YORK How long shall I be patient? Ah, how long
Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong?
Not Gloucester’s death nor Hereford’s banishment,
Nor Gaunt’s rebukes nor England’s private wrongs,
Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke
About his marriage, nor my own disgrace,
Have ever made me sour my patient cheek
Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign’s face. (2.1.163-170)
At first glance it might seem that York is speaking aside, rather than to the other characters on stage, or indeed directly to the king, but in fact he does appear to be doing just that, or at least talking himself in to a moment of confrontation. How long shall I be patient—how long can I put up with this, and keep silent? How long shall tender duty, the duty of loyalty that I owe to my sovereign, the tenderness of familial affection and bonds that I feel for my nephew, outweigh the wrong that I am observing, experiencing, suffering? I’ve held my peace through all these things: the death, or rather murder, of Gloucester, my brother. The banishment of my nephew, Bolingbroke. (The multiplicity and mobility of names in the play—Hereford/Bolingbroke; Lancaster/Gaunt etc—is historically accurate, sometimes confusing and annoying, and also proleptically vital, because the relationship between names and titles and identities, and whether they are fixed and immutable or can change is going to become a, if not the central question of the play.) I kept quiet when you rebuked and insulted Gaunt (or, perhaps, I didn’t join in when Gaunt had a go at you). I didn’t intervene in the interests of England, our country and its people, when you caused them to suffer; I didn’t get involved when you stopped Bolingbroke marrying the woman he wanted to marry. (True historical fact: Bolingbroke tried to marry a cousin of the king of France, during his exile, and Richard refused to let him. Not mentioned at any other point in the play.) And even my own disgrace (it’s not clear what this might be: York mostly seems to have kept his nose clean, as it were; he might be referring to his shame at Richard’s conduct and his own failure to intervene, as he’s just been outlining)—even my own disgrace hasn’t caused me to sour my patient cheek, to allow my feelings (anger, resentment, shame, bitterness, reproach) to show in my expression, raise a grimace or a frown. And neither have I bent one wrinkle on my sovereign’s face: I haven’t made you frown either, caused you any distress or displeasure. (Or, possibly, I haven’t bent, directed, a frown at the king. To the last, York is careful, politic, allowing room for ambiguity and manoeuvre, even as he says he’s had enough and that he can no longer remain silent.)
