The Late Mr Shakespeare

Chapter Twenty-Nine Some tales that William Shakespeare told his mother

Now that if only for a moment the boy Shakespeare had held the future in his memory, he was no longer content to listen to the tales told by the midwife Gertrude.

Instead, he had his own stories to tell. On winter evenings, once a week, Mary Shakespeare would sit sewing shrouds by the fire and little Willy was allowed to stay up late to entertain her while his father was busy fulfilling himself at the alehouse. As a reward, when they heard the chimes at midnight, if John had not come home, his mother would take the lad to bed with her, and play sweet tricks upon his person. But that is not the point.

What tales did William Shakespeare tell his mother?

He told her who set the sun on fire, what poppies dream, and where breath goes when it is breathed out on a frosty morning.

He told her of a great bird called a Ruck, that could carry a man on its back.

He told her of a floating island that danced in the sea to the sound of music made by sunlight on the waves.

He told her of a spindle that caught fire for love of the queen's fingers who used it at her spinning.

He told her of cities at the bottom of the sea, and of rusty anchors that had been found fixed in the tops of mountains.

He told her of a baker who thought his body was made of butter and who would not sit in the sun or near the fire for fear of melting.

He told her of the worlds that were inside each flake of the falling snow.

He told her the story of the two swallows that were lazy in love and so missed the flying of the other swallows South. How the two birds could not think what to do when winter came, so flew down under the waters of the River Avon and held their breath. And how the Avon froze over, and when the ice broke a fisherman found the two swallows in a block of ice, locked beak to beak where they had breathed into each other, kissing to keep alive under the water. And how the fisherman took the birds in the ice and warmed them on his stove, and when the ice fell away as water hissing on the stove, the swallows flapped their bright blue wings and flew out of the window.

He told her of the werewolves of Meath, and the tale of the white raven.

He told her how Launcelot fought with the demon cats.

He told her of Richard Sans Peur and the unquiet corpse.

He told her of Merlin and Vivian, and of the fly with the wooden leg.

He told her of Hamlet in Scotland, and of True Thomas and the Queen of Elphame.

He told her of the widow who wore horseshoes, and the tale of the mouse, the bird, and the sausage.

He told her of fairy rings,* and of how he had danced in them with men wearing silver shoon and green pantaloons that were buttoned with bobs of silk.

All this, and more, the boy William Shakespeare told his mother Mary, by the fireside, according to some.

But others say that he never said much at all.

I have learnt from sources outside the family that the boy was in fact at first mistaken for a dunce. These neighbours report that Shakespeare was slow to read and slower to write, and that far from pouring out stories by the glow of a winter fire he was a moping and miserable child, taciturn in the extreme, who never spoke unless he was spoken to. He would shut himself up in his bedroom, and cared for no companions. Sometimes he would burst into tears for no reason that anyone could understand. At other times, he would stare into someone's face for many minutes together, without appearing to observe them or acknowledging who they were. There were neighbours wise enough to see madness in these peculiarities, but none who discerned the self-absorption of beginning genius.

This uninspired version of the childhood of William Shakespeare would have it that he learnt his letters finally from an old illuminated manuscript. Then, according even to his detractors, a sudden change took place in the boy, and at seven years old, it is said, he would read without urging, and read anything and everything, from morning to night, if his mother would let him. She, for her part, only worried at this development, lest her son go blind.

He was a handsome child, all seem agreed. His eyes were blue, flecked (when he was excited) with the wild burning colour of bracken in autumn. At other times (when he was thoughtful) they were as deep and inscrutable as a forest pool cobbled with leaves and shadows that do not move. His features were fine, yet delicate. His forehead was slightly out of proportion to the rest of his face. His hair in those days was gold - not the colour of common straw, but the kind of pure, fiery gold you find hidden in strange amber. His lips were red and full, if a touch ascetic. His nose was straight and long, very wide at the nostrils. His hands were large, with long, tapering fingers which he was fond of waving about as he talked, and making shadow-pictures with on the wall. Everyone praised the gentleness of his manner. The number of times WS has been described as 'gentle', man and boy, is indeed remarkable. Sometimes I wish he had been less so. Had he not been so gentle it might have been easier to know him, or to remember what one encountered apart from the gentleness. But I do not think he was gentle through and through. When I seek to find an emblem for the heart of William Shakespeare the image that comes most readily and indelibly to mind is of a snow-gentled hawthorn. There was always something sharp at the core of his sweetness. Yet he was, as even Ben Jonson admitted, a very lovable spirit; and, indeed, he was honest, and of an open and free nature.

This was the boy William Shakespeare who at the end of August, 1571, being then seven years and four months old, was admitted into the Grammar School at Stratford.

* Circles of rank or withered grass, often seen in the Stratford meadows, once said to be produced by fairies dancing, but according to Dr Walter Warner simply an agaric or fungus below the surface, which has seeded in a circular range, as many plants do.