For 250 years no one doubted that William Shakespeare wrote the plays and sonnets published under his name, until a controversy about the Bible in 1848 changed everything. Incensed at the attacks on scripture made by disciples of the “Higher Criticism” and, most egregious of all, the suggestion that Jesus might not have been a historical personage, Samuel Mosheim Schmucker of Philadelphia, Lutheran minister turned popular biographer, decided to set the world straight. His 500-page Historic Doubts Respecting Shakespeare, Illustrating Infidel Objections Against the Bible was, he believed, a work of such withering satire that the infidels would never dare raise their heads again. How horrified he must have been to see the Bible ignored, his “absurdities” against Shakespeare taken seriously, and an entire anti-Shakespeare industry arise from what he thought were the ashes of his pyre.
To date eighty-seven names have been proposed as the true author of the Shakespearean canon. Some have not met the highest standards of plausibility: Anne Hathaway, Queen Elizabeth I, King Edward VI, King James VI, Mary Queen of Scots, and the Rosicrucians have been suggested — even Cervantes was proposed by Carlos Fuentes. The candidates with the strongest support have been Francis Bacon, Christopher Marlowe, and the Earl of Oxford, but there are very few writers — one might almost say very few prominent people — of the Elizabethan era whose names have not been added to the list at one time or another.
Today a party of anti-Shakespeareans are gathering in support of Mary Sidney, Countess of Pembroke. As countess and sister of the glittering courtier and writer, Philip Sidney, she certainly had the social credentials to know what the plays reveal about the royal court. As poet and translator, and as leader of the Wilton Circle, a group of writers dedicated to raising the level of English literature to that of Italy and France, her literary credentials were excellent. And it’s entirely reasonable to believe that, as a woman of the aristocracy, in order to make her contribution in the male-only, rather disreputable area of playwriting — especially bawdy, anti-establishment plays — she might publish under the name of someone else, perhaps a member of an acting company.
In Sweet Swan of Avon: Did a Woman Write Shakespeare? Robin Williams presents the case against William Shakespeare and for Mary Sidney. Typically, much of the anti-Shakespeare argument is based on the social class of the bumpkin from Stratford. How could the son of a mere glove maker, who might or might not have attended the local grammar school, know so much about matters far above his station, such as court life, diplomacy, medicine, Greek and Roman literature? And isn’t it mysterious that there is so little documentation about his life, only the smallest scraps that by no means establish him as the writer of the sonnets and plays? In fact, those scraps taken on their own, according to Williams, reveal a cad who abandoned his wife and children, a shady businessman who hoarded grain during a shortage, a tax cheat, a thug who threatened someone with death, possibly a criminal who became rich by mysterious means, and an undistinguished actor, quite possibly illiterate.
Mary Sidney, on the other hand, was a paragon of Renaissance virtue. Fluent in languages modern and ancient, she wrote, translated, and at her country estate gave direction to other distinguished writers of the Wilton Circle. She was wealthy, well connected, well travelled, and had once been a lady-in-waiting at Elizabeth’s court — in short, the perfect fit for the author of Shakespeare’s plays.
Bursting at the seams with arguments on behalf of Mary, the book offers every conceivable bit of evidence, both strong and otherwise: telling details (there are many), suggestions, hints, coincidences, interpretation, speculation, innuendo, rhetorical questions — every possible connection that can be yanked into service. The quantity of material is overwhelming, but that superabundance cuts two ways. For scholars and conspiracy buffs Williams offers a lifetime of clues to chase down and disputes to settle; the general reader, though, is more likely to find the truly cogent points near-buried under such a mountain of implausibilities, assorted maybes and what-ifs, that they may be inclined just to abandon the effort to reach a considered judgement and simply accept or reject the Mary Sidney thesis holus-bolus. There is undoubtedly a great deal to be said for Mary Sidney, but not so much as Ms. Williams thinks.
(Incidentally, as reported in a recent article in The Atlantic, Mary is not alone. Waiting in the wings is another female Elizabethan proposed as the real Shakespeare, also a well educated writer with an intriguing biography, one Emilia Bassano.)
One major objection to the book’s thesis remains hard to explain: How could this momentous secret be kept so airtight by so many people in the literary community, in the theatrical community, in the public, perhaps even at court, with not a word ever appearing in any book, any poem, nothing in letters, diaries, or family papers? It would have taken a very effective conspiracy to enable Mary Sidney to publish as William Shakspeare.
An especially interesting chapter of Sweet Swan of Avon discusses the sonnets. Passionately addressed to a younger man, they have long been problematic, for, while they appear to be an early, shocking example of gay literature, they are hardly erotic, and many of them are concerned solely with urging the young man to get married and have children — not the usual tack of a lover. However, when Mary Sidney is posited as the author, anomalies disappear. Her older brother, Philip, filled the role precisely of the handsome fellow of sonnets nearing the end of his youth without marrying. Nothing could be more natural than for his adoring younger sister to nag him to marry. And the “Dark Lady” sonnets align even better with Mary Sidney's biography. Like the writer, Mary was in love with a younger man and was deeply hurt and jealous when she believed (mistakenly) that he had fallen in love with her younger, dark-eyed, dark-haired niece.
One way to assess the claims for Mary’s authorship is to search through her published works — or indeed the works of any other candidate — looking for passages that match Shakespeare’s genius, the denseness of imagery, the ceaseless wordplay, the natural, instinctive way with metaphorical language, the breathtakingly original way of wrenching together divergent experiences, not to mention characters wonderfully drawn from life and superb dramatic skills. But you always search in vain. If someone other than the man from Stratford wrote the works of Shakespeare, he or she did so after undergoing a truly miraculous transformation.
No comments:
Post a Comment