The English are a curious breed. We pretend to love peace
but seem to be forever at war. We invented most sports but are hopeless at
playing them. We laugh at the monarchy but wouldn’t contemplate an alternative.
We benefit from immigration, yet fear and loathe immigrants. We produce
pioneering scientists yet take no interest in science. And we take pride in our
extraordinary artistic tradition but find artists troubling and inconvenient.
We like them to be romantic but favour them dead. Best of all, we prefer them
romantic and dead.
That is Shakespeare’s problem. Although unquestionably dead,
he is resolutely unromantic. That is why so many scholars have wasted their
dreary academic lives trying to prove
that the plays attributed to William Shakespeare weren’t
written by him but by the Earl of Oxford, or Francis Bacon, or even Mary
Sidney, Countess of Pembroke. It is also presumably why Robert Emmerich felt
the need to waste millions of pounds making Anonymous
– though fortunately few people have felt the need to go and see it.
In part, the insistence that the author of Henry V, King Lear or Hamlet had to be an aristocrat was
driven by a belief that a playwright whose work inhabited the minds of kings
and explored the world of power had necessarily to belong to an elite caste.
This of course rather misses the point that imagination can do whatever it
chooses, conjure what it will.
There was almost certainly another impulse behind the need
to prove Shakespeare of noble blood: snobbery. This seems to have characterised
Thomas Looney, first proponent of the notion that Shakespeare’s plays were
written by Edward de Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford. Aptly named, Looney appears to
have been an obsessive reactionary who hated the modern world, loathed
democracy and hoped England might return to its feudal past.
Despite the Earl of Oxford having died in 1604, ten years
before Shakespeare’s last play, Looney’s theory was taken up by others. For
while most of the greats of English literature such as Samuel Jonson, John
Keats or Charles Dickens have come from lower middle class backgrounds, most
academics and commentators have come from a stuffier, more privileged milieu.
Frankly, they deplored the notion that England’s supreme
writer should have been a tradesman’s son and the product of a provincial
grammar school. Christopher Marlowe was a drunken, violent, atheistic
homosexual, but at least he had been to Cambridge; he was part of the
establishment. For these sniffy, cloistered snobs the thought that Shakespeare
might have spoken with a flat midlands accent was too much to contemplate.
We know relatively little about his life, but almost
everything we do know suggests he was pragmatic and calculating; a businessman
as much as a poet. To all appearances, Shakespeare was an upwardly mobile
entrepreneur who saw the theatre as a good way to make money.
This was always going to upset some people. We prefer our
artists to die young and in poverty. Keats had the good taste to die of a
writerly disease, poor and at a young age in tasteful Italy.
Without seeming to care that it would upset snobs, aesthetes
and others of refined palate, Shakespeare chose to end his days in a
comfortable bed with a small fortune under the mattress. Good for him.
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