SOURCE: Boklund, Gunnar. “The Troublesome Ending of King John.” Studia Neophilologica 40, no. 1 (1968): 175-84.

[In the following essay, Boklund observes the elusiveness of a “happy ending” in King John and notes that the play's ambiguous conclusion dramatizes the uneasy compromise between Christian moral principle and corrupted political self-interest.]

To judge from the critical attention that has been devoted to King John since the publication of Tillyard's and Lily B. Campbell's books on Shakespeare's history plays, it is now taken much more seriously than previously, although nothing like critical unanimity about it has so far been reached. Three of the writers who hold very high opinions of King John interpret the emphasis of the play quite differently: Adrien Bonjour, being primarily concerned with dramatic structure, sees the significant pattern in the balance between John's disintegration and the Bastard's assumption of responsibility, James L. Calderwood views the action in terms of a conflict between honour and commodity, and William H. Matchett identifies the main theme as “who should be King of England”.¹ As a result of several investigations of the relationship between King John and The Troublesome Raigne, however, we have learned to realize how problematic Shakespeare's adherence to what has become known as Tudor orthodox thought may at times be: he chooses to stress John's questionable right to the crown, he makes him a politician rather than a warrior, he makes him not only vacillating but criminal.² With such a man responsible for the well-being of England and with the country threatened by a foreign foe, fighting in what is at least partly described as a righteous cause, the subject's loyalty to the King inevitably becomes an issue, and Shakespeare makes it crucial by placing the death of Prince Arthur at the centre of events; when he is found dead, the nobles led by Salisbury abandon John, while Hubert and Faulconbridge remain faithful to him.³ After creating such an unpromising situation, Shakespeare may, however, still manage to accomplish a satisfactorily patriotic ending. Haunted by remorse the lords soon return to their “ocean”, their “great King John”, who—for all his guilt—is not an inhuman tyrant like Richard III and consequently still the upholder of the divine order in England. When the King has expiated his crimes with suffering and a repentant death, it is quite in order that the good and faithful servant Faulconbridge, who has been shouldering the responsibility for the welfare of the country, should end the play on the familiar note:

This England never did, nor never shall,
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,
But when it first did help to wound itself.
Now these her princes are come home again,
Come the three corners of the world in arms,
And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue,
If England to itself do rest but true.

(V, vii, 112-18)⁴

According to this attractive and plausible interpretation, then, representatives of the contending factions within England gather around the new King Henry III, in order to defend law, order, and the country's right during the happier reign that will follow.⁵

There are, however, several important aspects of King John which cannot be brought into harmony with a reading along such lines. Never before has Shakespeare populated his stage with a group of as unattractive people as here; they may not all be villains and scoundrels, but with few exceptions they are so completely politicalminded that concepts of personal morality have no meaning to them.⁶ The hot-headed, ambitious, and bloodthirsty nobles who kill and mutilate each other in Henry VI are schoolboys compared to such professional politicians as the kings John and Philip, their willing pupil the Dauphin, and their teachers Queen Elinor and Cardinal Pandulph, and to this group may be added the vain braggart Austria and the crude materialist Robert Faulconbridge.⁷ All of them, from Faulconbridge to Pandulph, are put to the test, and all of them sooner or later reveal themselves as servants of commodity, a spirit to which John himself, King of England though he is, consistently pays homage in his deeds. Among these corrupt and unprincipled individuals, who are responsible for the fate of nations in King John, Shakespeare places a few human beings who have more than rudimentary concepts of good and evil: the Princess Blanch, Lady Constance and her son Arthur, the English nobles led by Salisbury, Hubert, and—most obviously—the Bastard Faulconbridge. The young people are used as contrast figures, as representatives of innocence in a cruel world, with Blanch stressing the honour of the marriage contract against all political considerations:

Now shall I see thy love. What motive may
Be stronger with thee than the name of wife?

(III, i, 313-14)⁸

Arthur is the symbol that is put to use in the most determined fashion, as if Shakespeare would not for a moment allow the audience to forget that it is with human lives that John, Philip, and Pandulph are playing their game:

Ah, none but in this iron age would do it!
The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,
Approaching near these eyes would drink my tears,
And quench his fiery indignation
Even in the matter of mine innocence;
Nay, after that, consume away in rust
But for containing fire to harm mine eye.
Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron?

(IV, i, 60-67)

Such innocence has proved too self-conscious to appeal consistently to modern taste, even though the laudable dramatic motive behind it is easy to recognize. In the same way Shakespeare allows Lady Constance's love for her son to find expressions that are too rhetorically studied for comfort, but some such expressions are necessary to illuminate how cynical the bargaining of the Kings is. The elemental fear and grief of the victims must stand out against the calculating self-interest of those who hurt them; their despair must move the heart-strings, not of the politicians who direct the action of King John, but of the audience who listens:

O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!
My widow-comfort, and my sorrow's cure!

(III, iv, 103-05)

When the contrast between the world of emotion and the world of calculation has worked, Constance and Arthur disappear from the play, but it is the boy's death which largely determines the actions of the people who acknowledge the existence of both worlds—politically conscious but not completely political men such as Salisbury, Hubert, and the Bastard. Although Salisbury and Pembroke have already expressed their disapproval of King John's double coronation, it is their concern for Arthur's well-being (IV, ii, 47-66) and their wrath at his reported death which they break with the King: “It is apparent foul-play; and 'tis shame / That greatness should so grossly offer it” (IV, ii, 93-94). The discovery of Arthur's body only confirms them in their opinion of the King's guilt, and their condemnation of the supposed murder is couched in such words as cannot but convince the audience of their sincerity:

                    … this is the bloodiest shame,
The wildest savagery, the vilest stroke,
That ever wall-eyed wrath or staring rage
Presented to the tears of soft remorse

(IV, iii, 47-50)

Their decision to renounce their allegiance to King John may have something to do with the “gentle offer of the perilous time” (IV, iii, 13) which they have received, but they are above all “stifled with this smell of sin” (IV, iii, 113), a sin so heinous that it turns the King into a tyrant, to whom they no longer owe loyalty.⁹ Their interpretation of Arthur's death is mistaken and their condemnation of John consequently legally untenable, but we are surely supposed to feel how profoundly responsible for what has happened the King is, that—as the dying Prince expresses it—“my uncle's spirit is in these stones” (IV, iii, 9).¹⁰ Not only Hubert, who knows the exact nature of his master's guilt, but also the Bastard, who must fear it is truly damnable, remain faithful to John, and the latter states his resolution in terms that ring with patriotic conviction when he exhorts the King:

Away, and glister like the god of war
When he intendeth to become the field;
Show boldness and aspiring confidence.
What, shall they seek the lion in his den,
And fright him there, and make him tremble there?

(V, i, 54-58)

When the seditious lords finally “untread the steps of damned flight” and decide henceforth to “run on in obedience” (V, iv, 52, 56), the political moral of their conduct would consequently seem obvious: whether or not the sovereign is guilty of ordering the murder of a child who is indeed with him in “double trust”, rebellion against him can never be justified.¹¹

But although the moral is obvious, it is not necessarily of central significance for our understanding of King John. For all Salisbury's “noble temper”, “great affections”, and “tempest of the soul”, so evident when he joins the French, Faulconbridge remains “that misbegotten devil” to him, until Melun reveals that the Dauphin is going to have him and his friends executed. It is undoubtedly more the fear to “miscarry” than true repentance that drives the lords back to the English fold, conveniently represented by Prince Henry, at whose intercession they are reported to be pardoned (V, vi, 33-36) and before whom their only reference to the past is contained in a promise for the future:

And the like tender of our love we make,
To rest without a spot for evermore

(V, vii, 106-07)

This is no way for a dramatist to teach the pertinent lessons of rebellion, and a similarly unsatisfactory treatment is accorded Hubert, the epitome of loyalty to a bad king. Not once is he allowed to make a case for this loyalty of his or sound off in patriotic indignation, but his very protestations of innocence must sound hollow to an audience who knows better:

If I in act, consent, or sin of thought,
Be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath
Which was embounded in this beauteous clay,
Let hell want pains enough to torture me!

(IV, iii, 134-37)

Public action is strangely private in King John, and there are no safe guide-posts to follow in determining what is right and what is wrong. What Shakespeare is attempting to demonstrate with the frequently confusing action after Arthur's death is, I would say, how fidelity and loyalty, honour and morality are gradually destroyed under a rule of commodity such as John's, how even the best may “lack all conviction” and go astray. It is with the insecure foundations of national harmony and national success that the “troublesome ending of King John” is ultimately concerned.

This interpretation may seem difficult to reconcile with the role that the Bastard plays. Many critics see in him the real hero of King John, and in one important respect at least their reading is justified.¹² Much of the action in the play is performed under Faulconbridge's eyes and furthers his education; he is in a position where he can learn from experience and change his conduct accordingly, so that he will be able to direct and rule when his time comes. It is a drastic education that he gets, this crude and naive, but sincere and honest country gentleman, when without preparation he is confronted with the customs and rules of society and politics.¹³ The key to the Bastard's speeches in the first act is surely that, since he has been found “perfect Richard”, he will try to live up to this image, “not alone in habit and device” (I, i, 210) but by making a name for himself in the world. He long remains uncertain about how to accomplish his rising, now deciding to learn the means to deceive, “to deliver / Sweet, sweet, sweet poison for the age's tooth” (I, i, 212-13), now behaving in what he obviously considers the best manner of the knight errant who was his father by interrupting kings and goading Austria to a fight. The public rebuke that he receives for this (II, i, 150) does not make him change his mind, and he greets both the battle and the prospect of its renewal with the true knight's glee, without any consideration of the issues involved or the losses to follow:

Cry ‘havoc!’ kings; back to the stained field,
You equal potents, fiery kindled spirits!
Then let confusion of one part confirm
The other's peace. Till then, blows, blood, and death!

(II, i, 357-60)

When this inspiring exhortation falls on deaf ears, he changes his tune and delivers “sweet poison” instead by asking the Kings to join forces in order to reduce Angiers, a “wild counsel” which he proudly proclaims “smacks … something of the policy” (II, i, 395-96) and which both Philip and John accept, conveniently disregarding its quixotic sequel immediately to take up arms against each other after the destruction of the city, to determine whom Fortune “shall give the day, / And kiss him with a glorious victory”. This politic conduct of the Kings, together with their shameless bargaining with the future of Blanch and several French provinces, renders it possible for the Bastard to identify the principle that makes the “mad world” go round:

… that same purpose-changer, that sly devil,
That broker that still breaks the pate of faith,
That daily break-vow, he that wins of all,
Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids,
Who having no external thing to lose
But the word ‘maid’, cheats the poor maid of that;
That smooth-fac'd gentleman, tickling commodity,
Commodity, the bias of the world—

(II, i, 567-74)

But although the Bastard has thus satisfactorily identified the innermost principle of public life and ends his harangue with the promise “Gain, be my lord, for I will worship thee”, I can see no convincing indication that he really throws ethical considerations to the winds and becomes the faithful servant of commodity.¹⁴ In the continued negotiations before Angiers he draws another rebuke for his goading of Austria (III, i, 134), but again to no avail: not until he has killed his father's old adversary does he desist from such undiplomatic conduct. His cheerful acceptance of the King's order to “shake the bags / Of hoarding abbots” has been taken to indicate his cynical subservience to the chief representative of commodity in England, but the enterprise is, as far as I can see, presented as a highly commendable one: since the King of England needs gold and silver, bell, book, and candle shall not drive his chosen emissary back. The incident is, however, referred to in passing only; not until Arthur is found dead does the Bastard question his motives of loyalty to John. The significant aspect of his reaction to this crucial event is surely that it does not differ in kind from that of Salisbury and his companions: to him as well as to them the question of loyalty hinges on the interpretation of the Prince's death. If it is murder it is “a damned and a bloody work; / The graceless action of a heavy hand” (IV, iii, 57-58), its perpetrator is “beyond the infinite and boundless reach / Of mercy” (117-18), and anyone who has but consented to it has only the suicide of the desperate in store for him (125-34), even, we must assume, if he happens to be King of England. Since Hubert never reveals the nature of his bargain with the King, it is the Bastard's hope that John may be innocent that, together with his patriotism, makes him remain loyal to him. By giving the King the benefit of the doubt, the question of his guilt is postponed until it is too late for the Bastard to do anything about it, except defend Hubert against what he considers a completely unwarranted accusation by the King (V, i, 42-43).¹⁵ Only by refusing to consider the implications of Arthur's death, by virtually pushing the whole incident out of his mind, is the Bastard able to rediscover the way which he has momentarily lost “among the thorns and dangers of this world” (IV, iii, 140-41). Without this compromise with commodity, which—we must admit—is played down by Shakespeare, it would surely have been impossible for Faulconbridge to carry John's burden of responsibility for him, which he does both effectively and quixotically even when everything appears lost. Although he has rejected commodity as a principle to guide his private life and condemned it on behalf of his country, even he has to strike a bargain with his conscience when the situation becomes too complex for him.

This interpretation of the Bastard's solution of his dilemma is in excellent harmony with the “troublesome ending of King John”, which has remained troublesome largely because of Shakespeare's drastic condensation of events in the last two acts. It is not Faulconbridge and his moral principles which ultimately save England. For all his patriotism he is not presented as a good general; his success against the French is very limited, and half his power is devoured by the sea in what seems a foolhardy attempt to cross the Lincoln washes. In spite of desperate English resistance, the thunder of the Catholic Church, and the loss of his supplies, the Dauphin stands victorious in England, raging at the very heels of the ill-assorted band of brothers who are willing to continue the fight. The lords, presumably still convinced of John's guilt, have returned in order to save their own skins, and although they may well be taken to represent the newly recovered national unity, neither this unity nor a righteous cause is made responsible for the rescue of England from the clutches of disaster, nor can I find any connection between King John's death and this “happy ending” that would indicate that divine providence is supposed to be at work.¹⁶ What saves England, at least from a desperate final battle, is instead the intervention of Cardinal Pandulph, the archpolitician, the representative of super-commodity, to whose disposing the whole “cause and quarrel” will finally be put, in order to “consummate this business happily” (V, vii, 95). To such events the peroration with which the Bastard ends the play forms a somewhat questionable conclusion: it expresses a hope, which the deeds we have witnessed must make us view with some sobriety. We may be justified in saying that in King John Shakespeare considers what we like to call Christian moral principles the only ethically satisfactory ones also for political action. But no assumption is made that these principles will have any significant influence on the course of history, whether in the world at large or in England. Without his compromise with commodity the Bastard could not have become politically effective, without the help of commodity England would hardly have been saved. Commodity rather than honour, be it ever so “experienced”, will remain the bias of the world.

Notes

1. See Adrien Bonjour, “The Road to Swinstead Abbey: A Study of the Sense and Structure of King John”, ELH., XVIII, December, 1951, pp. 253-74; James L. Calderwood, “Commodity and Honour in King John”, University of Toronto Quarterly, XXIX, April, 1960, pp. 341-56; William H. Matchett, “Richard's Divided Heritage in King John”, Essays in Criticism, XII, July, 1962, pp. 231-53.

2. For detailed comparisons between The Troublesome Raigne and King John see J. Dover Wilson (ed.), King John, Cambridge, 1954 (first ed. 1936), pp. xxxiv-xlvii; J. H. de Groot, The Shakespeares and “The Old Faith”, New York, 1947, pp. 180-223; E. A. J. Honigmann (ed.), King John, London and Cambridge, Mass., 1959 (first ed. 1954), pp. xi-xxxiii; Geoffrey Bullough (ed.), Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare, London and New York, IV, 1962, pp. 5-24.

3. For observations on the involved problems of right and wrong in King John see for instance Wilson, pp. lviii-lxi; E. M. W. Tillyard, Shakespeare's History Plays, New York, 1962 (first ed. 1944), pp. 252-58; Bonjour, pp. 259-61; M. M. Reese, The Cease of Majesty, New York, 1961, pp. 276-77.

4. My quotations are from The Complete Works (ed. Alexander), London and Glasgow, 1951.

5. This standard interpretation has been best expressed by Tillyard, pp. 250-61, and Irving Ribner, The English History Play in the Age of Shakespeare, Princeton, 1957, p. 125. For a slightly different summing up see Bonjour, pp. 270-72.

6. There are strong observations on this aspect of King John in Reese, pp. 280-81. Cf. also H. M. Richmond, Shakespeare's Political Plays, New York, 1967, pp. 103-04.

7. Most critics pass harsh verdicts on Pandulph—see for instance John Palmer, Political Characters of Shakespeare, London, 1945 (pp. 323, 331), and Reese (p. 272), but a notable defence of him occurs in de Groot (p. 216), and also in Richmond (pp. 104, 111).

8. Calderwood sees both Blanch and Arthur as representatives of “Honour in a world of Commodity” (p. 344).

9. The sincerity of the lords is particularly strongly stressed by Bonjour (p. 264) and Bullough (p. 21), while Calderwood (p. 344) condemns them as opportunists.

10. It would be tempting to interpret the significance of Arthur's death as a result of Shakespeare thinking in terms of Alfred Harbage's “practical justice” (see As They Liked It, New York, 1961, pp. 128-31), but the point is really never made in the play.

11. This conclusion is particularly forcefully expressed by Bonjour (p. 269), and Reese (pp. 276-77).

12. The best case for the heroic stature of the Bastard has been put by Bonjour (pp. 267-72); his interpretation should, however, be read together with the important reservations of Honigmann (pp. lxxi-lxxii). For a dismissal of the Bastard as protagonist see Lily B. Campbell, Shakespeare's “Histories”, San Marino, 1947, pp. 166-67, and Julia C. Van de Water, “The Bastard in King John”, ShQ [Shakespeare Quarterly], XI, Spring, 1960, pp. 144-46.

13. The conduct of the Bastard in Act I has disturbed several critics, notably Calderwood (p. 342), Van de Water (p. 139). Cf. also Richmond, (p. 104).

14. This interpretation of the Bastard's position has found its strongest expression in Tillyard (p. 261), and—with a political twist—in Reese (p. 285). For a more unfavourable reading see Calderwood (p. 351).

15. Matchett (p. 248) reads the Bastard's answer as “a direct insinuation of John's responsibility for murder”, which I find quite unwarranted. Nor does his discussion of the Bastard's suppressed desire to usurp the throne (pp. 251-52) strike me as well founded.

16. For a “providential” reading of the ending of King John see above all Calderwood (pp. 353-55). Cf. also Ribner (p. 125).