Detract: Confusion in Twelfth Night
by Jenny Clendenen
A Response to John Creaser’s “Forms of Confusion”
The Cambridge Companion to Shakespearean Comedy
Edited by Alexander Leggatt, Cambridge University Press (2002): 81-99
and
Laurie Shannon’s “Nature’s Bias: Renaissance Homonormativity and Elizabethan Comic Likeness”
Modern Philology 98 (2000): 183-210
John Creaser and Laurie Shannon both argue that confusion is a primary attraction in Shakespeare’s comedies, and that its ambiguous manifestations allow for open-ended possibilities of interpretation. Their theses, however, are very different. Creaser analyzes the comedies to identify the confusions by which their author enriches the genre, and Shannon focuses specifically on confusions of gender as a reflection of historical views about real-life sexuality.
Creaser begins by discussing the role of confusion in comedy, from its classic roots through its Renaissance transformations. He explores the difference between Shakespearean comedies and the old New Comedies produced by the Roman writers Plautus and Terence, who relied on stock formulas revolving around deferred sexual gratification and the exaltation of the low. Ben Johnson modified New Comedy by altering these formulas -- eliminating heroines, replacing “crafty household servants” (83) with villains, shifting the “magnetic center” (86) from sex to power and wealth, and adding real consequences. However, says Creaser, it was Shakespeare who radically transformed and enriched the genre by elaborating on all various forms of confusion, by elevating heroines, and by emphasizing community over the gains of a self-obsessed individual.
According to Creaser, the playwright does this by releasing two forces within his protasis: the conflict between law and justice, and the arrival of discontented strangers which engenders the mixing of classes. Within this consistent framework the unstable variables of zeal, prejudice and tyranny make Shakespeare’s comedies unpredictable, and give his characters a broader social and emotional range than those of New Comedy. Through the disorientation of courtship, they develop to a degree that is dependent on their original depth. The focus is on their psychological rather than circumstantial transformation. Shakespeare effects this transformation using confusions of language and genre which complicate the drama and perplex the audience. His endings, therefore, are often up for interpretation. Just as music is enriched by discord, so are his plays enriched by questionable forms and semantics that disturb our presuppositions. Creaser points out that Shakespeare’s comedies appeal to what we want the world to be and yet know that it is not.
Similarly, Shannon claims that plays such as Twelfth Night appeal to our repressed but socially unacceptable desires, arguing that gender confusions such as Viola’s disguise affirm our “natural” inclination to be attracted to the same sex. She begins by making the undeniable assertion that it is repellant to link live bodies with dead ones, on which she establishes her premise that nature rebels against inverted norms. Quoting sixteenth century writers about other “bad mixes” such as the marital yoking of healthy with ill and age with youth, and citing some classical references to equality between mates, Shannon segues to the idea that Renaissance texts present gender as a flexible construction dependent on resemblance, or similarity. From these examples she infers that the traditional “attraction of opposites” is not in keeping with ideas about equality -- that heterosexual marriage goes against the grain, and is not a “natural” resolution. Citing Greenblatt and Traub, Shannon claims that Shakespeare’s “deferred marriage” endings are evidence that Renaissance audiences recognized this incongruity in heterosexual union.
Shannon goes on to present ideas on friendship from Aristotle and Montaigne, and birds-of-a-feather statements by Cicero which she sees as evidence that same-sex attraction is normal. Her definition of what she calls “homonormativity”is “an almost philosophical preference for likeness or a structure of thinking based on resemblance” (10), but her repeated reference to the Tiptoft translation of Cicero reveals the slippery slope that is the foundation for her argument: that he “analogized reproductive couplings of animals to male friendship.” In fact, his citation was “they seke and desire suche beestys as they wold couple them self with and be of the same kynde," a statement I think is more about species than gender, and more about affinity than sexuality. Likewise, her inference that Elizabeth was lesbian, or bisexual, seem forced; the queen may well have been one or the other, but to base this claim on the royal motto -- “semper eadem,” always the same -- seems a stretch. Reaching and retaining full power was Elizabeth’s goal, and any permanent relationship with any “kynde” would have diminished that power. Shannon stretches again to argue that the feminine pronouns for Church and State made Elizabeth part of a female-female relationship; whereas I would see it as a feminized trinity, or triunal, of Elizabeth as Church, State and Person.
Although both Shannon and Creaser rely on historical and textual observations there is little overlap between them, except that they both emphasize Shakespearean confusion of language and of familiar, traditional roles. Both cite Twelfth Night, with its open-ended and incongruous ending, as an example of the intentional ambiguity produced by these confusions. Creaser, however, sees it as indicative of character transformation and therefore of Shakespeare’s contribution to the comedic genre. While both agree that Olivia’s marriage to Sebastian may have been a mistake -- a union not worthy of her -- they diverge in their reasoning: Creaser finds Viola “too vivid for convention” (91) to marry, and Shannon finds her too lesbian to marry Sebastian. After contemplating Creaser’s observation of Shakespeare’s preference for what is alien and confused, and Shannon’s observation that homonormativity is not so alien or confused, I must agree with Shannon that Olivia might be disappointed -- that it may have been Viola’s suspected femaleness to which the older woman was genuinely attracted. In keeping with this possibility it might be interesting to research the wordplay inversions within Twelfth Night, including the confusion of letters that make up the names Viola, Olivia and Malvolio.
There is no real Olivia or Viola to psychoanalyze, however; they are paper people. Creaser evaluates confusion as literature. Shannon sees it as a revelation that real-life heterosexual union is unnatural -- an inverted norm equivalent to the “coerced embrace” (1) of a living body with a corpse.
by Jenny Clendenen
A Response to John Creaser’s “Forms of Confusion”
The Cambridge Companion to Shakespearean Comedy
Edited by Alexander Leggatt, Cambridge University Press (2002): 81-99
and
Laurie Shannon’s “Nature’s Bias: Renaissance Homonormativity and Elizabethan Comic Likeness”
Modern Philology 98 (2000): 183-210
John Creaser and Laurie Shannon both argue that confusion is a primary attraction in Shakespeare’s comedies, and that its ambiguous manifestations allow for open-ended possibilities of interpretation. Their theses, however, are very different. Creaser analyzes the comedies to identify the confusions by which their author enriches the genre, and Shannon focuses specifically on confusions of gender as a reflection of historical views about real-life sexuality.
Creaser begins by discussing the role of confusion in comedy, from its classic roots through its Renaissance transformations. He explores the difference between Shakespearean comedies and the old New Comedies produced by the Roman writers Plautus and Terence, who relied on stock formulas revolving around deferred sexual gratification and the exaltation of the low. Ben Johnson modified New Comedy by altering these formulas -- eliminating heroines, replacing “crafty household servants” (83) with villains, shifting the “magnetic center” (86) from sex to power and wealth, and adding real consequences. However, says Creaser, it was Shakespeare who radically transformed and enriched the genre by elaborating on all various forms of confusion, by elevating heroines, and by emphasizing community over the gains of a self-obsessed individual.
According to Creaser, the playwright does this by releasing two forces within his protasis: the conflict between law and justice, and the arrival of discontented strangers which engenders the mixing of classes. Within this consistent framework the unstable variables of zeal, prejudice and tyranny make Shakespeare’s comedies unpredictable, and give his characters a broader social and emotional range than those of New Comedy. Through the disorientation of courtship, they develop to a degree that is dependent on their original depth. The focus is on their psychological rather than circumstantial transformation. Shakespeare effects this transformation using confusions of language and genre which complicate the drama and perplex the audience. His endings, therefore, are often up for interpretation. Just as music is enriched by discord, so are his plays enriched by questionable forms and semantics that disturb our presuppositions. Creaser points out that Shakespeare’s comedies appeal to what we want the world to be and yet know that it is not.
Similarly, Shannon claims that plays such as Twelfth Night appeal to our repressed but socially unacceptable desires, arguing that gender confusions such as Viola’s disguise affirm our “natural” inclination to be attracted to the same sex. She begins by making the undeniable assertion that it is repellant to link live bodies with dead ones, on which she establishes her premise that nature rebels against inverted norms. Quoting sixteenth century writers about other “bad mixes” such as the marital yoking of healthy with ill and age with youth, and citing some classical references to equality between mates, Shannon segues to the idea that Renaissance texts present gender as a flexible construction dependent on resemblance, or similarity. From these examples she infers that the traditional “attraction of opposites” is not in keeping with ideas about equality -- that heterosexual marriage goes against the grain, and is not a “natural” resolution. Citing Greenblatt and Traub, Shannon claims that Shakespeare’s “deferred marriage” endings are evidence that Renaissance audiences recognized this incongruity in heterosexual union.
Shannon goes on to present ideas on friendship from Aristotle and Montaigne, and birds-of-a-feather statements by Cicero which she sees as evidence that same-sex attraction is normal. Her definition of what she calls “homonormativity”is “an almost philosophical preference for likeness or a structure of thinking based on resemblance” (10), but her repeated reference to the Tiptoft translation of Cicero reveals the slippery slope that is the foundation for her argument: that he “analogized reproductive couplings of animals to male friendship.” In fact, his citation was “they seke and desire suche beestys as they wold couple them self with and be of the same kynde," a statement I think is more about species than gender, and more about affinity than sexuality. Likewise, her inference that Elizabeth was lesbian, or bisexual, seem forced; the queen may well have been one or the other, but to base this claim on the royal motto -- “semper eadem,” always the same -- seems a stretch. Reaching and retaining full power was Elizabeth’s goal, and any permanent relationship with any “kynde” would have diminished that power. Shannon stretches again to argue that the feminine pronouns for Church and State made Elizabeth part of a female-female relationship; whereas I would see it as a feminized trinity, or triunal, of Elizabeth as Church, State and Person.
Although both Shannon and Creaser rely on historical and textual observations there is little overlap between them, except that they both emphasize Shakespearean confusion of language and of familiar, traditional roles. Both cite Twelfth Night, with its open-ended and incongruous ending, as an example of the intentional ambiguity produced by these confusions. Creaser, however, sees it as indicative of character transformation and therefore of Shakespeare’s contribution to the comedic genre. While both agree that Olivia’s marriage to Sebastian may have been a mistake -- a union not worthy of her -- they diverge in their reasoning: Creaser finds Viola “too vivid for convention” (91) to marry, and Shannon finds her too lesbian to marry Sebastian. After contemplating Creaser’s observation of Shakespeare’s preference for what is alien and confused, and Shannon’s observation that homonormativity is not so alien or confused, I must agree with Shannon that Olivia might be disappointed -- that it may have been Viola’s suspected femaleness to which the older woman was genuinely attracted. In keeping with this possibility it might be interesting to research the wordplay inversions within Twelfth Night, including the confusion of letters that make up the names Viola, Olivia and Malvolio.
There is no real Olivia or Viola to psychoanalyze, however; they are paper people. Creaser evaluates confusion as literature. Shannon sees it as a revelation that real-life heterosexual union is unnatural -- an inverted norm equivalent to the “coerced embrace” (1) of a living body with a corpse.