It Doesn’t Matter
When all is said and done it probably doesn’t matter a great deal how Shakespeare died. At least, his cause of death will have no material impact on how modernity views his literary talent and legacy; nothing could topple that now. That said, his cause of death will likely alter how Shakespeare is taught in the future.
Regardless – regardless of how he died – Shakespeare, above all – above passion, love, hate, kings and queens, lords and beggars, betrayal, graphic humour, jesters, fools, clowns, elegant language and head-spinning brilliancy – wrote of the importance of truth. He admired truth above falsehood, reality over flattery. Who can doubt the importance of factual truth to the man who wrote
not ever
the justice and the truth o’ th’ question carries
the due o’ th’ verdict with it[1]
One of the aims of the Project’s researched investigation was to show if one line of hearsay from Rumour’s tongue – writ by a local vicar fifty years after the event – and a couple shaky signatures – which could be attributed to anything – can equally command legitimate, scholarly space in Shakespeare’s death-conversation then a new body of relevant research, tardy as it is, plausibly illustrating a different cause of death, should be accepted as part of the conversation, stale as it is.
Notwithstanding the Project’s first Investigative Finding suggests the reason why no historical record exists documenting Shakespeare’s cause of death contemporaneously therewith is because none were written, it is with cautious hope there is a document, likely a diary entry, that will be discovered which will shed light on his cause of death. But, until then, all modernity has is the deafening silence; and Digges. Until then, to all of Shakespeare’s devoted fans – none of whom are more devoted than Project members – who took comfort in the fact not much was known about his death other than it could be attributed to a hangover or his signature showed he was sick the Project apologizes for introducing a potential true wrong into the mix.
Regardless of how Shakespeare died he didn’t want eulogies, pomp funerals, processions, accolades or any such lavish lamenting. He was a private man at heart; true to his rural, rustic roots; disliked court, not needing nor wanting public admiration. He cared not for publishing his works during his lifetime; he cared not for the urban, snobbery to-do that came with being part of – indeed, atop – the theatre world. He had zero self-importance. He was country at heart, Stratford in soul, rustic in life, loyal to the humble Warwickshire countryside and wanted nothing from the important city nor its important inhabitants. At some point, he found he had a talent for writing, understood the true reason behind human behaviour and had a knack for language. All these conjoined to form the perfect literary storm – a literary storm enjoyed equally by groundlings and royalty for over 400 years; a storm that blows as powerful today as it ever did – probably more.
Shakespeare had no interest in preserving his life story, his plays or his place in history. It is modernity that has thrust that greatness upon him – his plays and his place in history at the pinnacle. The one honour he sought was to acquire a coat-of-arms – a process possibly undertaken mainly for his father and family rather than himself. He wanted no fame, nor praise: those who have the most reason to boast, don’t. The Project fully agrees with one of Potter’s musings, though she wasn’t convinced herself when she threw it out into the open: Shakespeare wanted to be forgotten. Unfortunately, for Shakespeare, his talent made that impossible.
The fact he wasn’t part of the university wits nor part of the stuffy urban establishment likely made him smile all the wider because after it was all said and done – even though it’s stillbeing said and done 400 years later – he came out on top after starting in the last position on the grid in rural Warwickshire. And, really, who’s kidding who, he knew he was better than the rest of the clunky, university-educated playwrights. He told everybody so in Love’s Labour’s Lost:
Assist
me, some extemporal god of rhyme, for I
am sure I shall turn sonnet. Devise, wit;
write, pen; for I am for whole volumes
in folio.[2]
SDRP
[1] King Henry VIII, 5.1.129-131, 780.
[2] Love’s Labour’s Lost, 1.2.177-180, 171.