Boris and the bard: what johnson could learn from shakespeare | thearticle

The big event in the Prime Minister’s week had nothing to do with parties, wallpaper or pandemics. His wife, Carrie, gave birth to their second child, a baby girl. Boris Johnson is now

officially on paternity leave. This may give him a breather in which to take stock and advice. To whom should he turn?   As usual, Shakespeare has _le mot juste _for his present predicament.

“When troubles come,” Claudius says in _Hamlet, _Act IV,”_ _they come not single spies but in battalions.” Boris may perforce have put his biography of the Bard on the back-burner, but he

knows the works as well as any politician. This weekend, if he gets a quiet moment in between the red boxes and phone calls, while looking after little Wilfred or attending to Carrie and her

newborn, the man in whom the country placed its trust just two years ago might do worse than to reread this most political of playwrights, as prophylaxis against the plots that are now

proliferating. He may have need of such forewarning in the coming weeks and months. Take, for example, _Richard II. _This was the play that in 1593 almost got its author hanged, drawn and

quartered for sedition. As Robert Devereux, the Earl of Essex, mounted his attempted coup against Elizabeth I, one of his co-conspirators ordered Shakespeare’s company, the Lord

Chamberlain’s men, to stage a special performance of _Richard II _as a signal for the uprising. Shakespeare’s Bolingbroke is a far subtler regicide than the real rebel who sought to emulate

him. So inept was Essex, indeed, that within two years he went from being the Queen’s favourite, via his calamitous campaign in Ireland, to reckless rebellion and finally to an ignominious

end upon the scaffold. Bolingbroke, by contrast, never states openly his ambition to overthrow Richard II; he merely denounces the corruption at court and lets others do the dirty work.

Having contrived to force Richard to acquiesce in his own abdication, the usurper proceeds to have the deposed monarch done away with — but, crucially, the deed must be deniable.

Bolingbroke, now Henry IV, lets it be known that he longs to be rid of the threat posed by the incarcerated prisoner at Pomfret Castle, repeatedly asking in front of witnesses: “Have I no

friend will rid me of this living fear?” Sir Pierce of Exton takes the hint and murders Richard, but is then disowned and banished by Henry. Ironically, the most memorable passages in this

disturbing play are those that celebrate monarchy and, of course, England — “this royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle”. _Richard II_ is the first of a tetralogy of Shakespearean

history plays, continuing with the two parts of _Henry IV_ and _Henry V — _chronologically the first of the sequence of eight plays that ends with _Richard III, _although the latter was

probably written several years before _Richard II. _Shakespeare’s understanding of politics evolved over the 1590s and when we compare his portraits of the two usurpers, Henry Bolingbroke is

a far more complex character than the caricature villain Richard, Duke of Gloucester. In real life, the rivals who undermine and finally oust the dominant ruler do not usually advertise the

fact and are quick to disclaim responsibility for the act of treason.__   For Boris in his hour of need, the question is: who would play the part of Bolingbroke in any plot to overthrow his

leadership? He himself has played that part more than once: first by taking the helm of the Brexit campaign and thereby destroying David Cameron — though his bid for the succession was

botched. Two years later he fatally weakened Theresa May’s premiership by resigning as Foreign Secretary, thereby making himself her chief rival and heir apparent. Now Boris himself is

threatened, with a major backbench rebellion likely next week over vaccine passports, a possible by-election _débacle _and rumours of a vote of no confidence in the New Year. How can he

deflect or defuse such challenges to his authority?  Here again, Shakespeare is the best guide. The ancient _topos _of hubris followed by nemesis is ubiquitous in his dramas, both histories

and tragedies. But the one that perhaps bears the closest resemblance to Boris Johnson’s story is _Antony and Cleopatra_. Some will question the comparison with a man who, as he dies, still

implores his lover to remember him as “the greatest prince o’ the world, the noblest”. How can one appeal to the better nature of a man who, in their eyes, possesses no virtues at all — who

is, as his former lieutenant Dominic Cummings claims, a “shopping trolley smashing from one side of the aisle to the other”? When I suggested in this column a few days ago that in order to

survive “Partygate” the Prime Minister should apologise, instigate an inquiry and above all tell the truth, he actually did all these things. But this was not what struck some readers,

including some of great eminence. What they objected to were the words “as a man of honour — which he is — Boris Johnson…” I stand by those words. For all his flaws, this Prime Minister has

a highly developed sense of honour. He has stood by friends and colleagues in adversity — not least Cummings himself — when it was hardly in his interest to do so. He has resigned on

principle, taken on the British Establishment and the European Union, made bold decisions against the conventional wisdom but also defied his party base and even his former employer, the

_Daily Telegraph_, when he judged it necessary. Yes, he has been an execrable office manager, as the endless washing of Downing Street’s dirty linen in public demonstrates, but delegating

too much rather than too little is a fault pardonable in a Prime Minister. In the battles that matter most to the electorate, he has shown leadership and even courage. As the accusations

multiply under the media’s magnifying glass, it is easy to forget what has been accomplished: we have survived the worst domestic crisis in most of our lifetimes with an economy that is

growing more robustly than most of our neighbours’. Britain remains, as Liz Truss put it this week, “the greatest country on earth” — and under this Government, ministers are not afraid to

say so. Anyone who doubts it should ask the millions who long to live here. If Boris Johnson is to be blamed for everything that has caused discontent, he must also be credited with a

magnanimity, a grandeur and, yes, a charisma that all other contemporary politicians now strutting on the world stage lack. So the comparison with Mark Antony is not entirely far-fetched —

but that play is, of course, a tragedy, the tragedy of two extraordinary individuals who lose the world for love. If he is an Antony, is Carrie a Cleopatra? The day may come when she

laments: “The soldier’s pole is fall’n; young boys and girls are level now with men; the odds is gone, and there is nothing left remarkable beneath the visiting moon.” If Boris and Carrie

are to avoid the fate of Antony and Cleopatra, they will perceive the present peril and spend at least some of their precious postnatal time together preparing to fight back against their

enemies. The country will forgive a great deal in a leader as long as they still like him. Boris was never so popular as when he lay in hospital, suffering along with the rest. He needs to

rediscover the stoicism that has sustained him in the past and cheerfully endure the seemingly overwhelming slings and arrows. As Antony says, comforting Cleopatra in distress: “Fortune

knows we scorn her most when most she offers blows.”