In Wolf Hall, one of the main reasons that King Henry VIII wants to annul his marriage to Queen Katherine is because she hasn’t borne him a son—she has had multiple miscarriages and just one surviving daughter, and the king wants a wife who will give him an heir. The matter of the king’s heir drives the political tensions of the novel, and from this springboard, the novel delves into the relationships between fathers and their children. Thomas Cromwell’s relationships with children—his own and even other people’s—are filled with warmth and respect, and this is a striking way in which he is different from his contemporaries. For others in the novel, children simply represent the continuation of their family line or are a secret to be hidden when they are born out of wedlock. However, Cromwell values children, which points to his affection for humankind as a whole. In Mantel’s telling, an important way in which Cromwell establishes himself as being morally superior to his contemporaries (despite his devious machinations at court) is through his treatment of children and the broader human connections they represent. This aspect of Cromwell’s character hints at the broader idea that whether an individual treats other people (especially vulnerable ones like children) kindly can be a key indicator of that person’s underlying morality.
At the time of the novel’s events, children’s worth is usually closely tied to property and succession. While this principle drives most of the characters in the novel, Cromwell’s attitude towards children is an affectionate one and is removed from matters of money and property. Much of the story focuses on the fact that King Henry wants to separate from Queen Katherine because she hasn’t been able to give him a male heir. For the king, a child is simply a means to an end rather than an end in itself. Mantel shows no scenes of affection between the king and his children. Henry has some children born out of wedlock, like Mary Boleyn’s children, whom he doesn’t acknowledge. While most of the characters in the novel, like Henry, don’t acknowledge their illegitimate children and are unconcerned about them, Cromwell feels a sense of guilt about even imagining any children he might have fathered while he was a teenage soldier wandering around France, even though he doesn’t know of any. He thinks that this would be terrible because “the only honest thing to be done” is to “look after your children.”
Cromwell also takes care to be a kind father to his children, which makes his household a warm and safe haven. As a boy, Cromwell runs away from home after his father beats him and he runs into some Lowlanders, who are shocked at his bruises and comment that “the English are cruel to their children.” When young Cromwell hears this, he “is surprised” to think that “there [are] people in the world who are not cruel to their children,” and “the weight in his chest shifts” as he thinks that there must be better places in the world. When he has his own children, he tries to give them every happiness and encourages their individuality. His favorite is his daughter Anne, “a tough little girl” who “could eat a princess for breakfast,” and he treats his youngest, Grace, with great tenderness. When his son Gregory is born, Cromwell kisses the baby and tells him, “I shall be as tender to you as my father was not to me. For what’s the point of breeding children, if each generation does not improve on what went before?” To Cromwell, treating children well is a kind of shorthand for an overall better and more moral way of being.
Cromwell’s affection for his family is not limited to those who are related to him by blood, which shows that his idea about children’s worth are related to his fondness for humanity more generally. He treats his assistant, Rafe Sadler, and his nephews and nieces just as well as he treats his own children. They, too, love him like a father, with his nephew Richard even asking to take on his last name despite Cromwell being embroiled in a sticky political situation at the time. Cromwell jokingly tells him that anyone called “Cromwell” would soon want to change their name to something else, but Richard promises him that he will “never disown it,” showing the level of affection that he has for Cromwell.
After Cromwell rises in court and becomes Henry’s most trusted advisor, many gentlemen send their sons to his household so he can train them. Cromwell “takes it seriously, this trust placed in him,” and “talks to [the young men]” respectfully about their capabilities and beliefs. They are “astonished” and open up to Cromwell because “no one has talked to them before. Certainly not their fathers.” Cromwell seems very different from his contemporaries because he understands that human beings cannot be taught anything “by snubbing them and crushing their pride.” His respect for young people shows his generous and perceptive nature.
Cromwell’s attitude toward children and his loyalty to family in Wolf Hall elevate him beyond his peers. The value he places in human beings makes him a likable and sympathetic character despite his canny maneuverings at court. Through Cromwell, Mantel seems to be making the case that the way a person treats and views young people is a keen reflection of his or her broader moral character.
Children and Human Connection ThemeTracker
Children and Human Connection Quotes in Wolf Hall
“So now get up!” Walter is roaring down at him, working out where to kick him next. […] “What are you, an eel?” his parent asks. He trots backward, gathers pace and aims another kick.
It knocks the last breath out of him; he thinks it may be his last. His forehead returns to the ground; he lies waiting, for Walter to jump on him. The dog, Bella, is barking, shut away in an outhouse. “I’ll miss my dog,” he thinks. […]
Inch by inch. Inch by inch forward. Never mind if he calls you an eel or a worm or a snake. Head down, don’t provoke him.
Thomas Cromwell is now a little over forty years old. […] Various expressions are available to his face, and one is readable: an expression of stifled amusement. […] It is said he knows the entire New Testament in Latin, and so as a servant of the cardinal is apt—ready with a text if abbots flounder. His speech is low and rapid, his manner assured; he is at home in courtroom or waterfront, bishop’s palace or inn yard. He can draft a contract, train a falcon, draw a map, stop a street fight, furnish a house and fix a jury.
What he says about Gregory is, at least he isn’t like I was, when I was his age; and when people say, what were you like? he says, oh, I used to stick knives in people. Gregory would never do that; so he doesn’t mind—or minds less than people think—if he doesn’t really get to grips with declensions and conjugations. When people tell him what Gregory has failed to do, he says, “He’s busy growing.” He understands his need to sleep; he never got much sleep himself, with Walter stamping around, and after he ran away he was always on the ship or on the road, and then he found himself in an army.
Thomas More says that the imperial troops, for their enjoyment, are roasting live babies on spits. Oh, he would! Says Thomas Cromwell. Listen, soldiers don’t do that. They’re too busy carrying away everything they can turn into ready money.
Under his clothes, it is well known, More wears a jerkin of horsehair. He beats himself with a scourge, of the type used by some religious orders. What lodges in his mind, Thomas Cromwell’s, is that somebody makes these instruments of daily torture. […]
We don’t have to invite pain in, he thinks. It’s waiting for us: sooner rather than later. Ask the virgins of Rome.
He thinks, also, that people ought to be found better jobs.
“Why do people marry?”
[…]
“Most people,” he says, “feel it increases their happiness.”
“Oh, yes, that,” Anne says. “May I choose my husband?”
“Of course,” he says; meaning, up to a point.
“Then I choose Rafe.”
For a minute, for two minutes together, he feels his life might mend. Then he thinks, how could I ask Rafe to wait? He needs to set up his own household. Even five years from now, Anne would be a very young bride.
“I know,” she says. “And time goes by so slowly.”
It’s true; one always seems to be waiting for something.
“Look,” she says. She holds up her sleeves. The bright blue with which she has edged them, that kingfisher flash, is cut from the silk in which he wrapped her present of needlework patterns. How do matters stand now at Wolf Hall, he asks, as tactfully as he can: how do you ask after a family, in the wake of incest? She says in her clear little voice, “Sir John is very well. But then Sir John is always very well. […] Why don’t you make some business in Wiltshire and ride down to inspect us? Oh, and if the king gets a new wife, she will need matrons to attend her, and my sister Liz is coming to court. […] I would rather go up-country to the queen, myself. […]”
“If I were your father…no…” he rephrases it, “if I were to advise you, it would be to serve Lady Anne.”
It is magnificent. At the moment of impact, the king’s eyes are open, his body braced for the atteint; he takes the blow perfectly, its force absorbed by a body securely armored, moving in the right direction, moving at the right speed. His color does not alter. His voice does not shake.
“Healthy?” he says. “Then I thank God for his favor to us. As I thank you, my lords, for this comfortable intelligence.”
He thinks, Henry has been rehearsing. I suppose we all have.
[…]
The urge arises to put a hand on his shoulder, as one does for any inconsolable being. He resists it; simply folds his fingers, protectively, into the fist which holds the king’s heart. “One day we will make a great marriage for her.”