Money Can’t Grow Happiness

Earlier this week, we had our final video-chat meeting: Timon of Athens. (I can’t tell you what a relief it is to have the tragedies out of the way.) The panic is setting in. How am I going to read great works of literature without my book club members (we’re playing with the name “Bard’s Council of Ladies”)? Here are some of the insights from Liz, Katy, and Hannah that I took in this time:

Alcibiades, Timon, and the two whores

There are very few women in this play, fewer than we’ve ever encountered before. There are only the two prostitutes in Alcibiades’s company and the dancers at Timon’s first banquet (whom, frankly, I hesitate to count).

Furthermore, there are no familial or romantic relationships in this play—quite strange for Shakespeare. Every relationship is either business-related or some variation of neighbor and friend (“friend,” I should say).

On an apparently unrelated thought, there is very little character development or growth throughout the plot. Timon does a complete turnaround (but he seems just as narrow and blind in the second half as in the first, just on the opposite side of the spectrum), and a few people change their minds, but no one appears to learn, have epiphanies, etc.

In my own reading, I noted how often the topic of usury comes up. I have added all of these thoughts together for this post.

Although lending money at interest is commonplace today, the medieval and Renaissance mind would be shocked. The old Jewish law (never mind their not-so-kind attitudes towards Jews themselves) commanded one not to charge interest on a loan to a neighbor or countryman. Literal usury comes up several times throughout Timon of Athens. Timon is a debtor, and his creditors want to be paid. Apemantus, the fool, and some servants joke about their usury-practicing masters (who seem to be the ones loaning to Timon) as well as about the fool’s mistress, who is involved in prostitution, another form of “usury” to Elizabethans.

I don’t think that Timon sees himself as part of this system, though. He borrows money, but he mentally distances himself from his debts and certainly doesn’t think of usury as part of his lifestyle. Later, he defines “usuring kindness” as that which wants “in return twenty for one” (IV.iii.501-502). His kindness towards his friends, however, asks only one in return for one:

When he [Ventidius] was poor,
Imprisoned, and in scarcity of friends,
I [Timon] cleared him with five talents. Greet him from me.
Bid him suppose some good necessity
Touches his friend, which craves to be remembered
With those five talents.

He follows the religious law and probably also imagines himself to fulfill a law of friendship. But usury has to do with more than just lending, and that extended area is where Timon gets himself in trouble.

Not only did the Law of Moses forbade charging interest, but people who spent a lot of time thinking about such things also figured that it’s just plain weird to do so. Usury forces money to come from money: a moneylender has ten dollars, loans it to someone else, and when he gets it back, suddenly he has eleven. The medieval Church took issue with this because money is actually sterile. It makes perfect sense to have two sheep, let them spend some time together, and end up with three. It also is quite reasonable and expected to plant one seed in the ground and get a plethora of fruit or grain or what have you. But money cannot reproduce. Bury a coin and later there will still be one coin. Usury was therefore considered not only unlawful but also unnatural.

Timon’s principal difficulty in this play is that he, like so much of Athens, believes that money is a living, breathing organism; although he does not try to make more money with it, as in traditional usury, he attempts to breed human sentiment from it. He gives jewels and gold to people in expectation of receiving love and friendship back from them. Yet in giving gifts instead of his own love (we could argue that Timon gives love as well—perhaps even his “love language” is gift-giving—but he at least gives gifts before and in excess of other forms of loving and becoming familiar with people), he merely encourages the Athenian lords to love his gold and not his person.

A cartoonist’s portrayal of Flavius giving to the other servants (click to go to the rest of play)

Shakespeare emphasizes this erroneous mode of thinking with other instances of gift-giving. When others in the play give money away, they do it in a quite different manner. After Timon has fled in disgrace and disillusionment, Flavius splits his remaining cash with the other servants (IV.ii). It is clear, though, that there is a sense of brotherhood between them. Flavius calls them his “fellows” (3, 25) and assures them that they are “All broken implements of a ruined house” (16, emphasis added). His giving flows naturally out of an existing relationship of sympathy, mutual respect, and affection. Alcibiades, too, follows this pattern. When he meets the newly cynical Timon in the woods outside Athens, he first shows respect and concern for his friend: “Noble Timon, what friendship may I do thee?” (VI.iii.70). Timon, of course, is at this point a cur to everyone, but Alcibiades still wants to help. He acquiesces when Timon says he’d rather be alone and offers him gold (VI.iii.97-99). It turns out that the captain is one of Timon’s only true friends, perhaps because he, being a soldier, has not had as much chance to attend the lavish banquets or simply is more appreciative of the kindness and human connection his interactions with Timon have afforded. In any case, though Timon is now past the point where he can appreciate or respond to these truly loving gifts, the two men have the proper order mastered.

But Timon never really gets it. In the second half of the play, when Timon has lost his illusions about what money can do, he sees the citizens of his city for what they really are: even the “honoured” old men are “usurer[s]” (IV.iii.111-112). This discovery helps him little, though, as we watch him move to the other extreme in his attitudes towards money and friendship. Before he has equated gold with friendship (and both are good); now he dissociates gold with friendship (and both are bad). (Remember Apemantus’s comment that Timon has never known the “middle of humanity,” only “the extremity of both ends,” IV.iii.300-301.) Isn’t it curious that when, while trying to find roots (a natural, living, reproducing thing) and instead stumbling upon gold, Timon chooses to throw it at people? He could easily use his new treasure to start over elsewhere and form relationships the healthy way, but he is so addicted to the sterility of his life up to this point that he cannot imagine relating to either money or people in a new, fertile way.

Alcibiades, on the other hand, has known about Athens and its usury for some time, and this may provide a clue as to how he fits into the play, a question with which we struggled. He twice accuses the senators of usury when he goes to plead for his friend (III.vi). When we see him next, he appears to be planning to undertake the other kind of usury with Phrynia and Timandra. Despite the medieval stigma, I suspect that Shakespeare uses these two women to redeem the rest of the plot. Although they “use” their bodies in unnatural ways in society’s eyes, they also have the ability to bear children and offer hope for the next generation of characters (as far as we know, they’re the only ones who can do so). Alcibiades takes them along in his campaign but (not that I doubt his intentions with them) seems quite emotionally distant from them. Perhaps after the curtain closes, these women will help in reversing the sterilizing effects that usury has had on the city.

I don’t add this addendum to my posts often, but the themes in Timon of Athens, like in so many of Shakespeare’s plays, are also lessons and warnings to us. The trials and fate of Timon caution us to be careful about how we view and use money and other material possessions as well as how we build relationships and structure our lives overall. Alcibiades appears to soften after reading the very bitter epitaph that Timon has written for himself—our group isn’t sure, but we think that he may be offering clemency to all of Athens in the last few lines—and in that he demonstrates a determination not to let the past repeat itself. Let this also prepare or even warn us not to put stock in the dead things of the world and instead to cultivate life.

No discussion is complete without internet-formatted inspirational quotes, right?

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“Sad Stories of the Deaths of Kings”: End of an Era, Beginning of a Saga

If we as a group have one regret about our journey through all of Shakespeare’s plays, it’s probably this: we all wish we had read the two history tetralogies in order.  Instead, we read Henry IV, Parts 1 and 2; Henry VIII; King John; Richard III; Henry VI, Parts 1, 2, and 3; and now, as our last history play, we are going back to the beginning.  What started this whole saga of murders and depositions, of politics and privilege, of war and peace? Richard II.

For heaven’s sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings:
How some have been deposed, some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;
Some poison’d by their wives, some sleeping killed;
All murdered.

– Richard II, Act III, Scene 2

I now understand why this play is a favorite of many of my theater friends, and why so many famous actors (and one actress) have taken on the challenging role of Richard, including Kevin Spacey, Fiona Shaw, Ben Whishaw, Eddy Redmayne, and David Tennant.  Richard is a fascinating character, and the story is quite an intriguing political thriller.  I say “intriguing” because there was a large portion of the play where I was asking myself, “What is really going on?”

Why does Richard seem to so easily give up his title?  IsBullingbrook even after the crown?  Are his followers?  How is all of this even happening?

My confusion came to a climax in Act III, Scene 4, when Bullingbrook charges his men to “show fair duty to his majesty” and bow to King Richard.  Bullingbrook reiterates his desire only to reclaim his lands and title. Richard, however, replies with an infinitely more generous offer:

Cousin, I am too young to be thy father,
Though you are old enough to be my heir.
What you will have, I’ll give, and willing too,
For do we must what force will have us do.

I really needed my girls’ help to work through what was happening here.  Why in the world is Richard giving up his throne (though acting like he’s being forced to) when all Bullingbrook wants is his family title?  For Richard, however, Bullingbrook’s request to return to England and claim his rightful title defies more than his banishment; it defies a royal decree.

If one man, who was banished by the king, can march right back into England, gather followers, execute courtiers, and demand his family title, then what power does the king have?  If his rule can be questioned at all, how can he be a king?  For Richard, it is all or nothing.  Is he really a king if he can be forced to do something against his will?

Eddie Redmayne as Richard II at the Donmar Warehouse in 2011

And if he is not the king, who and what is he?  This challenge usurps not only his power, but his very identity.  He realizes, “I have no name, no title … And know not now what name to call myself” (Act 4, Scene 1).  For Richard, the actions of Bullingbrook and his followers strip him of his entire identity, all he has ever known, all he has ever been, and all he had ever seen himself being.  This identity crisis, carried out quite poetically, gives Richard some beautiful clarity just before the end.

It is no wonder he has an identity crisis throughout his deposition.  He is first and foremost thoroughly confused by the idea that anyone would try to usurp him.  He doesn’t know any different.  It’s child-star syndrome.  Richard has been king from a very young age, and up to this point he has never had to fight for his crown; rather, he takes for granted that it is his birthright and divine right.  We drew many comparisons between Richard II and Henry VI, who also is king from a very young age.  Henry VI is also confused by the war that erupts to take his crown.  He has not known his father and grandfather and has not had the privilege of learning how to be a king from them or the precariousness of his situation.

At this time it was also thought that the king of England ruled by divine right, and Richard firmly believes this about himself.  He fully expects God to smite his enemies, and when no pestilence comes, he is left questioning for the first time his own divine right to rule:

David Tennant as Richard II with the Royal Shakespeare Company in 2013

The breath of worldly men cannot depose
The deputy elected by the Lord.
For every man that Bullingbrook hath pressed
To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown,
Heaven for his Richard hath in heavenly pay
A glorious angel.  Then, if angels fight,
Weak men must fall, for heaven still guards the right.

– Richard II, Act III, Scene 2

Richard’s fall marks a very significant change of mindset, a growing consciousness that kings have to have the support of nobles and the common people in order to rule, and kings are not given power by a divine right.  It is the end of an era, but the beginning of a saga.

Ironically, Bullingbrook believes in the divine right of kings.  He is a religious man, a trait we will see more of in Henry IV, Parts 1 and 2, and he feels guilty for Richard’s demise for the rest of his life. In fact, Henry IV believes God is punishing him for his behavior towards Richard.

This guilt is not all Bullingbrook will wrestle with during his rule.  From the instant he becomes king, he has peers plotting against him and cries, “Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear?” (Act V, Scene 4). He has to fight for his crown from the first instant and feels the heavy burden that comes with power and majesty.  As he will later reflect in Henry IV, Part 2, “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown” (Act III, Scene 1).

And thus the saga begins … From the instant he becomes King, Henry IV will wrestle with guilt and conspiracy.  His son, Hal, will watch his father deteriorate under the weight of the crown and rebellion and will resist his princely duty before finally realizing his place and becoming the greatest monarch England has ever known: Henry V.  After a tragically early death, Henry VI will become a child king.  Too young to truly understand the precarious situation of a king, and unable to know and learn from his father or grandfather’s experience, Henry VI will undo much of his father’s work.   A series of dastardly murders will eventually see King Richard III on the throne, who will be defeated by the scarcely mentioned Henry VII, before one of the most famous English monarchs emerges: Henry VIII.  Six wives later, the crown would pass to Shakespeare’s very own benefactress, Queen Elizabeth I.

For heaven’s sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings…

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Kinsmen Walk the Line

What do you get when you mix A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Hamlet, and Two Gentlemen of Verona? An awkwardly comedic tragedy, often called a romance, The Two Noble Kinsmen.

Brian Sgambati, Dan Snook and Graham Hamilton, with Karen Zippler (front) in The Old Globe’s 2004 Shakespeare Festival production, directed by Darko Tresnjak, in the Lowell Davies Festival Theatre. Photo by Craig Schwartz.

Going into this play, all I knew was that this was a romance of doubtful origin. After studying the play, I have no doubts that Shakespeare coauthored this play. We all agreed that some passages just felt like our Bard. Other clunkier passages and less developed characters we could easily see as another’s invention. But honestly, this matters to me only in that it validates our discussion. We are The Bard’s Book Club, after all, not The Elizabethan/Jacobean Drama Book Club.

Ironically, I now have more doubts that this play is a romance than I do about its authorship. Unfamiliar with the plot (I read “The Knight’s Tale” in college, but I couldn’t remember it), I spent most of the play thinking, “Okay, it’s a romance. That means it’ll be like Cymbeline and Pericles and A Winter’s Tale with their grand voyages, adventure, love, and mostly happy endings. Cue the Disney music.” Yeah, I was wrong.

At first I simply recalled Midsummer. We have the Duke and his bride, a group of peasants to entertain them, a love quadrilateral, the May Day celebrations. If you were very creative, you may be able to merge the two plays into one large production (in fact, Katy hopes to do this someday). It would be a major feat, to say the least, but a good director just may pull it off.

Yet we know from the beginning that this isn’t the merry forest tale. In lieu of fairies, we have mourners come to beg the king for help. No Puck confuses and straightens love, and no spells make things better. This is the darker side of Athens.

And with darkness comes madness. Like Hamlet‘s Ophelia, the Jailer’s Daughter is left to madness by her would-be lover. She even narrowly avoids a similar drowning scene, complete with flowers. Yet that’s the point—it’s avoided. She will end happily with a man who loves her, even if all signs pointed to an unhappy demise. We are not reading a full-fledged tragedy, even if this play balances on the brink of one.

Yet, like in Two Gentlemen of Verona, romance and tragedy take the backseat to friendship and broken faith. Unlike the gents, however, the kinsmen are less noticeably opposed. They always seem to truly care about each other, even when arming each other to fight for the same woman. There’s a distinct lack of animosity, and even a lack of difference in character. We can’t easily cheer for Team Palamon and Team Arcite because they’re so similar (though I was more of an Arcite fan). Unless you take issue with pursuing a girl your buddy saw first, neither really do anything that bad. While Proteus was a sort of villain in Two Gentlemen, Palamon and Arcite are equally heroic. As Emilia says when trying to decide between them,

“. . . What a mere child is fancy
That having two fair gauds of equal sweetness,
Cannot distinguish, but must cry for both!”
–IV.ii.52-54

There has to be a difference between the kinsmen, right? And I believe there is a difference, albeit subtle. When Palamon and Arcite pray to the gods, they each choose their own sponsor. Arcite chooses Mars, the god of war. He summons strength and courage with imagery such as “hearts of lions” and “breath of tigers,” and he’s met with the sound of battle. Palamon, however, prays to Venus, the goddess of love and beauty. He tells tales of conquering love, and he’s met with music and doves. Now consider their different experiences in light of Arcite’s line to Palamon when they first see Emilia:

“I will not, as you do, to worship her
As she is heavenly and a blessed goddess.
I love her as a woman, to enjoy her.”
–II.ii.163-135

Arcite is more concerned with the carnal side of love, the earthly. I don’t believe it’s merely an offensive, sexual desire for a woman; rather, I believe Arcite exemplifies the masculine and strong side of love. Emilia is attracted to him just as much as she is to Palamon, and he does win her through his strength (in a way) through the wrestling match, and also in the final contest. He’s also slightly more prone to anger, as he is the first one in the original fight to switch to the passionate thees and thous. He’s the human side of love, and he’s not inherently wrong.

Palamon, on the other hand, signifies the more heavenly, ethereal side of love. He doesn’t just love Emilia like a man loves a woman; he worships her. It’s little wonder that he wins Emilia because the gods directly intervene and spook Arcite’s horse (V.iv.61-65, 104-105). He exemplifies the otherworldly, romantic side of love.

Shakespeare’s romances generally end with reunions and found love. Although darkened by tragic elements, the ending is usually comedic. So, if Palamon is a symbol of romantic love, and he’s the one who, in comedic fashion, marries the girl in the end, does The Two Noble Kinsmen ultimately cross the line into the realm of the romance? I don’t think it does. The play’s ending is still balancing between tragedy and comedy, death and marriage coexisting. Palamon and Arcite both win Emilia, even if only for a short moment, and the happy reunion is marked by grief. Palamon’s courage and strength as well as Arcite’s romance and tenderness both enjoy a victory, suggesting that the truer love wasn’t so clear.

Perhaps this play never did choose a side. As Theseus declares in V.iv.105-109,

“The powerful Venus well hath graced her altar,
And given you your love. Our master, Mars,
Hath vouched his oracle, and to Arcite gave
The grace of the contention. So the deities
Have showed due justice.”

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