Bishop HENRY BROUGHAM doesn't know how he will find a capable archdeacon to help raise money to build a "great" cathedral for his overcrowded parish. Though his beautiful wife JULIA fulfills her marital duties, their relationship has no passion. To fill the void, she heaps affectionate praise on their four-year old daughter JULIET, embarrassing the proper Bishop. Meanwhile, the Bishop prays for help, and it comes in the form of MICHAEL, a handsome goldenhaired angel, who takes the position of archdeacon. Michael exudes love which draws new and unexpected emotions from Julia. Michael's pure limitless capacity for love is stifled by his mortal duties of manipulating money from wealthy religious patrons, including MRS. LANYARDE and MR. COHEN. With the holidays approaching the Bishop senses the mutual attraction between Julia and Michael. His intuition is right as Julia almost succumbs to Michael before her sense of marital duty ultimately prevails. During a conversation with the scholarly PROFESSOR WUTHERIDGE, Michael learns that an angel can't fulfill "mortal love" as it is unrelated to the divine version. With that, he returns to Heaven after completing his fundraising mission. Julia, realizing she will never have a passionate relationship with the Bishop, decides to have another child with whom to share her love.
"Mr. Nathan's method of approach is the way of the goldfinch with the thistledown, or of the unconcerned robin guilelessly cocking his head before the peck. Moreover the words that he uses are as cobwebs that catch the dew of his thought delicately patterned filaments exactly adequate to the burden glistening upon them. In short, to say that 'The Bishop's Wife' has beauty, charm, wit, and wisdom is not to over praise the book." --Grace Frank, Saturday Review of Literature
Chapter 1
ALL about, in the cities and in the villages, the country was being built. No longer parched by deserts, devoured by wolves, and scalped by Indians, the descendants of the pioneers were erecting buildings of marble and steel, hundreds of feet into the air, and covering acres of ground. Everywhere were mines, mills, bridges, cities, farms, and power-plants. Nevertheless, the pioneers still persisted, since everybody was a pioneer. But there were certain differences.
These differences were of a practical nature. That is to say people were not obliged to suffer discomfort any longer. As a matter of fact, the entire country groaned with comfort, although it had not yet reached its full development. This gave rise to an extraordinary state of mind. At the moment that whole cities were being torn down in order to make room for something larger, it was generally conceded that everything was perfect. So it was possible to admire the country’s perfection, and at the same time to assist in its improvement.
In the schools, children were taught that four is twice as large as two; and to despise foreigners. As a result, there emerged from the schoolrooms of the nation a race of men and women filled with pride, and anxious to increase two into four. Nothing was allowed to stand in the way of this ambition.
It was the duty of the Church to illuminate with the light of piety the vigorous battles of the industrial world. This was not considered difficult or astonishing, in view of modern exegesis.
The bishop’s house stood on a hill above the city. From one window he could see the river; and from another, the gray cathedral, which stood on the same hill, pointing with sharp, stone fingers at the sky. The city made a steady noise all about; and the cathedral also made a sound, with its bells. They rose in peal upon peal from the gray walls stained by the pigeons, and disputed with horns, shouts, squeals, rumbles, and human cries.
The bishop’s study was on the ground floor of his house. Along the walls stood his bookcases, containing the works of the Fathers of the Church, and biographies of eminent business men. In the one he had studied theology: from the other, he had learned administration. For the bishop had many problems. He controlled, as regent of God, not one, but two cathedrals, twenty churches, twelve parish houses, two deans, three archdeacons, more than one hundred curates, deacons and sextons, seven female auxiliaries, and a great deal of money. To assist him in the discharge of his duties, he employed a secretary and several clerks. Now he sat alone in his study, considering some problems of administration.
They did not cause him much concern. For the most part, and in matters of routine, his assistants did very well; they took care of things. However, they could not help him procure a new archdeacon for the cathedral; or, for that matter, a larger cathedral. Such problems as these he was obliged to settle for himself, as head of his church.
He was kind, upright, and vigorous. It could be said of him that he had enthusiasm, for he was still, in a manner of speaking, a young man. And he dreamed of a magnificent cathedral able to do honor to the city, and to his diocese. He imagined it rising into the clouds, and including upon the grounds an office building with elevators and improvements. It soared upward, in the direction of Heaven. immaculate, marble, and set back in pyramids according to the building code.
However, there was no hurry about it. In the meanwhile, there was the matter of the archdeacon to be attended to.
The bishop gave a deep sigh.
There were many candidates for this office, but none, thought the bishop, of the stuff of which an archdeacon is made. And he went over in his mind the qualities he wished to find in his assistant. In the first place, the archdeacon of St. Timothy’s must be a man of firm and fundamental views. He must believe in Heaven and Hell, and in the miracles. He must believe that God was watching . . . that was no reason, the bishop thought, for him to be tactless. God, he reflected, and the bankers, love a tactful man. For himself, he had, he felt sure, piety enough for both; but he needed help with his accounts. A good hand at figures, a tongue of fire in the pulpit, a healing way with the doubtful, a keen eye for the newspapers . . .
Where, thought the bishop, is there to be found a man compounded of equal parts of piety, tact, energy, and ability?
“What I need,” he exclaimed, “is an angel from Heaven.”
And he raised his eyes to the ceiling, although he did not expect an angel to appear.
Nor did an angel at that moment make his appearance. Instead, the bishop arose, and went to look for his wife, whom he found seated before the mirror in her room. She was brushing out her long golden hair, before she pinned it with a neat and womanly twist at the back of her head. It rippled under the brush, it flowed across her wrist, as she turned to smile at him.
“Dear,” she said,” is there anything you want? I’m on my way to the park; and I must hurry, for I’m late already.”
And she gave him a hurrying look, over her arm.
The bishop did not want anything at all. As he gazed at his wife he experienced a feeling of satisfaction. He saw eyes, nose, hips, hair, arms, all in order: he saw her all complete. How well she attended to everything: she dressed herself, she fixed her hair . . . yes, she did everything very well for herself. And for this reason it was a comfort to watch her. She was attractive, but she was capable; she did not ask him to help her with anything. He believed that he satisfied her as a bishop: and felt that nothing further was expected of him.
Nevertheless, he was uncomfortable because she was going out: it saddened him. for it left him alone with the archdeacon. He would have liked to remain looking at her — watching her adroit hands and amiable expression, taking comfort from her tidiness. She seemed so certain of herself . . . seemed so to him, at least . . . was there such a thing as doubt in that pretty golden head of hers? Never, he felt sure; and in her deft and quiet presence, treated himself to feelings of peace.
“You’re like a child,” she said, “standing there. . . . Is anything the matter? I must go, for I’ve promised to meet Juliet in the Mall, and take her from the nurse. Can I do anything for you? But not too much, dear, or I’ll never get off.”
She drew on her hat, twisting her hair beneath the brim, patting the crown into shape. And she stood there smiling gently into the mirror, in which she saw only vaguely, her thoughts being dreamy, her own slender figure.
“Julia,” said the bishop, “to-night I should really like to stay at home. I have a great deal on my mind.”
Her look flew over him as lightly as a moth. “You’re sure you’re all right, dear?” she asked.
“I dare say,” replied the bishop, “that I am.” He paused; he would have liked to look a little dismal, for sympathy. But there was really nothing to complain of. He felt lonely, and his problems troubled his mind, empty, for the moment, of divine grace.
“Well,” said Julia brightly, “that’s all right, then; we’re at home to-night, and the nurse is out. So . . . now what else is there? Have you an errand for me? Then good-bye come and talk to me this evening, after Juliet’s bath.”
“I have put a few socks,” said the bishop, “on my bed. There are some holes in them.”
“I’ll see about that,” said Julia, “when I come home.”
But the bishop did not want his wife to leave. “I would like to talk to you,” he said. “About the ladies of St. Mary’s.”
“That also.” said his wife, “will keep.”
And she added, smiling indulgently, “Was that all you wished to say?”
The bishop went on hurriedly: “What are you going to do this afternoon, you and Juliet? The carousel is closed in this cold weather. But I suppose the Mall is full of children. I wish I had nothing to do, and could go with you. Perhaps a walk would do me good. If it were not that I am very busy . . .”
“Good-by,” said Julia, giving his cheek a kiss; and she went out to meet her daughter in the park.
The bishop stood alone among his wife’s chairs and tables. The cold light of early winter, striking through the curtains, tried in vain to chill the room which remained warm, disorderly, and delicately fragrant. As he stood, gazing thoughtfully at the walls, his mind began to feel relieved of its troubles, and his thoughts to take on a certain importance. The perfection of his home consoled him in the midst of the most perplexing problems. He was like a collector who loves his treasures because they are complete, and because they belong to him. It is the love of a child for his toys; such a passion, without desire and without despair, sustains the human race which leaves to its heirs collections of stamps, porcelains, books, and furniture.
The bishop did not compare his wife to books or porcelains. Nevertheless, he closed her door as one closes the door of a museum, and went down-stairs to his study with renewed spirit. In his house all was comfortable and complete. Very well: in the midst of this peace, in which nothing was lacking, he would equip himself with courage to continue his work in a world where everything was still being built. His cathedral took shape again before his eyes. And he wrote down on a sheet of paper:
Mrs. Guerdon ……… $ 5000
Mr. Lanyarde 2nd ….. 10000
Mrs. Hope………… 500
Then, after a pause, he wrote:
Mr. Cohen ………… $ 5000
But presently he crossed this out, and wrote instead:
Mr. Cohen ……….. $ 1000
And he continued his list with a sigh.
Release Date: December 9, 1947
Release Time: 109 minutes
Cast:
Cary Grant as Dudley
Loretta Young as Julia Brougham
David Niven as Bishop Henry Brougham
Monty Woolley as Professor Wutheridge
James Gleason as Sylvester
Gladys Cooper as Mrs. Agnes Hamilton
Elsa Lanchester as Matilda
Sara Haden as Mildred Cassaway
Karolyn Grimes as Debby Brougham
Tito Vuolo as Maggenti
Regis Toomey as Reverend Miller
Sarah Edwards as Mrs. Duffy
Margaret McWade as Miss Trumbull
Anne O'Neal as Mrs. Ward
Ben Erway as Mr. Perry
Erville Alderson as Stevens
Robert J. Anderson as Defence Captain
Teddy Infuhr as Attack Captain
Eugene Borden as Michel
Almira Sessions as First Lady in Michel's
Claire Du Brey as Second Lady
Florence Auer as Third Lady
Margaret Wells as Hat Shop Proprietress
Kitty O'Neil as Hat Shop Customer
Isabel Jewell as Hysterical Mother
David Leonard as Blind Man
Dorothy Vaughan as Delia
Edgar Dearing as Policeman
The Robert Mitchell Boys Choir as Vocal Ensemble
Awards:
1947 Academy Awards
Best Director - Henry Koster - Nominated
Best Editing - Monica Collingwood - Nominated
Best Picture - Samuel Goldwyn Productions - Nominated
Best Score - Hugo Friedhofer - Nominated
Best Sound - Gordon Sawyer - Won
1947 Academy Awards
Best Director - Henry Koster - Nominated
Best Editing - Monica Collingwood - Nominated
Best Picture - Samuel Goldwyn Productions - Nominated
Best Score - Hugo Friedhofer - Nominated
Best Sound - Gordon Sawyer - Won
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Author of such revered books as PORTRAIT OF JENNIE, THE BISHOP'S WIFE, MR. WHITTLE AND THE MORNING STAR, and STONECLIFF, Robert Nathan was born in New York City in 1894 and was educated at private schools in the United States and Switzerland. While attending Harvard University where he was a classmate with E.E. Cummings, Nathan was an editor of the Harvard Monthly, in which his first stories and poems appeared.
While at Cambridge, Nathan also found the time to become an accomplished cellist, a lightweight boxer, and Captain of the fencing team. After leaving college, Mr. Nathan devoted his time exclusively to writing until his passing in 1985. Early on, Nathan's work strengthened his reputation with both the public and peers. F. Scott Fitzgerald once referred to Robert Nathan as his favorite writer. During this period, the legendary Louis B. Mayer contracted him to Hollywood to become a screenwriter. Nathan ultimately didn't enjoy the experience, though the movie industry continually craved his work. Five of his novels have been made into films.
The aforementioned "Portrait of Jennie" and "The Bishop's Wife," as well as "One More Spring," "Wake Up and Dream" (from the novel "The Enchanted Voyage") and "Color of Evening." Robert Nathan was the author of over fifty volumes of novels, poetry, and plays, and from this body of distinguished work he acquired a reputation as a master of satiric fantasy unique in American Letters. In the twilight of his career he was known as "The Dean of Author's," since many prominent writers including Irving Stone and Irving Wallace sought out Nathan's guidance. A member of the National Institute of Arts and Letters for fifty years, Mr. Nathan called both Cape Cod and California home. Happily, his last fifteen years were spent in the companionship of his wife, English born actress, Anna Lee.
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