Sweet William

A fifth and final indelicate frivolity By Mihangel

Part 3

I finished reading and sat staring at nothing. My first thoughts were of wonderment that, less than twelve hours before, Sweet William had for all practical purposes not existed. My second thoughts were of wonderment at this window on the young mind of a genius-to-be. It was indeed no Hamlet, but a straightforward record, candid and wry, of a brief teenage spree, of ordinary deeds of small account, of homely things that happen every day. It had a dramatic structure -- a simple one to be sure but, as Will himself pointed out, you have to start somewhere. Above all it was the work of a complex character in the making: a mix of the typical fun-loving kid and of a creative and ambitious soul who came across, at least at intervals, as precociously thoughtful and caring. Even at fifteen he was bisexual, drawn to any willing youngster whether in skirt or breeches, and already he had a sense of sexual responsibility.

I wondered if Hugh had ever ploughed laboriously through it. Which in turn made me wonder if Will and Hugh had kept up. Possibly they had, during the so-called lost years when Will was still in Stratford but when, beyond his shotgun wedding to Anne Hathaway and the birth of his three children, his doings remain shrouded deep in mystery. Hamnet Sadler and his new wife became godparents to Will's twins Hamnet and Judith. Hugh married too, but later, at about the time that Will moved to London. And it was generally agreed that Will's marriage was not a happy one. Anything could have happened in the lost years, which remained lost.

Yet, having started to write so early, did Will write more before he left Stratford? A good candidate was The Comedy of Errors, based closely on Plautus whom he certainly read at school. It is his shortest play by far -- Sweet William now excepted -- and it could easily have been written at Stratford and revised, with its few later topical references, in London. And what of the sonnets? Could Hugh have been the Fair Youth? That line in Sonnet 20, for instance, which has caused the critics much heartache -- a man in hue all hues in his controlling -- was it a counterpart to Will's pun on 'blushful hue?' Whatever the answer, there was meat enough here to keep scholars chewing for years. Once, of course, it had been published. As it had to be.

That moved my thoughts on. Publication was in Everard's gift. Would he entrust it to me? Equally, it cried out to be staged. Was there any chance of me directing it? That was probably in Everard's gift as well. To be the first to edit and the first to interpret a Shakespeare play were prizes beyond reckoning, almost as precious as its discovery. But each would be a major undertaking. Could I do both, on top of my Cambridge coursework? No, no way. Would I even still be at Cambridge? Quite possibly not.

But yet, but yet . . . our team simply had to stage it. It was almost as if we had been brought together for the purpose. We had the right inspiration and the right personnel. The play was youthful and we were youthful. It would be ludicrous for old fogeys to attempt the roles of Will and Hugh. I looked at the others, who were still reading.

I knew what Hugo was thinking, his coffee cup halfway to his mouth as it had been for ten minutes past. He was seeing himself as his ancestor whom he resembled so closely in appearance. Even though Hugh came across as something of a stooge -- which Hugo emphatically was not -- it was unthinkable that he should not play him.

I knew what Alex was thinking, so absorbed that his fried egg had long since congealed forgotten on the plate. He would give his eye-teeth -- and who wouldn't? -- to create the title role in the world premiere of a Shakespeare play. And he was exactly right for it: only three years older than Will, small, light-voiced, very similar in face, of much the same temperament, and a highly accomplished actor. He would never ask for the part. There are some things that can not be asked, but only be given. If I had any say in the matter, he would be given it.

I knew what Rob was thinking, behind his furrowed brow. He was visualising the scenery, the props, the costumes, the flow from one scene the next. He was the profoundly sensitive, the profoundly practical man who, better than anyone, could turn my loose ideas -- our loose ideas -- into staged reality.

But all this was pie in the sky. It was jumping the gun.

I looked at Everard and Hermione and found I had no idea what they were thinking. They had now finished reading and seemed to be talking silently to each other with their eyes. Understandable -- everything lay in their hands, and they knew it. Before long everyone else finished and looked at them too. Everard saw it, and smiled.

"Well, Sam," he said. "You've dropped a bombshell on us -- and a wonderful bombshell it is -- but we're all too knackered to make sensible decisions right now. There's so much to chew over. Finding a happy home for the bible and portrait. Publishing Sweet William. Staging it. But we're in no state to do it now. I suggest we catch up on sleep, and when we're a bit clearer-headed hold a council of war. What about reconvening before dinner and spending the evening on it?"

I didn't think I would sleep a wink. But, in Rob's arms, I went out like a light, and stayed out. We surfaced at four, restored in body if still bewildered in mind, and went to the kitchen in search of a cuppa. Everard and Hermione were there, looking as fresh as daisies even though, as it turned out, they must have been talking for hours. Hugo and Alex were evidently still abed.

"Oh good," said Everard, pouring tea for us. "I hope you've recovered from that marathon. Look, both of you, we've been looking ahead, and it would be good to hear your reactions before the boys come down. Everything hinges on the fact -- and we know this will make you blush -- that our opinion of you couldn't be higher. Of you, Sam, as a scholar and director, and of you, Rob, as a designer. But first a few questions. How long would it take to mount a high-quality production of Sweet William? I don't mean finding a stage, I mean preparing it for the stage. Inside a year?"

Rob and I looked at each other. "Oh yes. Easily."

"Good. And how long might it take to prepare a scholarly edition for publication? Also inside a year?

"Yeeees," more doubtfully.

"Good. And could both directing and editing be done by a single person inside a year?"

My heart was in my mouth. "It'd be damned hard work, but yes. If there were no other distractions."

"Good. Just what we hoped. So what's in our minds is this."

What was in their minds was, to put it mildly, breathtaking.

The Figino painting and the bible were far too valuable to stay at Pidley, just as Gammer and the Stevenson portrait had been too valuable to stay at Bumley. The Figino would be offered jointly to the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust in Stratford and the National Portrait Gallery in London, to display in alternate years. The bible and, for good measure, the quartos would be given to the library of Christ's College -- "a place to which we all owe so much" -- in return for which Everard would require a few concessions from the college.

I myself would edit Sweet William for publication in -- Everard hoped -- August next year. Cambridge University Press was the obvious publisher: they would surely jump at it, and sales would surely be huge. Everard suggested splitting the royalties equally between the college and me. The college would not release the text beforehand, and as a matter of priority would organise and pay for a scientific authentication of the ink and handwriting.

The first production of the play would be staged in -- again Everard hoped -- August and September next year at several successive venues. He himself would be the producer, organising behind the scenes. I would be the director, and Rob the designer.

To give us the necessary time, the college would allow us to take a year out from our courses, resuming at the end of September next year. To give us a roof over our heads it would allow us to continue in residence in B4, at our usual rent.

"That's just the outline," said Everard. "How does it hit you?"

Gobsmacked, we agreed instantly. It needed no pondering. But we had not taken in the immensity of his vision. "The most urgent thing, then," he went on, "is to get theatres booked."

I was puzzled. "Well, there wouldn't be any problem with Christ's theatre, not that far ahead. Nor with the ADC." That was the university Amateur Dramatic Club's theatre off Jesus Lane where our team, spreading its wings, had done some work in the two terms since Sodom.

"No, no, no!" cried Everard. "Think big! How many can they seat?"

"Christ's about 140, the ADC about 230."

"Peanuts! All very well for amateur dramatics, Sam, but we're talking about commercial theatre. Just think of it! The world premiere of a Shakespeare play! The demand'll be astronomical! We're heading for Stratford! We're heading for the Globe! We're heading for places of that calibre!"

Oh God.

"Look, Sam," he went on gently. "This won't be like anything you've done before. In the past you've not only directed and designed but produced as well -- you've done all the organisational donkey work yourselves. You've done it marvellously, but you've done it as amateurs. Not this time. This'll be big stuff, full-blown professional. You two will only have the artistic side to bother about. Over the next fifteen months you'll be paid Equity rates or above, plus all expenses. So will the cast during rehearsal and performances. I'll put up the finance and look after all the admin -- organise the theatres and handle the contracts and bills and insurance and unions and transport and find as many extras as you need. I've never been an impresario before, but I've got some useful contacts. It's going to be a lovely challenge!"

That was a totally different ball-game, and one which took some getting used to.

"So the immediate point," Everard continued, "is that big theatres will already be pencilling in their programmes for a year next August. We've got to move fast to get a foot in the door. Which should we aim for?"

"But," I bleated, "nobody knows us! What big theatre's going to give a major slot to a gaggle of unknown undergraduates?"

"Not as unknown as that. 'Sam Furbelow?' they'll say. 'Oh yes, he did those rather good editions of Gammer and Sodom, didn't he?' And they'll have heard on the grapevine about your productions at Christ's. But I agree, you shouldn't parade under the banner of Christ's Amateur Dramatic Society. No offence to CADS, but it doesn't carry any clout."

I looked at Rob. We hardly needed to discuss it. "It has to be the Marlowe Society, then," I said. The Marlowe, alongside the ADC, was Cambridge University's principal dramatic group, and we had worked with them too. "They do carry clout. Lots of the big names cut their teeth with them -- Ian McKellen, Derek Jacobi, Peter Hall, Trevor Nunn, Griff Rhys Jones. And they use the Arts Theatre, which is big -- getting on for seven hundred seats. If we asked the Marlowe very nicely it might lend us its name and help get us into the Arts."

"That's more like it! And what about elsewhere?"

"Well, Stratford and the Globe are the obvious places. But they're geared to in-house productions, not touring companies."

"They'll bend a few rules. They can't afford not to, not with a brand-new Shakespeare on offer. And they're bigger still -- a good thousand seats at Stratford, a lot more at the Globe if you count the groundlings. I'll get on the phone tomorrow. I know Michael Boyd, the artistic director here. Who's at the Globe? Still Mark Rylance?"

"Not now. Dominic Dromgoole. He was at Cambridge too, and in the Marlowe. That might help."

"Good. Of course they'll want to know what it's about, and we'll have to give them scripts, under oath of secrecy. And they may very well want a preliminary preview. Could you lay on a run-through for them as soon as possible? It's bound to be rough, but they're all dyed in the theatrical wool. They'll spot potential even in a first rehearsal."

"OK. But what about casting?"

"Oh, that's up to you." His face was expressionless.

"Entirely?"

"Entirely." What a man, not even to insist that his own son play the obvious part!

And at that point his own son and his own son's boyfriend came down. Hermione set about making more tea, and Everard gestured to me to put them in the picture.

I outlined the proposals, and they gasped. "Hugo," I went on. "Will you play Hugh?"

He blushed crimson, and never had I seen him wear so beatific a smile, not even when his parents had forked out a million quid to buy the Bumley treasures for Hambledon.

"Great. And Alex, will you play Will?"

Alex burst into tears -- God, I could understand why -- and had to be restored by tea and by Hugo. Meanwhile I sat back and tried to come to terms with the thunderbolts that had just been hurled at us. One omission had to be made good at once. I thanked Everard as best I could for putting all this our way and thereby, incidentally, solving my financial problems for the foreseeable future. My very generous pay, plus royalties, would see me far beyond the next fifteen months.

"Comes at a handy time, doesn't it?" he said. "And better this way than any other."

I thought I knew what he meant. I'd already suspected that he was going to offer to help me out, and I'd already decided to say no. Unlike occasional gifts of whisky, that would have been far too big an act of charity to accept. Working for my money was another thing.

But what, I asked, was in it for him, apart from satisfaction and altruism?

"Money, Sam, money. All right, I'll have to splash out a lot, and producing is always a gamble. But it's the safest of wickets. If we don't play to a full house every night, if we don't end up showing a thumping profit, my name's . . . well, Shakespeare. And I can set the value of the portrait and the books against inheritance tax when I pop my clogs, and Hugo will benefit in the long term. So we benefit, all of you benefit, the college benefits. What more could you ask? . . . But back to business and back to theatres. What about aiming for three two-week slots, each separated by a week for transferring and for fresh rehearsals? And in what order?"

Here Rob had strong views. The three theatres were very different. The Arts had a proscenium stage, the Globe had a smallish apron with two large pillars which supported the roof and always blocked someone's view, Stratford had an enormous and clear apron. While Will had shaped Sweet William as a play because that was the way he was made, he did not write it for the stage. It was not intended for any theatre, Elizabethan or otherwise. The setting he had in mind as he wrote it was the real world where everything had taken place. Therefore its very first performances should be on a stage where scenery could most closely mimic the real world. That meant the Arts. The Globe was the next best, where the sets would have to be much simpler but paradoxically, in the absence of curtain and drops, much more difficult to get right. The great expanse of the Stratford stage would be the hardest of all. So he suggested -- and there was general agreement -- that if possible we should play them in that order. I began to understand Everard's thinking in handing me a very heavy load and Rob, on the face of it, a pretty light one. But it was far from light. He had to design, in effect, three different productions.

With Everard, we discovered, everything happened fast. Next morning he phoned Christ's and arranged a meeting the following day with the Master, the Librarian, and Prufrock, saying merely, with much understatement, that he had some quite interesting stuff to give to the library. He phoned Michael Boyd at Stratford and Dominic Dromgoole at the Globe, and I phoned the incoming Marlowe president. All three, once they had been persuaded this was not a joke, were deeply interested, and all three demanded texts by email and a live preview which was fixed for three days' time in Cambridge.

The pace of our narrative can now be speeded up. My next worry was over transport. The quartos together were worth tens of millions of pounds and the bible God knew how much more. Drive them to Cambridge in the boot of a car? The Parker Library at Corpus Christi College holds the Canterbury Gospels, which according to entirely plausible tradition were brought to these shores by St Augustine when he arrived to convert the English in 597. Whenever a new Archbishop of Canterbury is installed he swears the oath on this book, and I had heard that it is driven down from Cambridge in a high-security van accompanied by a police escort. I mentioned this, not entirely frivolously, and suggested we too hire the services of Securicor. Everard laughed, but took it seriously enough to use a battle-wagon of a 4x4 with a burly member of the estate staff beside him, while we boys sat in the back. Hermione, having duties at home, stayed at Pidley.

As we went, Rob gave us his very preliminary thoughts on the scenery for a proscenium stage -- he had yet to start thinking about apron stages. Slick performance wouldn't be easy because the scenes were short and eight different sets were required. All of them, though, could be done with drops, he felt, except for the inside and outside of the Shakespeare house where working doors and windows were required and the scenery would have to be solid. For the meadow scene where Will and Hugh strip off -- assuming I didn't want actual nudity -- he thought large modesty curtains were available, made of thick gauze through which movement could be seen but no detail. As for the hay, a heap of the real stuff would be a pain to move on and off stage, and he was wondering about something like a tennis net with hay interwoven.

Other props would be fairly straightforward -- a water-filled sphygmomanometer bulb as in Sodom for pissing on the squeaking axle, a sheep like a ventriloquist's dummy worked by an unseen operator, Will's breeches in two halves stitched lightly together so that they tore easily. For sound, he suggested live musicians but pre-recorded splashes, squeak, fart and hoof-beats. The sheep bleats were best uttered by the operator.

"That sheep," I said. "I hope it can smile."

"Why?" Rob asked.

"If it's just been shagged by Alex, I'd expect it to be happy. Wouldn't you?"

Having reached Christ's without being hijacked, we met the others in the Librarian's office. Everard first produced the fifteen Pidley quartos. Prufrock and the Librarian, well aware of their literary and monetary value, almost had heart attacks on the spot. So did the Master, once things were explained to him. This gift put Christ's ahead even of Trinity College which had an enviable but smaller collection. They spluttered their gratitude. Then Everard, as if by afterthought, placed the bible reverently on the desk. "And this goes with the quartos," he said. "It's a Geneva Bible of 1578. It seems to us to be even more noteworthy."

"More noteworthy?" asked the Librarian, struggling to be polite to this weird benefactor who rated Geneva Bibles above Shakespeare quartos. "Er, we already have six Genevas. Or is it seven?"

"I'd better hand over to Sam," replied Everard. "He found it."

"It isn't an ordinary Geneva," I said simply. "It contains an unknown play by Shakespeare."

Their reactions were hilarious. Not even the Master needed to have the implications explained, and his mouth dropped open wide. The Librarian closed her eyes as if checking mentally that this was not All Fool's Day. Prufrock did a very good imitation of a P. G. Wodehouse character. "What what?" he barked. "What what what?"

As before, I displayed the verse, explained the jots and tittles, and gave each of them a printout of the text, which they immediately fell to reading. The Librarian did so silently, a slight smile on her face. The Master from time to time guffawed. Prufrock, literally drooling, made whimpering noises.

They were sworn to secrecy, and Everard put his requests. These, the Master said, would have to go to the Governing Body, but he foresaw no problems. We agreed a terse press release, to be put out after our run-through, which would include photos of the dedication and a sample page. The media -- and scholars from all over the world -- would doubtless besiege the college, but would be politely held at bay. To keep them off our backs, Rob's name and mine would not be mentioned. Not yet.

The college rose magnificently to the challenge. It immediately installed a phone in B4, which rang for the first time that very evening. It was the Librarian. She had been religiously -- if that is the right word -- ploughing though every page of the bible, which was something I ought to have done myself. And tucked away in the Book of Baruch -- not the most frequently visited department of holy writ -- she had found something of interest. Would we come round?

It was a fold of very fine paper enclosing two small locks of hair. One was curly and dark auburn, the other straight and golden-blond. The curl which Figino had cut from Will's head, rescued by Hugh, and a companion tress which Hugh had cut from his own head? Symbols of a love which Hugh had taken more seriously than Will? We could only guess.

The next two days were spent in hectic rehearsals for the run-through. Once the representatives from the Marlowe, the Arts, the Globe and Stratford were assembled in Christ's theatre, we operated in conditions of tight security and, in defiance of fire regulations, locked all the doors. Nobody expected Alex and Hugo to have memorised their lines, and they leant heavily on the script. For the minor parts we had to use stand-ins, the Master as Lucy (and remarkably well he did it), the Librarian as Lady Lucy, Everard as the justice and Symons, me as Hamnet, Toby and Figino, Rob as pretty well everyone else. Prufrock had declined to take part, which was perhaps just as well. Props were minimal -- a chair on its side as the stocks, tables stacked two-high as the upper windows, a pile of dust sheets as the hay. The result was indeed rough, but our visitors took that in their stride. As professionals they could spot what mattered, and when it ended they almost fell over themselves to accommodate us. Alex's and Hugo's performances alone would have persuaded them.

Thus Everard's vision and energy paid handsomely off. Within a week of the play emerging from its darkness, everything was signed and sealed. The Marlowe Society was to present Sweet William, a new-found play by William Shakespeare, produced by Everard Spencer, directed by Sam Furbelow, designed by Rob Nethercleft, in August and September next year at successively the Arts Theatre in Cambridge, the Globe Theatre in London and the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford. Our relief and our excitement were immense.

So too was the furore, national and international, when these facts, minus Rob's and my names, were publicised in the press release. The college was indeed besieged. But the rumpus was efficiently kept from our door and we were left in peace.

The next twelve months I can skate over at high speed. As Everard had predicted, the demand for seats was prodigious. All performances, once booking had started, were instantly sold out. It looked as if we would be playing, matinees included, before about 60,000 people. For us, the year was incessant hard work. We had too little time for each other. Rob was deeply involved at the Arts Theatre and away at Stratford and London, sussing out the stages, making scenery and props, and designing costumes. I recruited the rest of the cast from Marlowe stalwarts, and proper rehearsals began. Alex and Hugo were not taking the year out but, although they dominated Sweet William, were such natural actors that they needed little direction. And I spent much time on my full edition which soon spawned -- as an easy spin-off -- a short acting edition. The University Press was marvellous at pushing them through in high quality and record time, and publication was fixed for the day after the first performance. With the help of the Librarian I double-checked the text and found that our first transcription was remarkably accurate.

One loose end which my researches tidied up was Benvolio Figino. He turned out to be a brother of the rather better known Milanese artist Giovanni Ambrogio Figino, and evidently came to England in 1577-80 on a painting campaign. A number of his portraits of Tudor nobility and gentry survive at Longleat, Chatsworth, Little Moreton Hall and suchlike.

Scientific tests on the bible were at first inconclusive. The handwriting experts would not commit themselves. Only six certain specimens of Shakespeare's writing are known, all of them dashed-off signatures, all of them decades after 1579, and three of them in his will which was written when he was close to death. They were not enough to go on. But spectroscopic analysis of the ink was rather more promising. Its composition was wholly consistent with Tudor ink, although a meticulous forger would be capable of reproducing it.

The hair was still more satisfactory. Radiocarbon dating, while unable to give a precise age, put both locks between 1490 and 1670. Best of all was the DNA analysis. Shakespeare's direct line had become extinct when his granddaughter died childless, but descendants of his younger sister Joan were still around. The Librarian tracked one down to New Zealand and begged a lock of his hair, which shared enough markers with the auburn curl to make a biological relationship very likely. Better still was the fair hair which the scientists were virtually certain came from an ancestor of Everard and Hugo. If the case for authenticity was not absolutely cast-iron, it was remarkably close to it.

All down the ages there have been people who argue that Shakespeare's works were written not by a humble glover's son from Stratford but by some aristocrat masquerading under his name. This theory, though it has always seemed nonsense to me, still had eminent supporters even in the world of theatre, of whom the most notable was Sir Derek Jacobi. I looked forward to the day when, on the evidence of our finds, he would surely eat his words.

"Never fear, Sam," he said with a laugh, putting down his empty glass. "I eat my words."

We have fast-forwarded to the first night. This show was by invitation only. All the Fellows of Christ's were there, all the dons of the English faculty, and most of the members of CADS and the ADC and the Marlowe. There were hordes of outsiders -- scholars from home and abroad, theatre critics from every newspaper imaginable, Old Persimmon and the headmaster from Hambledon, and all our parents except mine. With Charlotte came William from Bumley. Baines and Finch and Edward made the shorter journey from B4. Above all, most of the great and the good of the stage were present, actors, producers and directors alike. The atmosphere in the theatre was wonderful, of expectant excitement beforehand, of deep engrossment as the play progressed. And Alex and Hugo were on the top of their form.

"Mistress, await me! Mistress Hathaway!" cried Alex. The gentle notes of the lute were drowned in a tumult of laughter and applause. The draught (which, generated by a concealed electric fan, had given Rob much trouble to get right) blew the pages of the bible over, one by one. The curtain fell, and shortly rose again on an empty stage and a plain drop on which was projected a giant image of the portrait. The minor characters took their bows. Then Alex and Hugo, hand in hand. Then Rob. Then me. Lady Lucy and Anne Hathaway distributed bouquets left and right, almost like confetti. The whole audience was on its feet throughout, and the roof had difficulty staying in place. It took a full ten minutes for relative quiet to return.

Only then could we proceed to the next item on the agenda, which was the official launch, on stage, of my editions of the play. Logistics forbade the selling of them at the theatre, but they would be available at the University Press bookshop opposite the Senate House from nine the next morning, when (groan) Sam Furbelow would be in attendance to sign them. Tonight it was merely speeches. Everard, glowing in well-deserved triumph, spoke briefly and wittily; so too did the Master; the chairman of the Syndics of the University Press spoke at unwitty length; and I wound up with something which, for all I knew, was gibberish. Truth to tell, I was knackered, more knackered than I ever had been before. So was Rob. So were Hugo and Alex -- I had insisted on them taking it easy for days beforehand, but however fresh they may have been when the evening began, by now they looked all in. Acting, especially in these circumstances, is draining. We were on a high of fulfilment and relief, but conscious that it was brittle and might collapse at any moment.

A quick word as we left the stage confirmed that we were all ready to expire. We agreed not to expire here, or even to get pissed, but to migrate to B4 as soon as we decently could and there to expire in peaceful togetherness, our passing eased by a generous dose of malt. Everard, ever solicitous of our welfare, promised to help us escape. But we could not wholly avoid the final item in the programme. A carefully-chosen band of guests had been invited to join us in a party in the green room, and we found ourselves coralled in by a wall of wellwishers to whose praises and questions we had to make polite replies. After a while Alex and Hugo squirmed off to remove their greasepaint and to change, leaving Rob and me to hold the fort. The room resounded with theatrical people chattering as only theatrical people can and throwing back the booze laid on by the management, and my head was starting to throb. Hugo and Alex returned. We were on the point of slinking unobtrusively out when two oh-so-familiar figures wormed their way through the throng. No way did we want to evade them. Although none of us had met them before, we revered them above all living actors.

They shook our hands. "You will be dead beat," said Sir Ian McKellen, "but we do have to say that we are in awe. Not only of Sweet William, but of you."

"And we'd be intrigued to know," added Sir Derek Jacobi, "how you four came together."

Our minds went back five years to Hambledon and Edward II.

"It's a long story," I said; and as I spoke I found myself wanting them to hear it. Both had played Edward II early in their careers. Both had been up at Cambridge in the 1950s when Sir Ian, as he had publicly confessed, yearned for Sir Derek with 'a passion that was undeclared and unrequited.' Both were openly gay, and Sir Ian was doing marvellous work for Stonewall in combatting homophobia in schools. Not only would they enjoy our story, but they would understand it.

The others, I saw, were thinking similar thoughts. "You're welcome to hear it," I went on, "and you'll probably laugh yourselves silly. But may we tell it to you in our room, in peace and quiet? We can offer you a choice of malts which are far superior to the plonk being dished out here."

Without hesitation they agreed, and our energies, which had been in terminal decline, revived. My head miraculously cleared. It was already uplifting to be in company with the wisdom and authority of this Gandalf, the experience and humanity of this Cadfael. We abandoned the party which looked set to carry on for hours, and walked to Christ's, little more than the length of Petty Cury away. In the refuge of B4, Sir Ian plumped for a Bruichladdich and Sir Derek for a Balvenie. We introduced them to Finch and Baines and Edward, and it turned out that they actually owned copies of my Gammer and Sodom. We told them all -- and I mean all -- about the king's codpiece, at which they laughed immoderately. And that led on to the tale of Hugo's figleaf, which led on to the tales of the inglecock and the tarses, which led on, inexorably and in great detail, to Sweet William.

"But if," I said when we had wrung that topic fairly dry, "Shakespeare didn't write Shakespeare, it isn't very relevant, is it?" I gave Sir Derek a look which, if not mean, was certainly meaning.

"Never fear, Sam," he replied with a laugh, putting down his empty glass, "I eat my words. All of them."

That was good.

Sir Ian glanced at his watch. "Look at the time!" he cried, and turned his wonderful smile on us. "Boys," he said, "if I dare call you boys, we are deeply in your debt for an evening of which we'll remember every minute. For the present, we mustn't outstay our welcome. And for the future you've nothing whatever to worry about. The theatre lies at your feet. Alex and Hugo, you're the Hamlets-to-be. Rob and Sam, you're the designer- and director-to-be. I predict that in the near future we'll be working with all of you. And to that we look forward immensely."

That was even better.

I saw them to the college gate, each with a presentation copy of Sweet William under his arm. Already it was nearly four, and I had to be at my sparkling best for the book-signing at nine. All that I wanted now, after a long, long year and long, long day, was to snuggle into bed with Rob.

That would be best of all. Fulfilment lies not only in Tudor literature.

But barely had Sir Ian and Sir Derek disappeared round the corner than there hove into sight an unexpected trio. Everard and the Master and Prufrock came weaving up Petty Cury, reasonably under control but certainly well-oiled. Amid another shower of congratulations, Everard and the Master went on to the Lodge, but Prufrock lingered. He was verging on the lachrymose.

"Sublime, Sam, absolutely sublime!" he boomed. "This is, I venture to declare, the happiest day of my life, which has not been short and not unhappy. The insight into the youth of a genius! The sympathy with which he was portrayed! In a few years' time, Sam, if you have not been seduced by Stratford or the Globe, you will be in my shoes, standing where I stand now" -- which was propping up the gatepost of Christ's in a semi-inebriated state -- "and persuading the next generation to think. And at one point tonight I did wonder whether you had thought enough. Will's last major speech. Dido. Dildo? Pun? Good night!"

With those enigmatic words he staggered off to his room, leaving me thinking as hard as my addled brain allowed. There were few flies on Prufrock, and I owed him so much that I had to take him seriously. Will's words had been "A Dido I, to pleasure Aeneas, encountered, deep enjoyed, and straight forsook." The meaning, as the commentary in my edition pointed out, was clear enough. Aeneas, having taken advantage of Dido, had ditched her, just as Will assumed that Hugh, having taken advantage of him, would ditch him too. But Prufrock had a point. The lines did seem in need of a counterpoint, of a balance. Could I have missed a trick? At this time of night there was no chance of getting into the library, let alone into the safe where Sweet William resided. But I did have a complete set of colour scans in our room.

I tottered back to B4. Alex and Hugo were fast asleep, intertwined on the sofa. Rob had evidently collapsed into bed. I dug out the scans and encountered the old problem of locating the correct place, but at last I found it, almost at the end of Deuteronomy. Yes, we had got it right.

If well we've loved, that now is of the past,
An interlude in life's sad comedy
Before another act and scene unfold.
A Dido I, to pleasure Aeneas-- or, in the original spelling, Eneas--
Encountered, deep enjoyed, and straight forsook.

But . . . bugger me! Prufrock had got it right too. We had completely missed the next two lines. Alex had missed them the first time round, the Librarian and I had missed them the second time. Our concentration, once the finishing post was in sight, had evidently lapsed. The whole passage really ran

A Dido I, to pleasure Eneas,
Encountered, deep enjoyed, and straight forsook.
A dildo he, to pleasure any arse
Or maidenhead that itches to be took.
And if Hugh sin elsewhere, why may not Will?
We both are young, and both deserve our fill.

A pun, as Prufrock's sharp mind had spotted, and quite a good one if you pronounced Eneas appropriately. Whether fairly or not, it branded Hugh's lusts as almost mechanical.

But oh God! A monumental bloomer to crown all bloomers!

It could readily be rectified in future performances, and it would be. But my editions? The only way to amend them was to print erratum slips with the correct text and a new and learned note. What was the history of the dildo? Who, in those days, used it? How had one swum into the ken of a lowly provincial teenager? Intriguing questions. They would demand considerable research, which should be fun.

But no amount of fun could override my shame. The fact remained that I was going to have to eat a large dose of humble pie.

And, as at the end of Edward II all those years ago when I was jabbed in the arse with a red-hot poker, I knew that I deserved my punishment. I had learned then that when the gods stage their own drama, mortals interfere at their peril. So too now. I learned that, when dealing with the divine Shakespeare, no mortal, however scholarly, can be relied upon to get him right.

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Sweet William

A fifth and final indelicate frivolity By Mihangel

Part 3