Elective Monarchy

Hamlet by William Shakespeare

Library Theatre, Manchester, 1996

In modern English terms, Hamlet is the rightful heir to the throne of Denmark and Claudius is a usurper. In the 16th century, however, the throne was far too important a post to be left to the lottery of primogeniture. At the time Hamlet was written, Denmark was an elective monarchy, and although the Prince might well be disappointed at not succeeding to the throne, he could not have expected it as a matter of course even though he was King Hamlet’s son. Brothers could succeed brothers if there was good reason for it, though the fact that Claudius has secured the throne for himself indicates that a good deal of politicking must have gone on behind the scenes to ensure he secured the vote of the Privy Council at a time of potential crisis for the country. Although the Prince would have had greater claim than his uncle, when compared to Hamlet, Claudius is the elder statesman and the better man for the job. Claudius names Hamlet as his own heir in act one, scene two, but Hamlet’s reaction of aggrieved disgust reflects his conviction that he should already be sitting where King Claudius is now.

Shakespeare makes no effort to present the royal court of Denmark and its procedures as any different to those his audience was familiar with: indeed, James I, who came to the throne in 1603 on the death of Elizabeth I, was in effect an ‘elected’ monarch, chosen by the Privy Council and only given royal – if reluctant – sanction by the Queen’s ‘dying voice’. Similarly Hamlet, in his few moments as king at the end of the paly, votes with his dying voice for Fortinbras to succeed him.

PS

Every now and then, one reined oneself in and just wrote merely a pageful. In this instance the picture of James I took up at least as much room as the text, and there is even another cameo in the bottom right-hand corner of someone who an unsuspecting reader may be forgiven for thinking is meant to be Elizabeth I, as there is no caption to indicate otherwise. The problem is, it doesn’t look much like the contemporary stock three-quarter pose with impossible finery that had become standard early on in the queen’s reign. Indeed, it is a profile, with the sitter facing disconcertingly to the right, which is unusual enough in itself, but also shows up an unflattering droop of snout. And there is a motto scrawled down the right of the lozenge: Seruo per regnare which, if it means anything at all, is probably meant to represent the Latin phrase Servire est regnare, ‘to serve is to reign’.

So there is a mystery here. To my untutored eye the whole thing looks rather more 17th century than sixteenth, as the fashion of what clothing can be seen appears to resemble more something you might find in an illustrated biography of Jonathan Swift or Alexander Pope. But at the time, I daresay, the clock was ticking and we had to get the programme out the door and off to the theatre, so there she went, poor, unattributed figure, no doubt to baffle as many audience members as she intrigued.

Only now, as I prepare these pages, do I have the leisure and the internet means to solve the mystery. It is, in fact, a portrait of James’s wife Anne of Denmark, executed by Isaac Oliver around 1610. Of course it was. I know nothing about Isaac Oliver. On the other hand, if it had been by Nicholas Hilliard, the only other Elizabethan miniaturist I’ve ever heard of, I might have been in with a shout…