I Am Shakespeare Read online

  The SERGEANT gets a call on his radio.

  CBCA finds the irrelevant detail, that little clue that does not really move the storyline forwards and may actually undermine its main purpose.

  OXFORD. Tell the sergeant about J. Thomas Looney, Charlton. Show him the evidence.

  SERGEANT. Hold on a moment. Charlton, take charge.

  He steps out.

  OXFORD. The plays are like a self-portrait of my life, Charlton.

  SHAKSPAR. Frank. The range of plots and characters in the plays is so vast that you can find ‘self-portraits’ of anyone you care to think of.

  OXFORD. Why is it so hard to find you then? There is only one authentic Warwickshire character, Christopher Sly of The Taming of the Shrew; a bearherd who falls down drunk one night outside a nobleman’s country manor and wakes to find himself impersonating, God forbid, a nasty aristocrat with a troupe of players… The biographical parallels between my life and the plays are too many to be ignored and too personal to be fabricated. Sixteen months, I toured the Continent: Padua, Mantua, Venice, Sicily. Every familiar Shakespearean setting. I sailed exactly the same route as the boys in Comedy of Errors at exactly the same age. I arrived in Italy at the start of a two-month festival of commedia dell’arte…

  BACON. Was that when you challenged the whole of Palermo to a duel?

  OXFORD.…a theatrical form unknown at the time in England and apparent in the Shakespeare comedies.

  SHAKSPAR. Frank, you know, I’m not surprised to see he’s back from the dead again. The noble Earl of Oxford died in 1604. If he wrote my late plays, he was pushing them up with the daisies!

  OXFORD. And the flow of Shakespearean publications died immediately too, didn’t it, Will? When I died. A few isolated quartos from certain unidentified ‘grand possessors’. But nothing else after my death until the First Folio of 1623.

  SHAKSPAR. The Tempest was impelled by a sea voyage that took place in 1609; Macbeth could not have been composed before the Gunpowder Plot of 1605. It’s impossible that you wrote them.

  OXFORD. Oh yes, I’m terribly sorry. I forgot that there has only ever been one sea voyage and one treasonous plot in recorded history. Anonymous versions of Hamlet and King Lear were being performed in the early 1590s. If you wrote these mature plays then you were pushing them out with your first facial hair. Charlton! My family’s theatre company was touring to Stratford-upon-Avon when he was still plodding about the provinces performing puppet shows.

  [I am praised, during my lifetime, as a comic playwright of excellence, so where are my comedies, if they are not the comedies of Shakespeare? Where are they? My own poetry ceases as soon as the name William Shakespeare appears.

  SHAKSPAR. And this man claims to have written ‘Brevity is the soul of wit’.]

  The SERGEANT returns with BARRY and the drinks. BARRY is singing.

  BARRY. I’m a Sputnik Love God.

  SERGEANT. Charlton! What the hell’s going on here?

  FRANK gets out evidence on boards and flipcharts, while BARRY hands round drinks.

  FRANK. We were just talking about the work of J. Thomas Looney. Would you look at this evidence I have, sergeant? In 1920, an English schoolteacher, J. Thomas Looney, employed a new methodology of investigation – very similar to your criteria-based content analysis. He simply examined the Shakespeare plays extremely closely without any preconception of who the author might be; drew from the words what the author knew about and cared about; and determined a list of eighteen attributes of the author’s character. Here they are. With this evidence, Looney then set about looking and found a man who had the knowledge and life experience indicated by the writing.

  SERGEANT. This is more like it. Good work, Charlton.

  FRANK. Plus, I have the literary trail of all the writers of his time – Jonson, Marlowe, Spenser…

  SERGEANT. A trail?

  FRANK. Yes. The evidence all writers leave; of letters written and received, education, records of being paid for writing, et cetera. As you see, Shakespeare is the only one of twenty-five with no evidence…

  SERGEANT.…that proves he wrote for a living?

  FRANK. During his lifetime. That’s right. Not one. Everything is attributed to him after his death. Seven years after his death.

  SERGEANT. If writing plays was a crime, it sounds like William Shakespeare would be found innocent.

  FRANK. Why, sergeant?

  SERGEANT. In a court of law, Charlton, a suspect must be found guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Any reasonable doubt obliges a jury to judge the accused innocent.

  BACON. If a man will begin with certainties, he shall end in doubts; but if he will be content to begin with doubts he shall end in certainties.

  OXFORD. From this evidence, sergeant, can you not confirm the character profile of the perpetrator of the Shakespeare plays matches none other than myself, the Earl of Oxford?

  SERGEANT. No. This is the most appalling mismanagement of a manhunt I have ever witnessed, Charlton. Slack. If I’m frank, that’s what I call this. You’re subjecting your men to an overload of information. You’ve got the whole squad heated up about the rights and wrongs before all the facts have been fully considered.

  FRANK. Yes, sergeant.

  [SERGEANT. You’re wasting valuable police time and putting the theatregoing public at risk. Because you can be damn sure your man is out there somewhere, right now, as we speak, with his words rammed down some poor actor’s throat, his thoughts stuffed in some poor audience’s head, and no one knows who the hell is doing it!]

  FRANK. Yes, sergeant.

  SERGEANT. Only acting, Charlton. What did you think? Of my acting?

  FRANK. Oh yes. Very good.

  SERGEANT. It’s a shame you haven’t got a Shakespeare diary like Maybrick’s Ripper diary.

  OXFORD. But there is a diary.

  FRANK. There’s a Shakespeare diary?

  OXFORD. My diary. The Shakespeare sonnets. The author is an older man who knows disgrace, as I did, writing to younger men and women, as here:

  ‘That time of year thou mayst in me behold

  When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

  Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

  Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.

  In me thou seest the twilight of such day

  As after sunset fadeth in the west,

  Which by and by black night doth take away,

  Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.

  In me thou seest the glowing of such fire

  That on the ashes of his youth doth lie

  As the deathbed wheron it must expire,

  Consumed with that which it was nourished by.

  This thou perceives, which makes thy love more strong,

  To love that well which thou must leave ere long.’

  FRANK. In 1590, when the sonnets begin, you were already forty, while Shakspar and Bacon were still in their twenties.

  BACON. Frank. Many of the sonnets are not just personal revelation. Some are hymns of praise for the poet’s higher self, his muse, the true genius.

  ‘So oft have I invoked thee for my muse

  And found such fair assistance in my verse

  As every alien pen hath got my use,

  And under thee their poesy disperse.

  Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing

  And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,

  Have added feathers to the learned’s wing

  And given grace a double majesty.

  Yet be most proud of that which I compile,

  Whose influence is thine and born of thee.

  In others’ works thou dost but mend the style,

  And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;

  But thou art all my art, and dost advance

  As high as learning my rude ignorance.’

  FRANK. The Advancement of Learning! Your great work.

  SHAKSPAR.

  ‘If thy soul check thee tha
t I come so near,

  Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will,

  And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;

  Thus far for love my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.

  Will will fulfil the treasure of thy love,

  Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.

  In things of great receipt with ease we prove

  Among a number one is reckoned none.

  Then in the number let me pass untold,

  Though in thy store’s account I one must be;

  For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold

  That nothing me a something, sweet, to thee.

  Make but my name thy love, and love that still,

  And then thou lov’st me for my name is Will.’

  Not Edward! Not Francis! Will! My name is Will.

  He storms out and down the driveway. BARRY in pursuit.

  OXFORD. Will means a sense of resolve, a sexual passion. Would Sir Philip Sidney write a poem, ‘my name is Phil’?

  SHAKSPAR. It’s a pun. It’s got more than one meaning. Wordplay. That’s what I do.

  SERGEANT. Come back here.

  BARRY. Wait, Will, mate! Will!

  SERGEANT. Actors! You’ve got a mutiny on your hands, Charlton. Well, Shakespeare or not, I now have to take this clown down to the station for resisting arrest.

  The SERGEANT starts to take OXFORD out of the garage.

  Scene Two

  The Fourth Guest Ever: Mary Sidney Herbert

  MARY SIDNEY HERBERT, the COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE, to whose sons the First Folio was dedicated, appears at the back door. FRANK, the SERGEANT, BACON and OXFORD are in the garage. BARRY and SHAKSPAR have gone.

  MARY. Frank, darling, I have never been more ashamed in my life. You’re absolutely right to look at me that way. I’m not just late; I’ve missed the entire rehearsal. The golden rule, the one thing that separates professional actors from amateurs, is timing. I’ve let you all down. You’ve probably written me out of the scene. And I deserve it…

  FRANK. I don’t know what…

  SERGEANT. Excuse me…

  MARY. It’s no excuse, but Harold took the wrong turn and then there was an accident, it was nothing, but these two young men, the drivers, were so ‘het up’; ‘road rage’, you know, really you’d think young men today were connected to their automobiles by an umbilical cord. Anyway, Harold, my chauffeur, he’s so conscientious, used to be a policeman, about your height, and… well, my dears, only when… I’m so sorry, we haven’t met, are you playing the policeman?

  SERGEANT. No, madam, I am a policeman.

  MARY. Oh my Lord, has there been an accident?

  SERGEANT. No, madam.

  MARY. What on earth has Edward done now? He didn’t knock your cap off, did he?

  SERGEANT. Yes, as a matter of fact he did.

  MARY. Oh my Lord! He thought you were Harold dressed up as the policeman.

  SERGEANT. Harold?

  MARY. Harold, my chauffeur. He was going to play the policeman today.

  SERGEANT. Your chauffeur was going to pretend to be a policeman here today?

  MARY. Yes, that’s right. As part of our play.

  SERGEANT. That’s what Charlton said but I still don’t believe Mr de Vere was acting.

  MARY. He’s terribly good, isn’t he? Was he about to kill William Shakespeare when you arrived?

  SERGEANT. Yes.

  MARY. Oh, I love that bit. And then did William shout, ‘Help me, master constable, this man intends to murder me!’ and when you took hold of Lord Oxford, did he say, ‘Unhand me, constable, by Heaven, I’ll make a ghost of him that lets me.’ And then knock your helmet off your head and call you a dog. Is that how it happened?

  SERGEANT. Yes, yes, yes, that’s exactly how it took place. How did you know that?

  MARY. It’s in the script.

  SERGEANT. But why didn’t Mr de Vere stop when he realised I was a policeman?

  MARY. Because Edward’s one of Stanleywalskie’s method actors, and he thought you were Harold, my ex-constable chauffeur, exploring an emotional-recall exercise. It’s very bad form not to play along. Isn’t that right, Edward?

  OXFORD. Whatever.

  MARY. If you left him with us, Harold could bring him straight over to the police station after rehearsal and help you torture him.

  OXFORD. What?

  SERGEANT. I beg your pardon?

  MARY. Why, what did you do?

  BACON. I think you meant ‘question him’, Lady Mary.

  MARY. Did I? I’m so sorry.

  SERGEANT. Your driver used to be a policeman? Who are you?

  MARY. I apologise. You can call me Lady Mary. You’ve had such a shock. Sit down a moment.

  She gets the SERGEANT to sit down. He is quite taken with her.

  Harold’s more than enough to restrain Edward if he loses it again. Once a policeman, always a policeman. You can tell by the look in the eyes.

  SERGEANT. Can you?

  MARY. Of course you can. Always looking ahead. Always prepared for the unexpected. Always helping people.

  SERGEANT. And you say he’ll be right back?

  MARY. Yes, sergeant.

  SERGEANT. Do you have an important part in the play, Lady Mary?

  MARY. It depends on Mr Charlton.

  SERGEANT. Look. Here’s my telephone number. Ring me if you have any trouble. Charlton, I might come and see your play. You better get it right.

  He releases OXFORD.

  I hold you responsible for Mr de Vere’s appearance at the station tonight.

  FRANK. Thank you, sergeant.

  SERGEANT. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mary.

  MARY. The pleasure’s entirely mine.

  SERGEANT. Always looking ahead. I like that. Very observant of you. Think smart, men.

  He goes.

  MARY. Now, Santa, where’s Shirley Temple?

  They celebrate.

  BACON. Mr Charlton, may I introduce my cousin, Lady Mary Sidney.

  FRANK. Mary Sidney.

  OXFORD. The Countess of Pembroke

  FRANK. What are you doing here?

  MARY. Mr Charlton. The First Folio of Shakespeare’s plays was dedicated to my sons, the incomparable brethren. I think I can shed some light on this question of the authorship. You don’t have any tobacco, do you? Cigarettes?

  FRANK. You smoke?

  MARY. Yes, I did a lot of things that were forbidden to women in my day. Took it up in France when I was abroad with my forbidden lover, Dr Lister.

  FRANK. Who forbids a countess?

  MARY. My son, William Herbert, in this instance, Mr W.H. Beneath-My-Class, you know, forbidden relations across class boundaries, like so many of the love affairs in the Shakespeare works. Aren’t they wonderful characters, Mr Charlton, the women, I mean? Such independence, in a society where women were still considered property. Some even thought us without a soul. Can you imagine! It still delights me to see so many who defy male domination in the plays. A distinguishing feature of the Shakespeare plays, wouldn’t you agree?

  FRANK. Yes, I suppose so, I’d never thought of that before…

  MARY. Oh yes, do you know, at least sixteen marry the man of their choice. Nine even defying their fathers to do so. Thank God, things have got – a little bit – better since then.

  FRANK. Would you mind if I filmed you?

  MARY. Of course not, that’s what I’m here for.

  OXFORD. Charlton. There are numerous fringe claims like this. They just distract from the truth and play into the hands of Stratfordians.

  MARY. My lord, if you will hear me out. How could a…

  OXFORD. How could a man conceive a character like Rosalind or Cleopatra? How could a woman conceive the men?

  MARY. You mean the murderers, overbearing fathers, insanely jealous husbands, pompous pedants, drunkards, cowards, liars, extortionists, hypocrites, and dimwits? I don’t know. Direct life experience? Don’t you find it curious, Mr Charlton, why so much f
uss is made about what Shakespeare thought of women? They are far and away the better represented gender – intelligent, capable women – women I find it hard to imagine emerging from your imagination, my lord.

  OXFORD. Some of them took quite a bit of imagination.

  MARY. Have you read my translation of the play, The Tragedie of Anthony, Mr Charlton?

  FRANK. No, I’m afraid I haven’t. But I think I’ve got it here.

  OXFORD. Closet drama.

  BACON. Mary was the first woman in England to publish a play, Frank.

  OXFORD. A translation of a play.

  MARY. Women were only allowed to publish translations, or eulogies for the dead, and even then with wretched apologies for even assuming to write. The anguish of enforced anonymity you bemoan, cousin, really. Get a life. Is that the expression?

  FRANK. Yes, that’s it.

  MARY. Get a life! I do adore this modern English. Only Elizabeth could write without apology, but then she did everything without apology, didn’t she, boys? If you need a cause, a reason, for writing anonymously behind an obvious pseudonym like Shakespeare, try being a woman in my time.

  FRANK. Are you saying a woman wrote Shakespeare?

  MARY. Perhaps things haven’t changed after all.

  FRANK. I mean, your Antony and Cleopatra is obviously a major inspiration for the Shakespeare play, but translated historical drama is just an academic exercise…

  MARY. Quite the contrary, I used the idea of translated historical drama as a veiling device to tell the truth.

  BACON. Give a man a mask and he’ll tell you the truth.

  MARY.

  ‘Invest in me, my motley. Give me leave

  To speak my mind…’

  OXFORD.

  ‘…and I will through and through

  Cleanse the foul body of th’infected world…’

  MARY. You see, we were all brought up as children on visiting players, and plays, adapted by our relatives to express some hidden message, joke or reformation propaganda. What do you think the play scene in Hamlet is based on, pure fantasy?

  BACON.

  ‘I have heard