Much ado about nothing
Why Shakespeare was not, is not, and never will be the Earl of
Oxford
by Jeffrey Gantz
ALIAS SHAKESPEARE: SOLVING THE GREATEST LITERARY MYSTERY OF ALL TIME, By
Joseph Sobran. The Free Press/Simon & Schuster, 311 pages, $25.
Ready for your bedtime story? A long time ago, in a land across the sea, Edward
de Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford, decided he was going be known to posterity as
William Shakespeare. He was already known to his contemporaries as a courtly
poet and playwright -- but he wanted to go down in history as the people's poet
and playwright. So in 1590 or thereabouts he gathered a number of dramatic
works he'd written and started sending them off to the public playhouses. He
couldn't put his own name on them, of course, for it wasn't the fashion for
Queen Elizabeth's nobles to write for the rabble. If he'd been exposed as the
author, who knows what dreadful fate would have awaited him -- drawing and
quartering at the very least.
Now it must be admitted that Edward's standing in court was pretty much drawn
and quartered already, owing to some unfortunate misunderstandings. He had
married Anne Cecil, daughter of the powerful Lord Burghley (Queen Elizabeth's
Lord Treasurer); and while Anne was broadening with their first child, he was
broadening his education with Venetian courtesans. What did he learn? Why, that
women are promiscuous. Naturally, upon his return to England he disavowed the
child. Was it Edward's fault if Lord Burghley couldn't see his daughter for the
slut she obviously was?
In his next adventure, Edward made a pact with some friends to advance the
cause of Catholicism in England -- fortunately he realized his mistake in time
to betray his co-conspirators to the authorities. Romance then beckoned, and he
got one of Queen Elizabeth's maids-of-honor, Anne Vavasour, pregnant. Who can
doubt that he loved Anne Vavasour very much and would have married her if he
hadn't already been married to Anne Cecil?
It's true that when Anne Cecil died, Edward married not Anne Vavasour but
Elizabeth Trentham, yet another maid-of-honor. And, yes, Edward was absent from
Anne Cecil's funeral -- but that's understandable, since the Spanish Armada was
about to descend on England, and he was preoccupied with the important
commission (his own ship, to be sure -- perhaps a fleet) he was to receive from
the Queen. Or should have received. Instead, thanks to his political enemies,
he was made governor of the garrison at Harwich. A mere garrison for the 17th
Earl of Oxford? Edward had no choice but to desert his command, saying that "he
thought the place of no service nor credit." (The Earl of Leicester,
undoubtedly jealous, whined, "I know her Majesty will also make him know, that
it was of good grace to appoint that place to him, having no more experience
than he hath.")
Long before this time, Edward had run through his huge inheritance (but what
inheritance could be huge enough for a man of his talents?). Now he was reduced
to an annual royal stipend of £1000 -- paid out quarterly, a
niggardly arrangement that cramped his style and his capacity for creative
overspending. It wasn't enough, of course (there was no Smith, Barney back
then), so he decided to mend his fortunes by selling his dramatic output at
£6 a pop.
All this might not seem entirely to Oxford's credit: but you have to weigh the
testimony -- deeds, not words -- of those who knew him. Once his plays began to
appear, the entire city of London -- man, woman, and child -- rose as one to
protect their favorite from the Queen's wrath. Just consider the facts. He was
delivering his scripts to the playhouses (and receiving that all-important
£6), sitting there every night making the modifications and
updatings that the public demanded, even (if the historical record and the new
evidence of computer technology is to be believed) acting in all of the
performances. The whole of London had to know who "Shakespeare" was: Oxford's
friends, his servants, the theater companies, the players, the musicians, the
stagehands, the bookkeepers, the ticket takers, his fellow playwrights, their
fellow writers, the publishers, the printers, the booksellers, the audiences --
in particular the theater regulars from the Inns of Court, who knew everything.
Yet not a single person let his identity slip.
As for the Queen, well, she'd seen some of these plays in earlier versions,
when they'd been presented at court, so she wasn't fooled, and neither were her
nobles. Nonetheless, despite his misfortunes, they all must have loved Edward,
because they pretended not to know. Even after the death of Elizabeth (in 1603)
and that of Oxford (in 1604), England preserved the Earl's shameful secret: his
friends and enemies joined forces to ensure that no breath of scandal should
ever attaint his good name. And to this day people still believe that Oxford's
plays were written by Shakespeare . . .
I like a good fairy tale as much as anybody, but this one is wearing
thin. The latest effort to persuade us that Edward de Vere was the real Bard is
Joseph Sobran's paperweight Alias Shakespeare, which in 300 pages of
gauzy argument presumes to overturn centuries of serious scholarship.
Meanwhile, the Shakespeare Oxford Society has established its American library
and study center in Cambridge -- last month, according to the society's
Web
page, though the actual location of the
library is not revealed. Perhaps one has to take the oath of allegiance to
Oxford-as-Shakespeare before being allowed in.
The Oxford movement has had a positive influence on Shakespeare scholarship:
it's induced Stratfordians (those who believe the plays were written by
Shakespeare) to forsake the usual academic platitudes and clichés for
the messy real world of Elizabethan thought and drama. It's also provided some
hilarious scenarios (as we'll see in the next paragraph). But in the end, it
has as much substance as the emperor's new clothes. If you'll bear with me,
I'll try to explain why.
Early on in Alias Shakespeare, Sobran promises to abjure "the excesses
and fantasies of some heretics." So unlike his predecessors, he doesn't try to
convince us that Oxford was sleeping with her Majesty (i.e., that the
Virgin Queen was really the Strumpet Queen) and that the Earl of Southampton
was their son. Or that Anne Cecil was sleeping with her father -- who was thus
both father and grandfather to Oxford's child. We don't even hear that Romeo
and Juliet is the story of how Oxford (Romeo) abandoned the Queen
(Rosaline) in favor of Anne Cecil (Juliet), or maybe Anne Vavasour, or
Elizabeth Trentham. (Hamlet, however, is still posited as the story of
Oxford's life -- even though Stratfordians have shown that the play's plot
serves equally well for the Earl of Essex or James I.)
In other words, all the good gutter gossip is gone. What's left exposes the
poverty of the Oxfordian position: if we exclude the appendices (largely given
over to a misguided attempt at "proving" Oxford's poetry is just like
Shakespeare's), Alias Shakespeare runs a mere 223 pages. In the course
of which Sobran dredges up the same tired arguments. Once again we hear that
this boorish, uneducated wanna-be actor named William Shakespeare is not worthy
to be the author of the plays -- that only the Earl of Oxford has the
aristocratic lineage, the gentleman's education, the noble bearing necessary to
have written . . . Titus Andronicus.
Sobran is a smart guy and he writes with respect (unlike many of his Oxfordian
peers); it's almost distressing to see how little he has to offer. Back in
1994, Continuum brought out Irving Leigh Matus's Shakespeare, IN FACT, a
badly edited but scathing deconstruction of the Oxford movement. Matus
acknowledged the "real friendship [of] Joe Sobran, whom I owe thanks for many a
kindness." Yet Sobran ignores Matus's evidence completely. Shakespeare, IN
FACT is all particulars; Alias Shakespeare is all hypothesis.
Let's consider the vexed question of dating. William Shakespeare lived from
1564 to 1616, Edward de Vere from 1550 to 1604. The stagings of the plays
correspond with the Shakespeare years rather than the de Vere dates
(i.e., the likes of King Lear, Macbeth, and The
Tempest appear to have been written after de Vere died), so the burden of
proof falls on the Oxfordians. What does Sobran offer? Have a look:
These earlier dates for five very diverse plays mean that all the plays could
have been written by 1604, the year of Oxford's death. We have indications that
The Comedy of Errors existed by 1577, Titus Andronicus by 1584,
Hamlet by 1589, As You Like It by 1594, and Macbeth before
-- perhaps some years before -- 1605.
You were expecting a chronology of when Oxford wrote each play? Forget it. This
is the extent of Sobran's argument, and it's all based on speculation. For
example, something called The Historie of Error was presented at court
in 1577, so that must be The Comedy of Errors. A Hamlet was in
existence by 1589, so it must be Shakespeare's. As You Like It refers to
the 1593 death of Christopher Marlowe, so it must have been written in 1594.
Oxfordians complain that Stratfordians don't take them seriously.
Stratfordians are too busy being polite and trying not to laugh. The
Shakespeare industry has put every jot and tittle of this author's life and
work under the microscope. It's rebuilt the Globe on that theater's original
Southwark location. It's produced statistical studies and lexical databases.
And it's using computer technology to discover things about the Bard we never
dreamed we'd know (see the SHAXICON section of this essay). Meanwhile, the
Oxford movement remains obsessed with an adolescent fantasy figure whose
"biography" has all the detail of a Reader's Digest profile and all the
verisimilitude ("I see a noble, introverted outsider whose true worth the world
has never appreciated") of a Psychic Friends Network reading.
How did this nonsense get started? It's true that William Shakespeare as
author of the plays and sonnets is a frustrating, sometimes unsatisfying
proposition. We don't know exactly when he was born. We think he attended
Stratford Grammar School, but we have no proof; we know for sure that he didn't
go to Oxford or Cambridge. To have learned so much about the world -- in
particular the European continent and the English court -- he must have read a
great many books; yet there's little evidence he owned any. There isn't even
much evidence to suggest he could write. There are no letters to tell us of his
literary or artistic interests; nothing in his financial transactions or his
dealings with his wife suggests a great mind at work. Unlike such fellow
dramatists as Robert Greene and Ben Jonson, our author was not a self-promoter.
What we do know is that his contemporaries identified William Shakespeare as an
actor (despite the desperate attempts of Oxfordians to deny the copious
evidence) and as the author of the plays we credit to him.
The lacunae in Shakespeare's life are a nuisance but in no way disqualifying.
In his lifetime almost nothing was said about Christopher Marlowe as a
playwright. There are no manuscripts or letters; there's no sure remnant of his
handwriting, and it's not even certain that he attended Cambridge. We don't
know the names of Ben Jonson's parents, or when he was born; only a chance
remark made in 1617 argues that he attended Westminster School. John Webster,
who wrote The Duchess of Malfi and The White Devil, is a complete
mystery: when he was born, when he died, whether he went to school --
everything. John Fletcher (of the famous Jacobean team of Beaumont &
Fletcher) "disappears" for 10 years of his life; we don't even know whether he
was married. Thomas Dekker's schooling is another puzzle.
In his own time, Shakespeare was admired but not adored -- and not deemed
different from his fellow playwrights. None of the great dramatists of this
period was an aristocrat. Marlowe was a shoemaker's son. Jonson's stepfather
was a bricklayer, as was Thomas Middleton's father. Webster's father was a
coachmaker; John Ford's background is a mystery. Shakespeare's father was a
glover, so he fits right in. Oxfordians would have you believe that
"Shakespeare" is in a class (i.e., the nobility) by himself, but other
dramatists turned out comparable work. Ford's 'Tis Pity She's a Whore
and Webster's The White Devil are worthy of the Bard, in their own more
contemporary way. And you could make a case that the greatest tragedy of the
17th century is neither Hamlet nor King Lear but a collaboration
by Middleton and William Rowley, The Changeling, which delves into the
perverseness of sexual desire in way that would raise Madonna's eyebrows.
Education is a red herring -- how much formal schooling did Jane Austen have?
Or the Brontë sisters? Check out act one of The Taming of the
Shrew, where Lucentio tells us that "since for the great desire I had/To
see fair Padua, nursery of arts,/I am arrived for fruitful Lombardy." Padua is
not now and never was part of Lombardy; it has always belonged to Venetia, but
contemporary English maps showed Lombardy as covering all of northern Italy.
Shakespeare would have been taken in; Oxford, who visited Padua in 1575, could
have labored under no such illusion.
Oxford's complex character has been thoroughly explored by Matus: he was a
nobleman of considerable talents who squandered his financial resources,
cheated on his wife, made himself unwelcome at court, and had a high opinion of
himself that his contemporaries didn't always share. And the scenario advanced
by Oxfordians makes no sense. The Arte of English Poesie, written in
1589 (probably by George Puttenham), acknowledges Oxford as a leading poet and
playwright in Queen Elizabeth's court. Puttenham tells us that some of
Elizabeth's courtiers thought it wasn't quite manly to write poetry or masques,
but he doesn't mention Oxford in that context. Nowhere (despite
Frontline's disgraceful attempt to suggest otherwise last year) does
Puttenham, or anyone else, state that it was anathema for a nobleman to be
recognized as a playwright; nowhere does he suggest that any nobleman wrote
under an assumed name. Being identified as a public playwright would doubtless
have jeopardized Oxford's standing at court. Yet by 1590 he had hardly any
standing left to lose. Nonetheless, we're expected to believe that, even after
his death, all of London (most of which had to know) kept the secret. We're
talking about a massive, mind-boggling conspiracy that beggars Roswell, JFK, or
Martin Luther King. And for no reason. It doesn't figure.
But nothing about Oxford-as-Shakespeare figures. If he really needed to
withhold his identity, why not just have the plays delivered anonymously? (The
theater owners wouldn't care: their audiences craved plays, not playwrights.)
Or else adopt a pseudonym? Having the actor William Shakespeare pose as the
author would just arouse curiosity (since if Will wasn't the playwright,
the theater world would soon know). Indeed, Shakespeare was well enough known
to have been an object of the satirical anonymous play (circa 1590)
Arden of Faversham, whose characters include a pair of miscreants named
Black Will and Shakebag. Besides, we're supposed to believe that Oxford had
been writing these plays over some 20 years, and presenting early versions of
them at court. So if, starting in 1590, they turned up in the public
playhouses, who would be deceived? Certainly not Queen Elizabeth. And who else
mattered?
The time element alone disqualifies Oxford-as-Shakespeare. Oxford was a
generation earlier. Fourteen years might not seem like much, but Elizabethan
drama as we know it was scarcely possible before 1587 or so, when Thomas Kyd
wrote The Spanish Tragedy and Marlowe stunned audiences with
Tamburlaine. Even Shakespeare couldn't have penned his plays in the
1570s and early '80s: the playhouses weren't there, the performers weren't
there, the audiences weren't there. The sensibility wasn't there. If Oxford did
write a court masque or play (and there is testimony he did, though nothing
survives), his work likely would have conjured the euphuistic rhetoric of John
Lyly, who under Oxford's patronage wrote for the boy companies of Blackfriars
and Paul's. If Oxford wrote for the playhouses (and there is no testimony for
that), he must have done so in the last 15 years of his life.
But we know what he was doing after 1590: trying to repair his ruined
finances. Which meant not wasting time with playwrighting: all 36 plays at
£6 apiece meant £216 total -- a drop in the bucket
for an earl who couldn't manage on £1000 a year. Most of Edward de
Vere's letters from the 1590s survive (Oxfordians claim that the crucial ones
were all destroyed by his enemies -- we're talking conspiracy mentality here),
and half of them are consumed with his persistent attempts to acquire control
of the Queen's tin-mining monopolies (which the Queen wasn't about to hand over
to someone with Oxford's financial track record). There's no mention of
playwrighting, or poetry. As for the word "tin," it doesn't appear in any of
the plays attributed to Shakespeare.
In truth, almost any Shakespeare play could be used to dismantle the Oxford
movement. Let's look at one that doesn't get much attention from Oxfordians or
Stratfordians.
Henry VI, part one is ignored by Oxfordians, and it's not hard to see
why -- all by itself it makes rubbish of their case. It also helps to explain
one of the earliest references to Shakespeare, the ill-tempered outburst in
Robert Greene's 1592 pamphlet Greenes Groats-worthe of witte, bought with a
million of Repentance. Contemporary evidence from the diary of Rose Theatre
owner Philip Henslowe and the pamphlet Pierce Penilesse by Thomas Nashe
has established that all three Henry VI plays must have been on stage by
1592. But they could scarcely have been written more than a few years earlier.
They coincide with the rise of the outdoor amphitheaters in the late '80s, when
both the necessary venue and the necessary large cast would have been
available. Henry VI and the other history plays of this time all turn up
after the defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588, an event that fostered
an outbreak of English patriotism. The Henry VI author appears to have
made use of the second edition of Raphael Holinshed's Chronicles of England,
Scotland, and Ireland, which came out in 1587.
All this squares with a young playwright finding his way in 1589 or 1590, at
the age of 25 or 26, as Shakespeare was then. Oxford, on the other hand, was 39
or 40. The Henry VI plays cannot be his: he would have had no occasion
to write them in his youth, and they are not the work of a mature writer.
Indeed, it's not certain that they're the work of the same writer: Parts Two
and Three show dramatic improvement over Part One. Gary Taylor and Stanley
Wells are only the latest in a long line of scholars who believe that
Shakespeare did not write all of Part One. The quality of the verse is
dizzyingly uneven; scenes five and six in act four are different versions of
the same event, and the Bishop of Winchester becomes a cardinal in act one and
again in act five. Clearly some cobbling has taken place.
Given that the Lord Talbot scenes reflect the exploits of the Earl of Essex
against the Spaniards in the Low Countries during the winter of 1591-'92, and
that Talbot's stripping of the garter from cowardly Sir John Fastolfe in act
four must allude to the conferral, in April of 1592, by Queen Elizabeth of the
Order of the Garter on his descendant Gilbert Talbot, it's not unreasonable to
surmise that a pre-existing play about Henry VI was updated in 1592. (Plays
were regularly updated to keep audiences coming back.) Who wrote the original?
Taylor and Wells believe that Robert Greene and Thomas Nashe may have been
involved. Who did the revisions? Well, the 1623 Folio credits Henry VI,
Part One to Shakespeare, so it's logical to suppose he had some hand in it. By
1592, Greene was persona non grata with the theater companies for having
tried to sell his Orlando Furioso to more than one of them. No surprise,
then, that an aspiring young actor/dramatist might volunteer to do the
updating.
What we know for sure is that "harey the vj" was a huge success for Philip
Henslowe in the spring of 1592, whereas Greene's The Honourable Historie of
Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, A Looking Glasse for London and
England, and Orlando Furioso -- also performed by Lord Strange's Men
at the Rose -- all flopped. That could well explain what Greene, who died in
September of 1592, put out as a Parthian shot in his Groats-worthe of
witte. He's advising three fellow dramatists (Marlowe, Nashe, and George
Peele, in all probability) to beware of actors:
Base minded men al three of you, if by my miserie ye be not warned; for unto
none of you, like me, sought those burres to cleave; those puppits, I meane,
that speake from our mouths, those anticks garnisht in our colours. Is it not
strange that I, to whom they al have beene beholding, is it not like that you
to whome they all have beene beholding, shall, were ye in that case that I am
now, be both at once of them forsaken? Yes, trust them not; for there is an
upstart crow, beautified with our feathers, that, with his Tygers heart
wrapt in a Players hide, supposes he is as well able to bumbast out a
blanke verse as the best of you; and being an absolute Johannes Factotum
[jack of all trades], is in his owne conceit the onely Shake-scene in a
countrie.
What's going on here? Greene is reproaching an actor who, it would appear, is
passing himself off as a playwright. The line he cites is a parody of what
Richard Duke of York calls Queen Margaret in Henry VI, Part Three: "Oh
Tygres Heart, wrapt in a Womans Hide." He can be referring only to the author
of the play, or to the actor who took the part of York. One Oxfordian
hypothesis is that the famous tragedian Edward Alleyne played York, and that
Greene is merely complaining about bombastic actors who steal the limelight
from the playwright. But this won't do: York dies at the end of act one, and
the available roles in which Alleyne could have doubled are mere bit parts.
Alleyne would surely have preferred any of the four bigger (twice as many lines
minimum) and better roles that Henry VI, Part Three offers: Henry VI,
Richard Duke of Gloucester, Edward IV, or the Earl of Warwick. Besides, if
Greene were going to rail at Alleyne for overacting, why not cite one of his
own dramas? Say, Orlando Furioso, where Alleyne indeed played the
hero.
No, Greene must be speaking of the author of Henry VI, Part Three, and
the allusion to "Shake-scene" leaves little room for doubt. Our mystery figure
is a jack-of-all-trades actor who wants to be a playwright, and who, revising
what Greene originally had a hand in, gets the credit that Greene feels he
deserved. Our author also has Yorkist sympathies (the Earls of Oxford were
Lancastrians). The name Shakespeare leaps to mind.
Want more evidence? There's enough to fill an encyclopedia (try the
Shakespeare
Authorship Web site. Including one new piece that's
lethal to the Oxford movement . . .
Shaxicon (you can read about it
here.) is a lexical database
created by Don Foster of Vassar College. Through examining the distribution of
rare words (those that occur 12 times or fewer) in Shakespeare's work, Foster
has demonstrated that each play has one role (or more, if parts are doubled)
whose rare-word vocabulary disproportionately affects that of some of the other
plays -- namely those that were written subsequently. Because it's a closed
system, Foster's database is free of Stratfordian assumptions. And it doesn't
announce that Shakespeare wrote the plays. It simply tells us that the
playwright -- whoever he was -- acted in his dramas (or at least memorized
specific roles), while establishing the likely order of their composition.
There are some surprises for traditional chronology, and some acting
revelations -- we even find out what role Shakespeare took in Ben Jonson's
Every Man in His Humour. But the consistency here is unassailable:
Shakespeare tends to take king parts, or parts that come on early (so he could
count the house?). Suffolk in Henry VI, Clarence in Richard III,
the Ghost in Hamlet, Albany in Lear, Duncan and Banquo in
Macbeth -- it all makes sense. For Oxfordians, SHAXICON is a disaster.
We'd have to posit that de Vere not only wrote the plays but acted in them, and
what odds he had the ability to do that -- never mind the opportunity to do it
without being found out. Everything about SHAXICON tells us that the plays were
written by an actor who was part of the everyday theatrical world of
Elizabethan England. Someone like Will Shakespeare.
A FINAL WORD
Nothing in this essay will persuade committed Oxfordians,
whose conspiracy mentality (the Powers That Be will always conceal the Truth
from the People, but we, the Elect, have discovered that Truth, and its name is
Oxford) is proof against any and all evidence (consider that the puns in the
Sonnets show that the author's Christian name is Will, not Edward). The rest of
you should be assured that there's no reason to doubt who wrote the plays. The
17th Earl of Oxford makes for an amusing bedtime story, such stuff as dreams
are made on. But the stuff of real life is William Shakespeare.
Jeffrey Gantz can be reached at jgantz[a]phx.com.