In the early 1590s, Shakespeare sat down to write a play that addressed a problem: How could a great country wind up being governed by a sociopath?
The problem was not England's, where a woman of exceptional intelligence and stamina had been on the throne for more than 30 years, but it had long preoccupied thoughtful people. Why, the Bible brooded, was the kingdom of Judah governed by a succession of disastrous kings? How could the greatest empire in the world, ancient Roman historians asked themselves, have fallen into the hands of a Caligula?
For his theatrical test case, Shakespeare chose an example closer to home: the brief, unhappy reign in 15th-century England of King Richard III. Richard, as Shakespeare conceived him, was inwardly tormented by insecurity and rage, the consequences of a miserable, unloved childhood and a twisted spine that made people recoil at the sight of him. Haunted by self-loathing and a sense of his own ugliness - he is repeatedly likened to a boar or rooting hog - he found refuge in a feeling of entitlement, blustering overconfidence, misogyny and a merciless penchant for bullying.
From this psychopathology, the play suggests, emerged the character's weird, obsessive determination to reach a goal that looked impossibly far off, a position for which he had no reasonable expectation, no proper qualification and absolutely no aptitude.
Richard III, which proved to be one of Shakespeare's first great hits, explores how this loathsome, perverse monster actually attained the English throne. As the play conceives it, Richard's villainy was readily apparent to everyone. There was no secret about his fathomless cynicism, cruelty and treacherousness, no glimpse of anything redeemable in him and no reason to believe he could govern the country effectively.
His success in obtaining the crown depended on a fatal conjunction of diverse but equally self-destructive responses from those around him. The play locates these responses in particular characters - Lady Anne, Lord Hastings, the Earl of Buckingham and so forth - but it also manages to suggest that these characters sketch a whole country's collective failure. Taken together, they itemise a nation of enablers.
First, there are those who trust that everything will continue in a normal way, that promises will be kept, alliances honoured and core institutions respected. Richard is so obviously and grotesquely unqualified for the supreme position of power that they dismiss him from their minds. Their focus is always on someone else, until it is too late. They do not realise quickly enough that what seemed impossible is actually happening. They have relied on a structure that proves unexpectedly fragile.
Second, there are those who cannot keep in focus that Richard is as bad as he seems to be. They see perfectly well that he has done this or that ghastly thing, but they have a strange penchant for forgetting, as if it were hard work to remember just how awful he is. They are drawn irresistibly to normalise what is not normal.
Third, there are those who feel frightened or impotent in the face of bullying and the menace of violence. "I'll make a corpse of him that disobeys," Richard threatens, and the opposition to his outrageous commands somehow shrivels away. It helps that he is an immensely wealthy and privileged man, accustomed to having his way, even when his way is in violation of every moral norm.
Fourth, there are those who convince themselves that they can take advantage of Richard's rise to power. They see perfectly well how destructive he is, but they are confident that they will stay safely ahead of the tide of evil or manage to seize some profit from it. These allies and followers help him ascend from step to step, collaborating in his dirty work and watching the casualties mount with cool indifference. They are, as Shakespeare imagines it, among the first to go under, once Richard has used them to obtain his end.
Fifth, and perhaps strangest of all, there are those who take vicarious pleasure in the release of pent-up aggression, in the black humour of it all, in the open speaking of the unspeakable. "Your eyes drop millstones when fools' eyes fall tears," Richard says to the murderers whom he has hired to kill his brother. "I like you, lads."
It is not necessary to look around to find people who embody this category of collaborators. They are we, the audience, charmed again and again by the villain's jaunty outrageousness, by his indifference to the ordinary norms of human decency, by the lies that seem to be effective even though no one believes them, by the seductive power of sheer ugliness. Something in us enjoys every minute of his horrible ascent to power.
Shakespeare brilliantly shows all of these types of enablers working together in the climactic scene of this ascent. The scene - anomalously enough in a society that was a hereditary monarchy but oddly timely for ourselves - is an election.
Unlike Macbeth (which introduced into the English language the word "assassination"), Richard III does not depict a violent seizure of power. Instead there is the soliciting of popular votes, complete with a fraudulent display of religious piety, the slandering of opponents and a grossly exaggerated threat to national security.
Why an election? Shakespeare evidently wanted to emphasise the element of consent in Richard's rise. He is not given a robust consent; only a municipal official and a few of the villain's carefully planted henchmen shout their vote: "God save Richard, England's royal king!"
But the others assembled in the crowd, whether from indifference or from fear or from the catastrophically mistaken belief that there is no real difference between Richard and the alternatives, are silent, "like dumb statues or breathing stones". Not speaking out - simply not voting - is enough to bring the monster to power.
Shakespeare's words have an uncanny ability to reach out beyond their original time and place and to speak directly to us. We have long looked to him, in times of perplexity and risk, for the most fundamental human truths.
So it is now. Do not think it cannot happen, and do not stay silent or waste your vote.
NYTIMES
- Stephen Greenblatt, a professor at Harvard, is the general editor of The Norton Shakespeare.
