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The world of Shakespeare’s plays is Christian. To be sure, several of the plays are set in classical or other non-Christian locales. Yet even in these works, the characters seem to function with an understanding of Christian principles. At the same time, the tone of the plays, the combination of plot and dramatic tension, is essentially secular. Organized religion is usually peripheral to the stories, while religious issues per se are presented only in the context of other social and political themes. Thus comparatively few members of the clergy appear in the plays, and most who do are considerably less than holy. Indeed, whatever the depth of their religious feeling, their convictions are usually subordinate to their desire to participate in more earthly activities. Why should Shakespeare have presented clerics in such an unflattering light? Perhaps the answer is related to England’s break from the Catholic Church in Rome in 1533 over the matter of Henry VIII’s divorce. Whatever the reason, religious figures in Shakespeare’s plays generally devote themselves to matters worldly rather than spiritual. One of Shakespeare’s more daunting clerical figures is the Bishop of Carlisle from Richard II. Afierce proponent of the principle of the divine right of kings, Carlisle initially tries to bolster the spirits of the beseiged monarch, whose will is tottering under attack from troops led by Henry Bullingbrook: Fear not, my lord, that Power that made you king Hath power to keep you king in spite of all. (III, ii, 27–28) Carlisle later speaks on behalf of Norfolk, once the King’s most trusted operative, but months earlier exiled by Richard, and at this moment the object of accusations by Aumerle. When Bullingbrook promises to investigate the charges, Carlisle reveals that Norfolk has died in exile: Many a time hath banish’d Norfolk fought For Jesu Christ in glorious Christian field, Streaming the ensign of the Christian cross Against black pagans, Turks, and Saracens, And toil’d with works of war, retir’d himself To Italy, and there at Venice gave His body to that pleasant country’s earth, And his pure soul unto his captain Christ, Under whose colors he had fought so long. (IV, i, 92–100) Carlisle’s implication is clear: that by fighting for England and Richard II, Norfolk also fought for Christianity. When, however, Bullingbrook announces his intention to take the throne in Richard’s place, Carlisle’s rage overflows: O, forfend it, God, That in a Christian climate souls refin’d Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed! I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks, Stirr’d up by God, thus boldly for his king. (IV, i, 129–133) Even after Richard surrenders his throne without struggle, and internal warfare seems to have been averted, Carlisle speaks in a tone filled with dread: The woe’s to come; the children yet unborn Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn. (IV, i, 322–333) Thus Carlisle asserts himself into the world of politics, but without desire for personal reward. This unselfishness is acknowledged by Bullingbrook when he becomes Henry IV, for at the end of Richard II, when the new King dispenses punishment and reward to those who have been involved on both sides of the usurpation, he speaks generously to Carlisle: Carlisle, this is your doom: Choose out some secret place, some reverent room, More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life. So as thou liv’st in peace, die free from strife, For though mine enemy thou hast ever been, High sparks of honor in thee have I seen. (V, vi, 24–29) Perhaps the new King’s solicitude toward Carlisle emerges from a desire to avoid offending both the court and God, or perhaps Henry genuinely accepts Carlisle’s dedication to the country. Whatever the case, the estimate of Carlisle’s worth is fair. No other clergy in the second Henriad carry themselves with Carlisle’s dignity. In Henry IV, Part 2, Archbishop Scroop berates his colleagues who initially supported Henry’s taking the throne, but who have grown angry over his unwillingness to grant them the political rewards they expected: So, so, thou common dog, didst thou disgorge Thy glutton bosom of the royal Richard, And now thou wouldst eat thy dead vomit up, And howl’st to find it. What trust is in these times? They that, when Richard liv’d, would have him die, Are now become enamor’d on his grave. (I, iii, 97–102) Although he, too, despises the King and the environment that his actions have caused, Scroop shrewdly notes the pettiness and envy that mark those one-time allies who have become Henry’s enemies. Despite such insight, however, Scroop’s ugly vocabulary does not befit a clergyman and thus derogates his office. How apt, then, that when the rebels against Henry are ready for battle, Scroop, usually suspicious of everyone’s behavior, agrees to the offer from the King’s son, Prince John of Lancaster, that both sides disperse. Thereafter Scroop is immediately arrested for treason (IV, ii, 109). Even more fitting is John’s remark that he will redress the rebels’ grievance with “Christian care” (IV, ii, 115), a phrase that mocks Scroop’s religious title. Henry V presents us with two even more politically-minded clerics, the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Ely. When they follow the Chorus at the start of the play proper, their voices are quiet, but their words suggest how removed they are from matters of the spirit and how involved they have become in the power struggles of the court. Canterbury shows particular concern over a bill that would cost the church much of its income. Ely comments quietly: “This would drink deep” (I, i, 20), but we sense his desire to maintain wealth. Similarly, Canterbury’s brief response communicates equal desperation masked by a calm demeanor: “’Twould drink the cup and all” (I, i, 21). The two then move to a discussion of the new king, Henry V, who has surprised the country by maturing since his wilder days, which were dramatized in Henry IV. They also admire his military exploits, as well as his capacity to unravel difficult moral and legal issues (I, i, 43–46). All these qualities lead to yet another reason for Canterbury to be pleased with Henry’s attitude: For I have made an offer to his Majesty, Upon our spiritual convocation And in regard of causes now at hand, Which I have open’d to his Grace at large, As touching France, to give a greater sum Than ever at one time the clergy yet Did to his predecessors part withal. (I, i, 75–81) The words “spiritual convocation” cannot disguise the political maneuvering that Canterbury has carried out in an effort to inspire the new King to fight a war against France that the Church will support. Canterbury also hints that the war will distract Henry from consideration of the bill which could cost the Church so much money. In the next scene, the King formally solicits justification from Canterbury for beginning a military conflict with France. In response, the Archbishop provides a remarkably convoluted explanation of Salique Law (which barred succession through a female line). This analysis leads to examples of numerous precedents which, Canterbury insists, provide the requested legal basis. Yet so perplexing is this address that at its conclusion the King is forced to ask once more: “May I with right and conscience make this claim?” (I, ii, 96). After Canterbury recalls Henry’s glorious family history, Ely pursues a decidedly nontheological approach to the issue: Awake remembrance of these valiant dead, And with your puissant arm renew their feats, You are their heir, you sit upon their throne; The blood and courage that renowned them Runs in your veins; and my thrice-puissant liege Is in the very May-morn of his youth, Ripe for exploits and mighty enterprises. (I, ii, 115–121) He never mentions the bloodshed and inevitable loss of life that could result from warfare. Clearly, political and military considerations here superseded the moral and ethical standards by which men of the cloth traditionally stand. But then Shakespeare’s clerics are hardly traditional. One of the most overtly power-hungry characters in the entire Henry VI sequence is the Bishop of Winchester, later Cardinal. As one of the great-uncles to the young and ineffectual King, Winchester is close enough to the center of political power to touch it, but he is always blocked by Gloucester, the King’s uncle, as well as his officially sanctioned Protector. Early in Henry VI, Part 1, Gloucester captures the core of Winchester’s character by recalling his unsavory past: Stand back, thou manifest conspirator, Thou that contrivedst to murther our dead lord, Thou that giv’st whores indulgences to sin. I’ll canvass thee in thy broad cardinal’s hat, If thou proceed in this thy insolence. (I, iii, 33–37) For the rest of his life, Winchester continually plots with other nobles, shifting from one alliance to another, but his fundamental goal remains his own political advantage. One moment when he exposes his agenda occurs in Henry VI, Part 1, after the marriage of Henry to the daughter of Earl of Arminack seems inevitable. Winchester hopes that the union will both bring him the political leverage he seeks and destroy his most hated rival: Humphrey of Gloucester, thou shalt well perceive That neither in birth, or for authority, The Bishop will be overborne by thee. I’ll either make thee stoop and bend thy knee, Or sack this country with a mutiny. (V, i, 58–62) Time and again in this tetralogy, individuals whom we recognize as dangerous make their malevolence evident by rationalizing chaos as an alternative to defeat by legal means. Here Winchester proves as ruthless as any secular politician in the court. When in Henry VI, Part 2 he is stricken by a mysterious ailment and dies unrepentant, Warwick sums up the Cardinal’s story: “So bad a death argues a monstrous life” (III, iii, 30). No further comment about him follows. Perhaps the most insidious religious figure in all of Shakespeare’s plays is Pandulph in King John. He enters as a representative of the Pope, intending to force the beleaguered King John to accept Stephen Langton, the Pope’s selection, for Archbishop of Caunterbury. We should note that this play is set in the early thirteenth century, more than 200 years before England broke from the Church in Rome. For Shakespeare’s audience, then, Pandulph’s entrance aroused immediate antagonism. Furthermore, Pandulph’s order that the King conform to his wishes inspires John’s best moment: What earthy name to interrogatories Can taste the free breath of a sacred king? Thou canst not, Cardinal, devise a name So slight, unworthy, and ridculous, To charge me to an answer, as the Pope. (III, i, 147–151) John is surely bold here, but by insulting the Pope and turning his back on Rome, he ruins any chance for a political alliance with France and thereafter any opportunity for reuniting the two countries with himself in charge. Pandulph, ever the politician, schemes to exacerbate John’s dilemma: …Thou shalt stand curs’d and excommunicate, And blessed shall he be that doth revolt From his allegiance to an heretic, And meritorious shall that hand be call’d… (III, i, 173–176) Pandulph thus puts a price on John’s head, leaving King Philip of France trapped. He wants to be loyal to the Church and therefore must obey Pandulph, but he has agreed with John to a political marriage that will save his country from war. Philip’s solution reflects his weakness, as he turns to Pandulph to provide a compromise. Instead, the Cardinal gives Philip an ultimatum: O, let thy vow First made to heaven, first be to heaven perform’d. That is, to be the champion of our Church! (III, i, 265–267) So intense is the pressure applied by Pandulph, in conjunction with Lewis, Prince of France, that Philip succumbs, and the alliance is shattered. Thus Pandulph becomes the embodiment of a Church that, in Shakespeare’s view, seeks to control the temporal world as well as the spiritual one. But Pandulph has not finished. John’s schism with Philip has caused turmoil in England, where his loudest opponent is Constance, mother of John’s nephew, Arthur, whom she is pushing to occupy the throne. Therefore she laments the misery that she claims John has created: No, I defy all counsel, all redress, But that which ends all counsel, true redress: Death, death. O amiable lovely death! Thou odiferous stench! sound rottenness! (III, iv, 23–26) Pandulph then insinuates himself into the situation by accusing her of madness (III, iv, 43). She retorts, legitimately: “Thou art [not] holy to belie me so…(III, iv, 44). Pandulph, however, is undeterred, and next moves to counsel young Lewis. First he suggests that John plans to have Arthur killed (III, iv, 131–140), but far from finding such an act morally repulsive, Pandulph sees potential benefits for Lewis himself: You, in the right of Lady Blanch your wife, May then make all the claim that Arthur did. (III, iv, 142–143) Lewis expresses skepticism that the strategy will work, but Pandulph responds with the cynical tone of a seasoned political tactician: “How green you are and fresh in this old world!” (III, iv, 145). He then demonstrates his understanding of the common people by warning Lewis that if Arthur is killed, the mob will revolt against John. Such discernment makes Pandulph a compelling figure. In a play full of vacillating characters, he is single-minded in the pursuit of his own power through the instrument of the Church. After convincing Philip to invade England, a move the French people will support when they learn that the English under Faulconbridge the Bastard have ransacked churches (III, iv, 171–181), Pandulph leaves with smug delight. No doubt the cleric in Shakespeare’s plays who achieves the greatest political heights is Cardinal Wolsey in Henry VIII. After the opening celebration between Henry and the King of France at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, the Duke of Buckingham expresses to the Duke of Norfolk the general feeling toward Wolsey that is held by the other nobles: The devil speed him! no man’s pie is freed From his ambitious finger. What had he To do in these fierce vanities? I wonder That such a keech can with his very bulk Take up the ray’s o’ th’ beneficial sun, And keep it from the earth. (I, i, 51–57) As always in Shakespeare, the word “sun” has overtones of the King himself, and thus Buckingham implies that Henry remains unaware of Wolsey’s activities. We should note that the portrait of the King that emerges in this play is not that of the bloated hedonist familiar from history, but of a fundamentally benign ruler with the best interests of his country at heart. After all, Henry VIII was the father of the recently deceased Elizabeth I, and Shakespeare had to portray him delicately. Thus at the start of the play, the King is unaware of Wolsey’s machinations, but gradually acquires the political mastery that brings Wolsey down and simultaneously elevates himself. For a time, however, the Cardinal controls matters ruthlessly. For instance, moments after Buckingham offers that early judgment, he is ar rested. Although the order is said to come from Henry, Buckingham knows that Wolsey gave the command (I, i, 122–126). Soon afterwards, a matter of taxation is brought before the King, who remains strangely detached from the matter: “Taxation?/ Wherein? and what taxation” (I, ii, 37–38). When he turns to Wolsey for advice, the Cardinal deflects responsibility: …I have no further gone in this than by A single voice, and that not pass’d mebut By learned approbation of the judges. (I, ii, 69–71) When, however, Henry pardons those punished unfairly for protesting the tax (I, ii, 98–102), Wolsey orders his confederate to ensure that the King’s decree seems to be the product of Wolsey’s own intervention (I, ii, 103–107). His capacity for political gamesmanship, though despicable, is undeniable. Eventually Wolsey meets his downfall, though more because of coincidence than his own flaws. As Norfolk eagerly reports: The King hath found Matter against him that for ever mars The honey of his language. (III, ii, 20–22) The Duke of Suffolk clarifies the situation: The Cardinal’s letters to the Pope miscarried, And came to th’ eye o’ th’ King, wherein was read How that Cardinal did entreat his Holiness To stay the judgnment o’ th’ divorce… (III, ii, 30–33) When the King reveals his knowledge of Wolsey’s dealings, the trapped Cardinal lashes out against those who rejoice in his defeat: How eagerly ye follow my disgraces As if it fed ye, and how sleek and wanton Ye appear in every thing may bring my ruin! Follow your envious courses, men of malice! (III, ii, 240–243) Those vengeful nobles, particularly Surrey, in turn assault Wolsey with a catalogue of his plots and betrayals, until the Lord Chamberlain objects: Press not a falling man too far! ’tis virtue. His faults lie open to the laws, let them, Not you, correct him. My heart weeps to see him So little of his great self. (III, ii, 333–336) This outcry, in combination with Wolsey’s own egotistical reflections, almost give the Cardinal a measure of tragic stature, as does his sudden self-awareness and vulnerability: My high-blown pride At length broke under me, and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye! (III, ii, 361–365) How much of this conversion is legitimate or the expression of a defeated power-broker is uncertain. Nonetheless, for all his unscrupulousness, Wolsey brings irresistable energy and wit to the proceedings. Occasionally Shakespeare dramatizes how clergy can be used for advantage by shrewd political leaders. In Richard III, for instance, the would-be King appears before the public positioned between two ministers, while his henchman Buckingham claims that here is evidence of the King’s lack of concern for power: Two props of virtue for a Christian prince, To stay him from the fall of vanity; And see, a book of prayer in his hand— True ornaments to know a holy man. Famous Plantagenet, most gracious prince, Lend favorable ear to our requests, And pardon us the interruption Of thy devotion and right Christian aid. (III, vii, 96–103) The theatricality of this moment is brilliant, as Richard seizes on what seems to be a universal phenomenon: the bond between religion and politics. Whatever the society, the presence of a secular ruler under the sanction of a religious authority comforts the populace, a strategy Shakespeare here mocks through the figure of the most unholy of kings. Shakespeare sometimes presents even beneficent clergy in an unpleasant light. In Romeo and Juliet, Friar Lawrence wants to help the young lovers, but he cannot grasp the depth of their love and unwittingly contributes to their downfall. For instance, learning of Romeo’s affections, the Friar warns: “Wisely and slow, they stumble that run fast” (II, iii, 93). Romeo later comments on the absurdity of this advice, given Romeo’s passionate nature: “Thou canst not speak of that thou does not feel” (III, iii, 64). Later, it is the Friar who conceives the plan involving the apothecary and Juliet’s pretending to commit suicide by poison. The scheme is so convoluted as to invite mishap, and in that sense it reflects the Friar’s own ways. Finally, when Romeo’s death is revealed, the Friar urges Juliet to escape: Come, come away. Thy husband in thy bosom lies dead; And Paris too. Come, I’ll dispose of thee Among a sisterhood of holy nuns. (V, iii, 154–157) Even the suggestion of such a recourse for Juliet suggests the Friar’s blindness to her feeling. Finally, when he hears intruders, the Friar lacks the fortitude to remain and face responsibility: “I dare no longer stay” (V, iii, 159). True, he returns later to explain what has occurred, but by then he has lost our respect. If Shakespeare demonstrates antagonism to clerical figures themselves, religious beliefs and values do buttress his plays. In Hamlet, for example, the officer Marcellus tries to understand why the Ghost of Hamlet’s father should have scurried away so quickly in the early morning: Some say that ever ’gainst that season comes Wherein our Savior’s birth is celebrated, This bird of dawning singeth all night long, And then they say no spirit dare stir abroad… (I, i, 158–161) Later, in his first soliloquy, pondering the possibility of suicide, Hamlet broods: … Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d His canon ’gainst [self]-slaughter! (I, ii, 131–132) Thus we are always conscious that as Hamlet seeks answers to his crises, he includes Christian values as he tries to balance the ethical equation. Yet in the same play, after Laertes, son of the court advisor Polonius, warns Ophelia to be careful about giving herself to Hamlet, she retorts: But, good my brother, Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven, Whiles, [like] a puff’d and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads, And reaks not his own rede. (I, iii, 46–51) Here again Shakespeare upholds the principles of Christianity, but not necessarily the actions of those who would teach such principles. Indeed, Christian values underlie all his work. He unleashes scorn, however, on those clergy who would take the moral authority that society bestows upon their profession and use it for personal aggrandizement and profit. Throughout his plays, Shakespeare reveals his antagonism for political hypocrisy of all varieties, but he seems to reserve special venom for those who would hide it behind a mask of piety.

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