Mary Arden was always an adherent of the old faith, though she made no fuss about it, and drew no attention to herself by recusancy. As for John Shakespeare, I have heard that he once prepared and signed a Papist last will and testament of the spiritual kind - but I never saw a copy of this, I admit. Such documents were brought into England in the last century by Jesuit missionaries. They consisted of a simple declaration of orthodox faith, in fourteen articles, following the model composed by St Charles Borromeo, the Cardinal Archbishop of Milan.
The testator would declare, principally, as follows:
I am myself an unworthy member of the holy Catholic religion;
I crave the sacrament of extreme unction;
I ask the Blessed Virgin Mary to be my chief executrix;
I accept my death however it befalls me, bequeathing my soul to be entombed in the sweet and amorous coffin of the side of Jesus Christ;
I beg that this present writing of protestation be buried with me;
And I beseech all those who love me to succour me after my death by celebrating Mass.
I never heard it claimed that William Shakespeare signed such a document himself, nor do I suppose for a minute that one now lies buried with him in Holy Trinity Church. As I say, I simply heard it claimed that his father John Shakespeare had signed one. And that the old sinner's notorious failure to attend at Anglican celebrations of the Eucharist may not always have been for fear of having writs for debt served on him.
As regards WS: I do not claim that the mystery of his religious thought can ever be sounded. Angels can fly because they take themselves so lightly. I ask the reader only to notice that the language which he gives to his ecclesiastics, from the haughty Bishop of Carlisle to the humble Franciscan friars, Laurence, Patrick, and their brothers, shows that the Roman doctrine, its liturgy and dogmas, were familiar to him, indicating that his youthful days had been passed among those who remained faithful to the ancient church. Measure for Measure is the key play here. It seems to me the work of a lapsed Catholic who is intimating that one day he may return to the church against his will. But perhaps I go too far in saying this. My point is just to remark that it was common knowledge in Stratford that the late Mr Shakespeare died a Papist, and that in this he was not so much converted as reconciled to the religion of his ancestors.
Unknown friends, let us put our religious cards on the table. My name is Robert Reynolds, called Pickleherring. I am by birth a Papist, by life abused, by copulation disappointed. Does this surprise you, sir? (I knew it would not surprise you, madam, bless you.) I think I have made no secret of my own birthright, right from the start. My being a Papist myself is why I have denigrated all fellow Papists throughout this black book. We deserve to be denigrated, reader, for Jesus Christ's sake. And when for example I said that about Nicholas Breakspear being the only Englishman who had sunk so low as to be made Pope, why, I was speaking of his noblest and proudest title, and the most true - that the Pope is the servant of the servants of God. Think about it, will you, when you have a moment?
For this comedian, your humble servant, I do not think my view of God is small. And when my own end comes I hope to pray with all the means that God has let me have. I pray on my feet, sir. A man may pray on his feet, on his knees, on his back, on his head, with his mouth, and with his bones (if they should come to hand, madam). There is no rule on how to talk to God.
Your humble servant - this useful civility and self-definition came first into England with Queen Mary, daughter of Henry IV of France, wife of King Charles I. The usual salutation before that time was 'God keep you!' or 'God be with you!' and, among the vulgar, 'How dost thou?' accompanied by a hearty thump across the shoulders.
Reader, I am your humble servant, but I still prefer old ways, so God be with you!
When William Shakespeare was dead his body was disembowelled and then embalmed for display. All that was mortal of him lay in state at New Place for two days and nights in a simple oak coffin of the English sort, that tapers from the middle like a fiddle.
I have my Aeolian harp hung up in the window. It plays fierce music with the wind of the great fire. The smoke of that fire lies over the city like a fog. There is darkness at noon. Many have already perished, consumed in the flames, or crushed by the falling buildings. The river is crowded with boats where others flee away. Even the people who live on London Bridge are fleeing away. The houses there are old and as dry as any tinder. If the wind should switch round to the north, then the flames will be blown across the Bridge and we are all done for. The fire will cross the river and that will be that.
I can feel the heat of the flames as I sit here and write by my window of the death of William Shakespeare.
* William Hart the hatter was buried eight days before WS.
Chapter Ninety-Nine About the funeral of William Shakespeare & certain events thereafter
At this book's beginning I told you how I first met Mr Shakespeare. Here's how he said good-bye to me, and I to him.
Picture the scene for yourselves, my dears. To the tolling of the surly, sullen bell of the Guild Chapel (it sounds cracked and dust-tongued) the poet's body is being borne from New Place to be buried in Holy Trinity Church by the rain-swollen River Avon. Six men, all in black, are carrying the bier on their broad shoulders. It is heavy, for William Shakespeare at the end was a substantial man. The six tread carefully between the April puddles. The big oak coffin gleams on its bed of black velvet and worsted and stretched canvas.
The poet's family walk along behind - Mrs Anne Shakespeare, tall and thin and proud; his eldest daughter, whey-faced Susanna, with her husband, the physician Dr Hall, and their little daughter Elizabeth, aged eight; rosy-cheeked, buxom Judith, with her recently acquired husband Thomas Quiney, whose step is complicated by alcohol; the poet's sister Mrs Hart, greasy Joan, in widow's weeds, who trod this way just a week ago to bury her husband, with her three sons aged respectively eight, eleven, and sixteen walking beside her; and, finally, red-haired Thomas Greene, lawyer, Town Clerk of Stratford, the poet's cousin.
Inside, behind the closed curtains, New Place is hung with black drapes from top to bottom. Out here, in the bright April weather, the cracked bell tolls on. And now it is joined by another iron tongue in mourning, the great bell of Holy Trinity itself, a deeper and more doleful note, as if gravely to welcome home the body of William Shakespeare to the green churchyard where his father and his mother and his own son Hamlet lie buried.
All eyes are on Anne Shakespeare. She is dressed in widow's black from head to foot. Her kirtle is fashioned of camlet, her gown of pure silk. She wears a black beaver hat with a sable silk band. She carries in her black-gloved hands a garland of spring flowers and sweet herbs, the only spot of colour about her person, from which two long black ribbons trail down to the ground. This garland she will cast in the grave with her husband. Her face is white beneath a veil of double cobweb lawn, her eyes bright with tears. Despite her age, there is something still youthful about her. She appears like a queen, like a nymph, by her gait, by her grace. Watching her walk you might well remember that hot day long ago when Will Shakespeare was caught by her wiles in Henley Street. Watching Anne Hathaway still at work in Anne Shakespeare as she follows her poet to his grave by the green flowing river you can be sure that this woman has been to him what Helena promises her lover she will be in All's Well That Ends Welclass="underline"