Skip to main content

The Monarchical Revolution



The second of Barzun's four revolutions was that of and on behalf of the monarchs.

Or, more strictly, it was of and on behalf of kings and queens, and it is the way in which they made themselves into monarchs properly speaking. Monarchs in the strict sense are monocrats, the only rulers of their realms. Anyone else who exercises authority in a realm is doing so as the agent of the monocrat, or is in rebellion.

That was not true of kings in medieval times. Indeed, King Louis XIV, in a memoir, complains that it still wasn't true enough in his own day. He said that every provincial gentleman feels free to "act the tyrant toward his peasants," and that rather than a single ruler, the people "have a thousand."

If that same King also said, "I am the state," (Barzun doubts it, but the legend is tenacious) he meant it in a rather different sense from the way in which it is usually quoted. It was an aspiration. One could paraphrase it this way: "I aim to be the state, a situation that requires me to contend against those thousand tyrants, because it is best not for me but for France as such."

This was a rather new idea. But that, you will remember, is implicit when Barzun counts it as a revolution. A revolution is a violent shift in power and property in the name of an idea. The new idea of this revolution was the unity and autonomy of the nation state, which was embodied in (came to be seen as the second body of) the King.

Barzun is fascinating on this subject. He is decidedly not an anarcho-capitalist, or any sort of anarchist (or a libertarian) -- but his discussion of the rise of the Nation-State as an idea and for that matter an ideal fits well into my own skeptical views of what I consider the destructive and unnecesary myth of sovereignty.

The monarchical revolution is at the heart of Barzun's sometimes idiosyncratic reading of the works of William Shakespeare. The most common readings of Hamlet, for example, focus on the psychology of the prince. We are sometimes told that the tragic result came about because Hamlet was indecisive.

Barzun sees that as entirely misguided. The play was not really about Hamlet, or not about his "first body." It was about his "second body" as a legitimate monarch. It was, then, about Denmark. Hamlet's soliloquies "show him superior to his barbaric times," Barzun says. A believer in the divine right of Kings would expect that the inheritor of that right would be in a sense superior to those around him, even if he has been cheated of the exercise of that right. Further, the action doesn't show him to be at all indecisive. He was decisive enough to dispense efficiently with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Indeed, Barzun quotes Fortinbras' praise for Hamlet as the play ends. Fortinbras has just conquered Denmark. The country has lost its independence because it had too many kings, and thus no true monarch. And the conqueror thinks that ... well, ... tragic.

But let us leave Denmark. Shakespeare of course wrote several plays about the history of the British isles, among them plays that vividly describe the chaos of the War of the Roses, culminating in that of the reign of Richard III. The essence of these plays is: Thank God the Tudor family has rescued us from all this, by being the true Monarchs they are!

I was expounding this aspect of Barzun's views a bit at our meeting in San Antonio this weekend. Another participant said, quite perceptively: "That sounds like propaganda."

..................

That is it in a nutshell. Much of Shakespeare (as Barzun reads him, and I concur) is pro-Tudor propaganda, not because Elizabeth was patronizing the Globe theatre, but more likely because Shakespeare was a genuine believer in this revolution of which her grandfather Henry VII had been the forward edge.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A Story About Coleridge

This is a quote from a memoir by Dorothy Wordsworth, reflecting on a trip she took with two famous poets, her brother, William Wordsworth, and their similarly gifted companion, Samuel Taylor Coleridge.   We sat upon a bench, placed for the sake of one of these views, whence we looked down upon the waterfall, and over the open country ... A lady and gentleman, more expeditious tourists than ourselves, came to the spot; they left us at the seat, and we found them again at another station above the Falls. Coleridge, who is always good-natured enough to enter into conversation with anybody whom he meets in his way, began to talk with the gentleman, who observed that it was a majestic waterfall. Coleridge was delighted with the accuracy of the epithet, particularly as he had been settling in his own mind the precise meaning of the words grand, majestic, sublime, etc., and had discussed the subject with William at some length the day before. “Yes, sir,” says Coleridge, “it is a majesti

Searle: The Chinese Room

John Searle has become the object of accusations of improper conduct. These accusations even have some people in the world of academic philosophy saying that instructors in that world should try to avoid teaching Searle's views. That is an odd contention, and has given rise to heated exchanges in certain corners of the blogosphere.  At Leiter Reports, I encountered a comment from someone describing himself as "grad student drop out." GSDO said: " This is a side question (and not at all an attempt to answer the question BL posed): How important is John Searle's work? Are people still working on speech act theory or is that just another dead end in the history of 20th century philosophy? My impression is that his reputation is somewhat inflated from all of his speaking engagements and NYRoB reviews. The Chinese room argument is a classic, but is there much more to his work than that?" I took it upon myself to answer that on LR. But here I'll tak

Five Lessons from the Allegory of the Cave

  Please correct me if there are others. But it seems to be there are five lessons the reader is meant to draw from the story about the cave.   First, Plato  is working to devalue what we would call empiricism. He is saying that keeping track of the shadows on the cave wall, trying to make sense of what you see there, will NOT get you to wisdom. Second, Plato is contending that reality comes in levels. The shadows on the wall are illusions. The solid objects being passed around behind my back are more real than their shadows are. BUT … the world outside the the cave is more real than that — and the sun by which that world is illuminated is the top of the hierarchy. So there isn’t a binary choice of real/unreal. There are levels. Third, he equates realness with knowability.  I  only have opinions about the shadows. Could I turn around, I could have at least the glimmerings of knowledge. Could I get outside the cave, I would really Know. Fourth, the parable assigns a task to philosophers