Kathryn Grande, “Poking Holes: Resistance of Patriarchy in William Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Richard III, and The Winter’s Tale”
As William Shakespeare’s plays Richard III, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and The Winter’s Tale were written in the early modern era of English history, they each, in some way, reflect the social and political landscape of the English monarchy under the reign of Queen Elizabeth I and King James I. Given that under both monarchs the early modern social policies and procedures were permeated by androcentric, misogynist ideas, patriarchy is unsurprisingly at the epicenter of each of these plays. As such, each play—though of different dramatic genres—explores the issues of social hierarchy, sexual politics, and political power that arise from oppressive patriarchal ideology. While each of these plays is situated in a male-dominated society—riddled with husbands, fathers, and other men who are inclined to assert authority over their wives, daughters, and all other women—the way in which Shakespeare inflects patriarchy in each play depends specifically on the conventions of its dramatic genre. That is, based on the standards of a given genre, Shakespeare may be inclined to make an understated jab at patriarchy, such as creating a gender-based conflict in which a female character challenges the authority of a dominant male character only to later submit her to his control, and by extension yield to the inevitable power of patriarchal rule. Or, alternatively, Shakespeare may be afforded the space to take more creative risk, in which case he might craft a prominent female character and allow her significant influence—perhaps bending the plot to her will or in some way actualizing her desire against that of a prominent male character—ultimately turning the idea of patriarchy on its head and imagining a more equal world. As seen in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the conventions of the comedy genre lend themselves to the former: a subtler, more implied criticism of a male-dominated society, relenting to and ultimately affirming patriarchy; while those of the history and romance genres, as we see respectively in Richard III and The Winter’s Tale, allow for the latter: a firmer, more explicit feminist stance, disputing and ultimately rejecting patriarchy. Though the inevitability of patriarchy is made evident across these plays, as in their resolutions, each remains in a male-dominated society; Shakespeare’s effort to challenge, question, and poke holes in patriarchal ideology ultimately works to disrupt its absolute power.
To better understand the ways Shakespeare navigates the different conventions of these dramatic genres to expose and contest patriarchy, we must first contextualize patriarchy in terms of its early modern practice. Indeed, where it concerns marital and family relations—which aimed to empower men and control women—these practices were particularly rigid. An example of this early modern patriarchy can be seen in An Homily of the State of Matrimony, a biblical mandate setting forth the duties and expectations of men and women upon entering marriage. According to this decree, wives must “obey and cease from commanding and performing subjection” of their husbands (Homily 286). In addition, and written as a direct quote from St. Paul, the text states that women must be “… subject to their husbands, as to the Lord; for the husband is the head of the woman, as Christ is the head of the Church” (287). Insofar as these passages capture the tenets of the document, based on the excessive use of language such as “obey,” “subject,” “cease,” and “the husband is the head of the woman,” we can see that the purpose of this marriage mandate is to submit wives to husband’s authority and control.
Likewise, in terms of family and household dynamics, in The Bedford Companion to Shakespeare, author Russ McDonald writes that early modern society subscribed to the notion that “[authority] in the . . . family rested finally with the father” (259). Further, he writes, “Wives had authority over children and servants . . . [but the father had] uncontested rule over his wife and all members of the household” (259). These ideas are affirmed in Patriarcha, an early modern treatise from Sir Robert Filmer which suggests that fathers are synonymous with kings and states: “There is and always shall be continued to the end of the world a natural right of a supreme father over every multitude” (284). Sir Filmer goes on to say that “To confirm this natural right of regal power, we find in the decalogue [the Ten Commandments] that the law which enjoins obedience to kings is delivered in terms of ‘Honor thy father,’ as if all power were originally in the father” (284). Here, in the excessive language granting power and control to fathers, such as “uncontested rule,” “natural right,” and the biblical reference of “Honor thy father,” we see that in conjunction with marriage ideals, early modern expectations of family also propagated male dominance—and by default and omission, female oppression. As marriage, family, and monarchy were at the center of early modern society, we can argue that these androcentric values pervaded the entire social structure.
While Shakespeare’s plays were written and performed for early moderns and as such were themselves a product of this patriarchal ideology, Shakespeare often implements female characters whose qualities and behaviors step outside of these ideals—and the extent in which he does so seems to be dictated by the genre of the play. As the conventions of each dramatic genre serve as a set of guidelines which determine the overall structure and outcome of each play, it seems Shakespeare found at least one convention within the comedy, history, and romance genres that allow him to (forgive the pun) play. For instance, in a comedy play, which must include a “happy ending,” McDonald writes “the happy ending involves a marriage or at least some kind of union or reunion that resolves the conflict and brings the characters into a state of harmony” (81). In A Midsummer Night’s Dream, this convention is, of course, satisfied as the play ends happily with “three marriages and one remarriage” (McDonald 81). However, it seems that Shakespeare uses this notion of a conclusionary “state of harmony” to explore unconventional social behavior—or, more specifically, to challenge the patriarchy. Because the play ends happily and with “confirmation of the social order,” Shakespeare is able to create outspoken, assertive female characters such as Hermia and Titania to portray the contrasting social disorder (McDonald 82).
In act 1, scene 1, of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, we meet Hermia, the daughter of Egeus who has fallen in love with and chosen to marry Lysander. As he has already chosen Demetrius for Hermina to marry, Egeus is outraged. Abiding by Athenian law, he takes this issue to Theseus, Duke of Athens, and seeks an official ruling in his favor. Pleading his case and reminding Theseus that Hermia is his property, giving him the right to kill her if she should disobey his authority, Egeus says: “I beg the ancient privilege of Athens, / As she is mine, I may dispose of her: / Which shall be either to this gentleman / Or to her death, according to our law / Immediately provided in that case” (Midsummer 1.1.41–45). In this scene, we are made aware of the stringent laws that empower men and restrict women, this principle which states that “If she does not-cannot-obey him, then she should be destroyed,” as Louis Montrose so concisely writes in “‘Shaping Fantasies:’ Figurations of Gender and Power in Elizabethan Culture” (70). Concurrently, though, we are acquainted with Hermia’s rebellious spirit in her desire and willingness to go against these laws, even though her life is at stake. When Theseus presents the less severe option of chastity rather than death, Hermia affirms her rebellion by choosing chastity, then choosing to escape the law entirely and run away with Lysander to a place where “the sharp Athenian law / Cannot pursue [them]” (Midsummer 1.1.162–63).
Here we see that, despite the laws designed to control her, Hermia is willing to risk her life to marry the person she loves and live the life she wants rather than allow these choices to be made for her. Nevertheless, as the conventions of comedy require social order, at the play’s end, patriarchy is restored. Hermia does marry Lysander, but it is not the result of her personal desire or an affirmation of female power. Rather, it is allowed because it satisfies the androcentric requirements of procreation and meets the approval of Theseus, the male ruler of Athenian society. In this way, as Montrose asserts, “Theseus appropriates the source of Hermia’s fragile power: her ability to deny men access to her body” (6). Additionally, as McDonald asserts, “even though he sides with [Hermia], Shakespeare finally marries [her] to [a husband] whose superior power is assumed,” effectively exchanging “one male authority figure for another” (84). However, because Hermia’s behavior is unconventional for a daughter in Athenian society and, by extension, early modern society, we can argue that Shakespeare employs her not only to create disorder within his comedy, but to make a broader social statement about the rigid and oppressive family dynamics of the “Honor thy father” ideology.
We see a similar rebellious female character in Titania, Queen of the fairy world, who attempts to challenge the authority of her husband, Oberon. In act 2, scene 2, Titania defies Oberon’s wishes to give him the changeling boy. Her resistance to his control causes turbulent weather in the mortal world as she threatens societal order by standing firm against her husband throughout most of the play. In act 3, scene 2, however, Oberon vows that if Titania accepts his authority and gives him the boy, normalcy shall be restored. He says: “I’ll to my queen and beg her Indian boy; / And then I will her charmed eye release / From monster’s view, and all things shall be peace” (Midsummer 3.2.375–77). As these lines confirm that Titania’s defiance is what causes the unseasonable weather and that Oberon is the only one with the power to change it, they emphasize the idea that male dominance is the natural order and to challenge it is to wreak havoc. At the end of the play, in accordance with the “state of harmony” convention of dramatic comedy, Titania concedes to Oberon and balance is restored. This restoration fulfills McDonald’s assertion that “Shakespeare’s comedies … can be seen as instruments of social stability in their representation of the unshakable power of husbands” (83). However, because Titania’s behavior is unconventional for a wife in the supernatural world and, by extension, early modern society, we can argue that Shakespeare uses her to expose the harsh, despotic nature of an ideology that asserts that “the husband is the head of the woman, as Christ is the head of the Church.” As such, in the words of Jean E. Howard in “Crossdressing, The Theatre, and Gender Struggle in Early Modern England,” A Midsummer Night’s Dream “[reveals] the constructed nature of gender definitions and distinctions even as [it returns] women, at play’s end, to their admittedly somewhat ameliorated places within the dominant patriarchal order” (436). Thus, while the conventions of dramatic comedy as seen in A Midsummer Night’s Dream ultimately affirm patriarchal rule, Hermia’s rebellion against the authority of her father and Titania’s rebellion against her husband give Shakespeare the ability to—if only for a moment—imagine a different world.
Just as the comedy genre permits Shakespeare to explore a world that foregrounds female voices and challenges male authority, as seen in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, so does the history genre allow space for patriarchal resistance, as can be seen in Richard III. As the name implies, a history play is largely grounded in the true chronicled events that make up the history of the English monarchy. However, as McDonald explains, “because [the genre] was being invented at the very moment Shakespeare began working in the form . . . to a great extent, [he] was making it up as he went along” (90). As such, provided the historical facts and sequence of events be upheld, the subtleties and conversations between the characters of the play—though based on historical figures—could be improvised. Given the historical fate of King Richard III and “his fall from a high position brought about by [his] own errors,” Shakespeare seems to use this creative freedom to take a political stance against the patriarchy by giving agency to Queen Margaret within his own dramatic adaptation of the story (McDonald 91). Furthermore, as the play was written and performed during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, Queen Margaret’s character also seems to be a generic innovation that works to acknowledge that, in the center of the unyielding patriarchy, a woman has the crown.
Though the overarching power structure throughout Richard III is inherently androcentric, Shakespeare gives Queen Margaret a sense of power that is not typical for a female of this time—a power he grants in the form of language. When we meet Margaret, we learn that she has lost her husband, her son, and her royal status to the House of York in the defeat of King Henry VI. She is a bitter and ruthless woman who wants nothing more than the demise of the House of York, which we see when she curses them in act 1, scene 3. Though she curses them, she does so indirectly and in relation to Queen Elizabeth (a woman), until she turns to Richard (a man), whom she directly blames for her strife and to whom she speaks straight—and the language she uses to batter him is particularly fascinating, especially in terms of patriarchy.
In the opening line of her verbal assault, Margaret refers to Richard as a dog, when she says “stay, dog, for thou shalt hear me” (Richard III 1.3.227). In the line prior, Richard attempts to deflate Margaret, exhaustedly asking if she has gotten it all out of her system. She fires back at him, reducing him to a dog and telling him to wait, letting on that she has saved the best of her cursing language for last—for him. She then begins a tangent, begging the heavens to unleash the full extent of their torment onto him when she says: “If heaven have any grievous plague in store / Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee, / O, let them keep it till thy sins be ripe, / And then hurl down their indignation / On thee, the troubler of the poor world’s peace! (Richard III 1.3.228–32). In lines 233–35, she wills that his conscience eats away at his soul; that he may be haunted by the memory of his own actions, having the trust of no one while putting his own trust in those who will inevitably betray him. In the next lines she curses him to have only horrific dreams, or no sleep at all: “No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine, / Unless it be whilst some tormenting dream / Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils! (Richard III 1.3.239–41). And before he interrupts her, as she likely strikes a nerve, Queen Margaret attacks his physical appearance calling him a “slave of nature” and “son of hell” (241).
In this extensive, impassioned barrage of vehement curses on Richard, Queen Margaret exhibits behaviors and motivations that are typical of the traditional male gender role. Whereas women are expected to be docile and subservient, Margaret is disruptive, combative, and unruly. She speaks with an authority and a fervor that is characteristic of men, and while those on the receiving end of her rage do attempt to diffuse and dismiss her, her words and her energy captivate the scene and the audience. In allowing the language and intensity of this female character to exist without being quelled by a male character, Shakespeare uses Margaret to challenge the notion that men have absolute control—which he then brings full circle. By the end of the play, almost all of those who Margaret wished dead have been killed—most of them by Richard. Even Richard himself, upon whom she wishes the most ill will, is distrusted, betrayed, and murdered by the play’s end, just as she condemns him to be. The emotional force of Margaret’s character, of her cursing language and deep-burning desire for punishment and revenge, determine the fate of nearly every character in the play, arguably making her the most powerful. In Queen Margaret, as Howard writes, “Shakespeare created a fictional structure in which the ideology of male dominance breaks down” (434). Though Richard III does not attempt to rewrite history and obediently focuses on the story of English kings, Shakespeare’s choice to bestow such power upon a female character in a male-dominated world conveys a deliberate effort to confront the patriarchal ideology of the English monarchy—an effort afforded by the conventions of the history genre.
Like those of the comedy and history genres, the conventions of the romance genre also lend to the creation of dominating female characters and a meaningful exploration of female power, as we can see in The Winter’s Tale. According to McDonald, a romance play is “an adventure story” in which “the main characters must endure a series of hazards and trials that lead ultimately to success and reward” (95). The Winter’s Tale certainly satisfies these conventions, as it begins with Leontes’ jealous tirade in which he orders the death of his wife and unborn child based on his unwarranted belief that she was unfaithful but ends sixteen years later with a beautiful family reunion made possible only by Leontes’s personal redemption. Further, in terms of societal norms, the play also meets the mark. According to Susan D. Amussen in “The Irrelevance of Revisionism: Gender, Politics, and Society in Early Modern England,” in Jacobean England, a cuckold was considered “the epitome of the failed patriarch” and cuckoldry was thought to “undermine male leadership” (696). Additionally, and perhaps even more notably, “men could be cuckolds not only if their wives were unfaithful but also if they expected their wives to be unfaithful,” which since Hermione was not unfaithful, seems to be more relevant in the case of The Winter’s Tale (Amussen 697). Leastwise, according to Leontes and early modern society, Hermione’s suspected actions warrant persecution. Paulina, however, does not agree, so she stages Hermione’s death to show Leontes the error in his ways.
In act 2, scene 3, moments after Hermione faints and is carried off-stage, Paulina returns alone and delivers a powerful, emotional speech in which she informs Leontes and the court of Hermione’s death. In this speech, Paulina explains that the “tyranny” and “jealousies” of Leontes are to blame for this tragedy, recounting the transgressions that have led up to Hermione’s death and berating him with the reality of the harm he has caused. Devastated and infuriated, she refers to him as a “a fool, inconstant / and damnable ingrateful” and suggesting his “monstrous” act of “casting forth to crows” his baby daughter is an act not even the devil would commit (The Winter’s Tale 2.3.183–84, 187–88). In these lines, Paulina lays the groundwork for the recognition, acknowledgement, the ultimate redemption of Leontes because not only is Hermione’s death seemingly final and permanent, but it is the last domino to fall in the destruction of his family. With the preceding death of their son Mamillius, the dreadful fate he cast upon their baby girl, and now Hermione’s death, Leontes has nothing left, no heir and no family. He is forced to come to terms with his actions—a recognition we see in his next lines, which read: “Go on, go on. / Though canst not speak too much. I have deserved / All tongues to talk their bitt’rest” (The Winter’s Tale 2.3.212–14). Here Leontes concedes, allowing Paulina to speak her harsh truths because he now feels he deserves to hear them.
As this acknowledgement is inspired by Hermione’s death, we can see that Paulina (and Hermione) create the narrative of her death to both punish Leontes for his deplorable actions and simultaneously elicit his true and genuine repentance. Sixteen years later, after atoning for his actions, Paulina stages the reunion of Leontes, Hermione, and Perdita, the child heir that he sent away. Though Paulina is not a woman of any political power, Shakespeare bends the fate of Leontes’ character and, arguably, the entire plot, to her will. While this in no way disrupts the social hierarchy of Sicilia, as Leontes remains king, it does speak volumes to female power. Shakespeare presents Leontes as a failed patriarch, a man in need of saving; and, in contrast, he presents Paulina as a moral compass: a beacon of wisdom, reason, and fairness. As it is Paulina’s sound logic, caring heart, and clever scheming that facilitate the ultimate “success and reward” of The Winter’s Tale, we can argue that Paulina, like Queen Margaret, is a strong and commanding female character who has been constructed by Shakespeare to puncture the patriarchy.
Works Cited
Amussen, Susan B. “The Irrelevance of Revisionism: Gender, Politics, and Society in Early Modern England.” Huntington Library Quarterly, vol. 78, no. 4, 2015, pp. 683–701.
Filmer, Sir Robert. Patriarcha, or The Natural Power of Kings. London, 1680.
Greenblatt, Stephen. The Norton Shakespeare. 3rd edition. W.W. Norton & Company, 2016.
An Homily of the State of Matrimony. In The Second Tome of Homilies. London, 1563.
Howard, Jean E. “Crossdressing, The Theatre, and Gender Struggle in Early Modern England.” Shakespeare Quarterly, vol. 39, no. 4, 1988, pp. 418–40. https://doi.org/10.2307/2870706.
McDonald, Russ. The Bedford Companion to Shakespeare: An Introduction with Documents. 2nd ed., Palgrave, 2001.
Montrose, Louis Adrian. “‘Shaping Fantasies:’ Figurations of Gender and Power in Elizabethan Culture.” Representations, no. 2, 1983, pp. 61–94. https://doi.org/10.2307/2928384.
Sommerville, Johann B., ed. Patriarcha and Other Writings. Cambridge: UP, 1991.
This essay was written in ENL 659, with Professor Zysk in the Fall semester 2022.