taught us that in high school English,” said Peter.
“Well,” said Francis, “the Oxfordians have had trouble making inroads in the academic establishment.”
“How can they say that Shakespeare wasn’t Shakespeare?” said Peter, bewildered by such nonsense.
“Two reasons, essentially,” said Francis. “To begin with, the Stratford businessman known as William Shakspere, who never spelled his name with an
e
after the
k
, has a reasonably well-documented life, and yet there exists no evidence from his lifetime that he was even a writer, much less the great William Shakespeare—whose name always had an
e
after the
k
.”
“But it was a long time ago,” said Peter. “People didn’t know then that they should save letters or manuscripts.”
“True,” said Francis. “That is just what the Stratfordians argue. They’re the ones who believe the plays were written by William Shakespeare of Stratford.”
“Well, they were, weren’t they?” said Peter.
“The other problem,” said Francis, “is that there is no evidence that Shakespeare ever received any education, though he probably attended the Stratford Grammar School. He certainly never attended Oxford, Cambridge, or any other university in Europe.”
“So,” said Peter, puzzled that he seemed to be, for the first time since they had met, in an argument with Francis. “He was a genius, he didn’t need to be taught how to write.”
“Again, well argued,” said Francis. “But it’s not the quality of his writing but the content that presents a problem. The writer of Shakespeare’s plays had a significant knowledge of law and art, of music, medicine, military tactics, philosophy, and a dozen other specialized fields, and especially of life in the Italian court. He used sources in several languages, including Latin and Greek. One can be born with genius, but where did Mr. Shakspere of Stratford acquire all this information?”
“So you really think Shakespeare didn’t write his own plays?” said Peter, not sure how to refute this argument.
“Alas, no. I myself remain a Stratfordian. But I do admit there is room for doubt. I might even say it would be unreasonable not to doubt.”
“Do you think we’ll ever know?” asked Peter.
“Perhaps,” said Francis, “when some enterprising book hound discovers solid evidence in favor of Mr. Shakespeare, or Edward de Vere, or Christopher Marlowe, or Francis Bacon. They’ve all been suggested as possible authors.”
Peter felt the usually solid floor of the Devereaux Room shifting beneath him. He stared down at the stack of books and pamphlets awaiting the arrival of Dr. Kashimoto. He had expected to have his preconceived notions about the world challenged when he came to college, but to have his mentor introduce a doubt like this, on such a basic tenet of Western culture, was like being told that truth wasn’t true or reality wasn’t real. But then he felt Francis lay a hand on his shoulder and he heard a calming voice turn a bizarre nightmare into a glorious fantasy.
“Wouldn’t it be something, Peter, to discover a page of manuscript written by the Stratford Shakespeare? Or a letter to Anne Hathaway where he complains about what trouble the third act of
Hamlet
is giving him?”
“The Holy Grail,” said Peter reverently. He was surprised to hear the words coming from his mouth. The comparison had been instinctual.
“Exactly,” said Francis. “The Holy Grail.”
Kingham, Saturday, February 18, 1995
P eter took the car this time. If he had to make a second getaway, he had no interest in doing it on foot again. A few hundred yards past the unwelcoming entrance to Evenlode House the road humped over a small stone bridge. Below, the River Evenlode flowed—a dozen feet wide and muddy and swollen from the recent rains. Another quarter mile down the road on the right he came to a pair of stone pillars surmounted by ornamental urns. An engraved stone on a pillar read E VENLODE M ANOR
“Well,” said Francis, “the Oxfordians have had trouble making inroads in the academic establishment.”
“How can they say that Shakespeare wasn’t Shakespeare?” said Peter, bewildered by such nonsense.
“Two reasons, essentially,” said Francis. “To begin with, the Stratford businessman known as William Shakspere, who never spelled his name with an
e
after the
k
, has a reasonably well-documented life, and yet there exists no evidence from his lifetime that he was even a writer, much less the great William Shakespeare—whose name always had an
e
after the
k
.”
“But it was a long time ago,” said Peter. “People didn’t know then that they should save letters or manuscripts.”
“True,” said Francis. “That is just what the Stratfordians argue. They’re the ones who believe the plays were written by William Shakespeare of Stratford.”
“Well, they were, weren’t they?” said Peter.
“The other problem,” said Francis, “is that there is no evidence that Shakespeare ever received any education, though he probably attended the Stratford Grammar School. He certainly never attended Oxford, Cambridge, or any other university in Europe.”
“So,” said Peter, puzzled that he seemed to be, for the first time since they had met, in an argument with Francis. “He was a genius, he didn’t need to be taught how to write.”
“Again, well argued,” said Francis. “But it’s not the quality of his writing but the content that presents a problem. The writer of Shakespeare’s plays had a significant knowledge of law and art, of music, medicine, military tactics, philosophy, and a dozen other specialized fields, and especially of life in the Italian court. He used sources in several languages, including Latin and Greek. One can be born with genius, but where did Mr. Shakspere of Stratford acquire all this information?”
“So you really think Shakespeare didn’t write his own plays?” said Peter, not sure how to refute this argument.
“Alas, no. I myself remain a Stratfordian. But I do admit there is room for doubt. I might even say it would be unreasonable not to doubt.”
“Do you think we’ll ever know?” asked Peter.
“Perhaps,” said Francis, “when some enterprising book hound discovers solid evidence in favor of Mr. Shakespeare, or Edward de Vere, or Christopher Marlowe, or Francis Bacon. They’ve all been suggested as possible authors.”
Peter felt the usually solid floor of the Devereaux Room shifting beneath him. He stared down at the stack of books and pamphlets awaiting the arrival of Dr. Kashimoto. He had expected to have his preconceived notions about the world challenged when he came to college, but to have his mentor introduce a doubt like this, on such a basic tenet of Western culture, was like being told that truth wasn’t true or reality wasn’t real. But then he felt Francis lay a hand on his shoulder and he heard a calming voice turn a bizarre nightmare into a glorious fantasy.
“Wouldn’t it be something, Peter, to discover a page of manuscript written by the Stratford Shakespeare? Or a letter to Anne Hathaway where he complains about what trouble the third act of
Hamlet
is giving him?”
“The Holy Grail,” said Peter reverently. He was surprised to hear the words coming from his mouth. The comparison had been instinctual.
“Exactly,” said Francis. “The Holy Grail.”
Kingham, Saturday, February 18, 1995
P eter took the car this time. If he had to make a second getaway, he had no interest in doing it on foot again. A few hundred yards past the unwelcoming entrance to Evenlode House the road humped over a small stone bridge. Below, the River Evenlode flowed—a dozen feet wide and muddy and swollen from the recent rains. Another quarter mile down the road on the right he came to a pair of stone pillars surmounted by ornamental urns. An engraved stone on a pillar read E VENLODE M ANOR
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