Description: Introduction The Life and Death of King John is usually dated on grounds of style between Shakespeare''s two historical tetralogies, perhaps shortly before Richard II in 1594 or 1595. In structure and characterization, it is also transitional from the episodic first series (Henry VI through Richard III) to the more tightly organized second series (Richard II through Henry V). It stands alone among Shakespeare''s history plays of the 1590s in choosing the early thirteenth century for its subject, rather than the fifteenth century. Yet the political problems are familiar. Foremost is the uncertainty of John''s claim to the English throne. He occupies that throne by "strong possession" and also seemingly by the last will and testament of his deceased eldest brother, King Richard I. But could such a will disinherit Arthur, the son of John''s older brother Geoffrey? English primogeniture specified that property must descend to the eldest son; after Richard''s death, without direct heirs, his next brother, Geoffrey, would inherit and then Geoffrey''s son, Arthur. Significantly, even John''s mother, Queen Eleanor, who publicly supports John''s claim, privately admits that "strong possession" is much more on their side than "right" (1.1.39-40). All parties concede, then, that young Arthur''s claim is legally superior. Yet such a claim raises serious practical questions, because it challenges the status quo. John is de facto king, and Arthur a child. To make the dilemma complete, Arthur has no ambitions to rule and seemingly no talent for leadership. Without the unremitting zeal of his widowed mother, Constance, Arthur would retire into the private world of kindness and love, where his virtues shine. Moreover, Constance''s uncompromising defense of her son''s true claim requires her to seek alliance with the French for an invasion of England. Such an appalling prospect of invasion and civil war inevitably poses the question: is the replacement of John by Arthur worth the price? Which is better--an ongoing regime flawed by uncertain claim and political compromises or restitution of the "right" by violent and potentially self-destructive means? Shakespeare refuses to simplify the issues. John is neither a monstrous tyrant nor a martyred hero, although both interpretations were available to Shakespeare in sixteenth-century historical writings. Catholic historians of the late Middle Ages, such as Polydore Vergil, had uniformly condemned John, partly, at least, because of his interference with the Church. The English Reformation brought about a conscious rewriting of history, and, in John Bale''s play King Johan (1538, with later revisions), the protagonist is unassailably a champion of the right. Centuries ahead of his time, this King John comprehends the true interests of the state in fending off the encroachments of the international Church. He fails only because his people are superstitious and his aristocrats are the dupes of Catholic meddling. Bale''s play is transparently a warning to Tudor England. This portrait of John as a martyr continues unabated in John Foxe''s Acts and Monuments and in the chronicles of Richard Grafton and Raphael Holinshed, which were based on Foxe. Most virulent of all is the play called The Troublesome Reign of King John (c. 1587-1591), once thought to be by Shakespeare and analyzed by some recent editors as an unauthorized quarto of Shakespeare''s text but now generally regarded as the work of some more chauvinistic playwright, most probably George Peele. Although generally close to Shakespeare''s play in its narrative of events, it also contains scenes of the most degraded anti-Catholic humor, featuring gross abbots who conceal nuns in their private rooms, and the like. Against such a corrupt institution, the plundering undertaken by King John''s loyal follower, Philip the Bastard (also known as Sir Richard Plantagenet), is wholly justifiable. John and the Bastard would be invincible, were it not for the base Catholic loyalties of the nobility. Shakespeare consciously declines to endorse either the Catholic or the Protestant interpretation of the reign of King John. (Interestingly, neither side showed any interest in Magna Carta; not until the seventeenth century was that event interpreted as a famous precedent for constitutional restraints imposed on the monarchy.) To be sure, some anticlericalism still remains in the play. John grandly proclaims that "no Italian priest / Shall tithe or toll in our dominions." John is "supreme head" of Church and State (the actual title claimed by Henry VIII), defending his people against "this meddling priest" with his "juggling witch- craft" (3.1.153-69). Yet Shakespeare''s King John is not vindictive against the Church. He seizes some of its wealth, not as a reprisal, but to support his costly military campaigns; when he is poisoned by a monk, neither John nor anyone else assumes that a Catholic conspiracy is responsible--as it is in Troublesome Reign. Similarly, the baronial opposition to John is motivated not by secret leanings toward Rome but by understandable revulsion at the apparent murder of Arthur. Shakespeare''s balanced treatment need not merely reflect his own political allegiances, whatever they were. Artistically, King John is a study of impasse, of tortured political dilemmas to which there can be no clear answer. How do people behave under such trying circumstances? Shakespeare''s play is remarkable for its sensitivity and compassion toward all sides. His most completely sympathetic characters are those innocently caught in the political cross fire, such as Arthur and the Lady Blanche. Among the major contenders for power, all except the ruthless Dauphin Lewis are guided by worthy intentions and yet are forced to make unfortunate and self-contradictory compromises. Constance, for all her virtuous singleness of mind, must seek a French invasion of England. King Philip of France, bound to Constance''s cause by all the holy vows of heaven, changes his purpose when England offers a profitable marriage alliance and then shifts quickly back again when the papacy demands in the name of the Church that Philip punish King John for heresy. Philip''s conscience is troubled about both decisions, but what is a king to do when faced with practical choices affecting his people''s welfare and his own political safety? Even Pandulph, the papal legate, can be viewed as a well- intentioned statesman caught in the web of political compromise. Presumably, he is sincere in his belief that King John''s defiance of the papacy--in particular, his refusal to accept the Pope''s choice, Stephen Langton, as Archbishop of Canterbury--represents a grave threat to Catholic Christendom. Yet Pandulph reveals an unprincipled cunning when he teaches King Philip how to equivocate a sacred vow, or instructs the apt young Lewis in Machiavellian intrigue. As Pandulph explains, the French can exploit King John''s capture of Arthur by invading England in Arthur''s name, thereby forcing John to murder his nephew in order to terminate the rival claim to the throne. Arthur''s death will, in turn, drive the English nobility over to the French side. By this stratagem, the seemingly bad luck of Arthur''s capture can neatly be turned to the advantage of France and the international Church (3.4.126-81). Lewis learns his lesson only too well. What Pandulph has failed to take into account is the insincerity of Lewis''s alliance with papal power. When the legate has achieved through the invasion what he wants--the submission of John--and then tries to call off Lewis''s army, Pandulph discovers too late that the young Frenchman cares only for war on his own terms. Pandulph''s cunning becomes a weapon turned against himself. John is, like his enemies, a talented man justly punished by his own perjuries. His failings are serious, but they are also understandable. Given the fact that he is king, his desire to maintain rule serves both his own interests and those of political order generally. The deal by which John bargains away his French territories of Angiers, Touraine, Maine, Poitiers, and the rest, in order to win peace with France, is prudent under the circumstances but a blow to those English dreams of greatness that John professes to uphold. When France immediately repudiates this treaty, John merely gets what he deserves for entering such a deal. His surrender of the crown to the papacy is again the canny result of yielding to the least dangerous of the alternatives available but diminishes John''s already shaky authority nonetheless. Most heinous is John''s determination to be rid of Arthur. He has compelling reasons, to be sure. As Pandulph predicts, the French invasion of England, using Arthur''s claim as its pretext, forces John to consider Arthur as an immediate threat to himself. (Queen Elizabeth had long agonized over a similar problem with her captive, Mary, Queen of Scots; so long as Mary lived, a Catholic and claimant to the throne, English Catholics had a perennial rallying point.) What is a ruling king to do with a rival claimant in his captivity? As Henry IV also discovers once he has captured Richard II, the logic demanding death is inexorable. Yet such a deed is not only murder but also murder of one''s close kinsman and murder of the Lord''s anointed in the eyes of those believing the captive, in this case Arthur, to be rightful king. Furthermore, it is sure to backfire and punish the doer by arousing national resentment and rebellion. John quickly regrets Arthur''s death, but we suspect that the regret is, in part, motivated by fear of the consequences. The same ironic predicament that protects John against his own worst instincts, momentarily saving the boy from Hubert''s instruments of torture, also justly prevents John from obtaining a

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