In 1790s London, William Henry Ireland was a young lawyer’s apprentice in his twenties with one consuming conundrum: He didn’t really know whether or not he was a bastard. His presumed mother ignored him; his so-called “father,” Samuel Ireland, a facile painter and passionate collector of antiquities, regarded him as a dullard not worthy of interest. This left William Henry without parental affection, a need he had suppressed by remaining as invisible to them and others as he thought his caretakers would wish him to be.
During an unexpected visit to Stratford-upon-Avon, however, Samuel revealed his obsessive determination to discover what, beyond certainty, must certainly exist: a trove of Shakespeariana — documents, poems, records, even manuscripts of plays. Nothing had ever been found of the Bard’s writing except two signatures on land transfers. Somewhere there must be a huge collection of accumulated papers, and Samuel – with William Henry’s help — was determined to find them. Nothing in life would mean so much to him.
Having perhaps discovered a way to Samuel’s respect, and even his affection, William Henry did his research and practiced Shakespeare’s signature, eventually presenting to Samuel a Declaration of Protestant Faith, signed “William Shakespeare”! Ecstatic, and convinced, Samuel demanded more. After initial trepidation, William Henry decided to give it to him.
Poems to Anne Hathaway followed, along with documents of every description, finally the original manuscript of KING LEAR in the Bard’s own hand. When eminent scholars examined the papers and pronounced them genuine, William Henry slowly began to believe his talent was being accepted as equal to that of the Bard’s.
Meanwhile, The Shakespeare Papers gained the attention of the theatre community as well as the Royal family. What else could William Henry do but write his own original play by William Shakespeare, one never seen before? And what else could happen with it than it would be performed at Drury Lane, produced by the theatre’s owner Richard Brinsley Sheridan, starring the greatest Shakespearean actor of his day, John Philip Kemble?
And wouldn’t Samuel, in his gratitude, at last call William Henry, “Son”?
(The play is written in two acts, has a cast of 8, and calls for bare free flowing scenery with needed furniture.)
(The Actor, tricked out in eclectic glitter enters.)
Dramatic custom wants a prologue here, To set the scene and state the theme as clear As you, our splendid audience may need To trust us well, wherever we may lead. You’ll play your part in this, we promise you. Until then, please sit back, enjoy the view of Stratford-upon-Avon! Here begins this plot of forgery, what’s fact and what is not. You’ll judge the jagged line ‘twixt truth and lie, and please! Remember that before we die: We all will forge our lives t’improve our lot. We do the best we can with what we’ve got.
(Across the stage, Samuel Ireland, pompous and self-absorbed, with his son, William Henry Ireland, near 20, insecure and filled with restless confusions, enter. The Actor crosses to William Henry, who paces.)
And who did more with what he had than he? You’ll see him reach toward immortality, Oh, yes, for fame, and for a father’s care — All this and more to complicate the dare Of fate. So much for prologue; now the play! (My role is all the actor’s parts!) Away!
(He exits)
So you attended the Jubilee, Father?
I did. I’d gained my reputation for painting landscapes and portraits, just been made a member of The Royal Academy of Art. It went on for three days, more mud than you can imagine. What days were those! What nights.
Was my Mother at the Jubilee as well?
Yes, as a matter of fact. Why do you ask?
She mentioned once she’d met you for the first time at Stratford, but said nothing of a Jubilee.
When did Mrs. Freeman tell you that?
I don’t remember. Some time ago.
Are you sure you didn’t hear it somewhere? Some gutter gossip picked up in a coffeehouse?
Mother told me.
Mrs. Freeman had no reason for telling you, and you have no reason for asking. It isn’t done. It’s bad manners.