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.
Bad manners to ask of my mother and father’s meeting?
It is a distraction in such a place as this. Listen to me. My soul has drawn me here, for here Shakespeare lived, and wrote, and died. Perhaps there are treasures here in Stratford, waiting to be found, and I am determined that you and I will …
But you are my father, aren’t you?
You dare ask me that?
I’ve never dared ’til now.
How could you possibly doubt that I…?
Sir, I have good reason for it. Your name is Samuel Ireland. My mother’s name is Mrs. Freeman. You’ve never married, a circumstance that all your friends accept, but never mention.
No wonder there. It’s a common circumstance in Georgian society.
To society, perhaps, but to a supposed son, it’s, well, peculiar.
To a respectful, grateful son, it’s of no consequence.
My gratitude, sir, is what drives me to know the truth of my heritage. It is uncertain.
Why do you question it?
At home, Mrs. Freeman regards me as an intruder. She said on several angry occasions that you do not consider me your son.
She what? Mrs. Freeman was wrong for telling you so! She brays in anger about things of which she should not speak! I’d advise you to content yourself with the fact of home and family which is provided you.
“Content”? What’s unknown is a void, sir. It’s impossible to exist contentedly in that.
Then fill the void with your legal work, and now with this great challenge.
You mean finding bits of paper with ‘Shakespeare’ written on?
Yes! Think of this: Not even a single letter, a scrap of foolscap of his work has ever been found subscribed with Shakespeare’s name. Only two bare examples of his signature exist on property transactions. Surely an admirer must have collected piles of his desiderata. Any day now, somewhere in England, a rich trove of Shakespeare’s memorabilia will be brought forth from some ancient repository. Oh, to be that discoverer, to add all that to my own collection of historical antiquities. It would define me to the world! In history! A peerage might be mine! We must keep searching. I’ll go first. Stand by and keep watch.
(He exits.)
(Aside, to the audience)
So my life-long question remains: What am I, a bastard or not? I’m not ashamed if I am a bastard. It’s simply my overwhelming need to know if I am one, and if so, whose I might be. If Sam Ireland is indeed my father, Mrs. Freeman my mother, I’d accept that fate, God help me. But if they be not, aren’t I entitled to conjure up a family history? Presently, that history is an empty page, the only certainty being that I was indeed born. My mother, Mrs. Freeman — oh wait until you meet her! — has a little money but no family she has ever mentioned, or who have ever mentioned her. One does not dare ask who Mr. Freeman might have been. Then again, it is said as far behind my back as Dover, that she was once one of the Earl of Sandwich’s many mistresses. His Lordship was the most profoundly reprobate and depraved lechers of our time. Perhaps the Earl himself is my sire. Then again, perhaps it was his groomsman. But just as easily, it was the Prince of Wales, often the Earl’s guest to whom every favour — including a mistress — was offered. I can, I suppose, forge myself into anything I want: poet, clown, or royal prince. Why not, if I am no one else? It seems a bastard must beget his own life, fill the empty page and draw a family onto it. Therefore without the normal help of God, and none from a father or mother, I must create a William Henry Ireland that cannot be denied, by Sam Ireland, by the world, … or even by me. But I so crave the truth! Don’t you?