In a previous chapter 1 I
have given reasons for believing that Sonnet 109 was written by the
poet Earl of Oxford in the spring of 1581 to his unfortunate mistress
Anne Vavasor when this dark-faired, dark-eyed young Lady of the Bedchamber
to Queen Elizabeth was sent to the Tower for unexpectedly giving birth
to a son by Oxford in the Maidens' Chamber at Greenwich Palace.
It will be recalled that Oxford himself was not among those present
on this dramatic occasion, and was thought by Sir Francis Walsingham,
Principal Secretary of State, and others "to have withdrawn himself
with intent to pass the seas."
Be that as it may, the Earl was either quickly apprehended or gave
himself up to the Virgin Monarch's authority and was also sentenced
to enjoy the grim hospitality of the state prison for having, like the
leading male character of Measure for Measure, "got his
friend with child."
Thus, both the poet and his Dark Lady appear to have been inmates of
the commodious Tower at the same time. But we can take it for granted
that the jealous Queen—who had herself long displayed a marked
personal interest in Oxford—saw to it that her erring favorite
was given no opportunity to console his unhappy mistress or offer first-hand
excuses for his absence during the torturing midnight hours of Anne
Vavasor's disgrace and banishment. If Oxford communicated with her at
this time, it would have been by means of a written message. And as
a versifier whose technical skill is categorically attested by his contemporaries,
what more natural than his use of the highly personalized poetical form,
of which Sonnet 109 is a striking example, to express remorse and beg
forgiveness for his apparent "false of heart ... absence"
when the great reckoning took place in the Maiden's Chamber?
O, never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify.
As easy might I from myself depart
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:
That is my home of love: if I have rang'd,
Like him that travels, I return again:
Just to the time, not with the time exchang'd,
So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe, though in my nature reign'd
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stain'd,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou, my Rose; in it thou art my all.
The whole spirit of this poem most assuredly echoes the tragic circumstances
in which the titled poet and his mistress were enmeshed to their scandalous
undoing in the March of 1581.
The unhallowed man child—later to become the handsome and heroic
Lt.-Col. Sir Edward Vere, M. P., of the Lowland Wars—although illegitimate,
was nevertheless Oxford's true creation. The fact that the Earl never
publicly acknowledged him does not prove that Oxford did not view the
boy with paternal affection. Much documentary evidence will be presented
at another time to show how, on the contrary, Edward de Vere the poet-dramatist
went to great pains to keep this fair and courageous namesake who, even
as an adolescent subaltern in the service of Sir Francis Vere, shed
lustre on the family name, from being branded as a "bastard"
by the busy tongues of London. All of these circumstances are referred
to many times in the heart-stirring measures of the Sonnets. So when
"Gentle Master William" here avows,
As easy might I from myself depart
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:
it may well be that he is personifying the infant as his "soul."
Years later, when addressing the more mature youth in Sonnet 74, he
uses a similar figure of speech:
Thy spirit is mine, the better part of me.
It seems almost needless to point out again that no reference that
the author of Sonnet 109 makes to himself has ever been applied with
any realistic force whatever to the known personal career of the Stratford
native. A wayward aristocrat certainly speaks in such lines as:
Never believe, though in my nature reign'd
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stain'd,
To leave for nothing all thy sun of good.
For, everything else aside, no true artist would make such a personal
allusion unless "blood" and high social position were genuinely
susceptible of being "'stain'd" by the delinquencies charged.
It would be not only ridiculous but an unpardonable breach of creative
taste for William of Stratford—an authentic son of the yeomanry
who is said to have been forced into a "shot-gun" marriage
with a farmer's daughter, eight years his senior—suddenly to begin
lamenting that he was subject to the "frailties" of the lower
orders. No. Here again the Stratford identification is untenable. The
author of the Sonnets is too great an artist to indulge in so
obviously cheap a solecism. He continually expresses himself as a genius
of truly aristocratic background naturally would, incidentally admitting
many personal faults. But rank insincerity and snobbish pretence are
not among them in asking us to assume such breaches of taste and common
sense the accepted authorities demand the impossible. We must look for
the writer of these revealing lines among the Elizabethan poets of outstanding
contemporary reputation who actually had jeopardized "blood"
and high social position by certain well-defined patterns of emotional
irregularity and creative activity. In doing this, let us ignore conjectural
possibilities and stick as closely as possible to personal documentation.
This immediately narrows the field to one man—the same poet-playwright
Earl of Oxford whose documentation can always be shown to fit the Bard's
most searching self-commentaries. In fact, it is not too much to say
that all references which "Shakespeare" makes to himself,
and which are admittedly blank enigmas as applied to the Stratford native,
immediately assume clarity and heightened artistic meaning when read
in the light of Oxford's personal record.
One very interesting self-description that has, I believe, escaped
previous notice, appears in the eighth line of Sonnet 109:
So that myself bring water for my stain.
To the casual reader this may appear as a mere figure of speech, rather
on the commonplace side; the kind of thing that almost any poet who
has broken the Seventh Commandment might say in expressing remorse.
But we are not dealing here with "almost any poet." We are
dealing with the outstanding master of English literature, a Lord of
Language who uses commonplace words so effectually (as he himself reminds
us in Sonnet 76) "that every word doth almost tell my name."
So when we examine more closely "Shakespeare's" reference
to himself as a water-bearer, we suddenly discover that it fits
the poet Earl with almost breath-taking realism. And this for the simple
reason that Lord Oxford was the official water-bearer at Elizabeth's
Court.
This fact is amply certified by Dr. J. Horace Round, foremost authority
on the law and precedent relating to British peerage and pedigree, who
was retained by both the House of Lords and the Crown to settle many
important questions in this field. Dr. Round tells us that in addition
to the office of Lord Great Chamberlain of England, the 17th Earl of
Oxford also held an office known as "the Ewrie" which is described
as distinct from the Great Chamberlainship. 2
The most important duty of the Officer of the Ewrie during the Shakespearean
Age was "to serve the monarch with water before and after eating
on the day of the Coronation." It must be noted that this service
of water was primarily for cleansing purposes, and that the "ewer,
basins and towels" were among the essential furniture of the office,
as well as "tasting cups."
As Lord Great Chamberlain and also Officer of the Ewrie, Oxford is
known to have personally served James I upon the day of his Coronation
in 1603. 3
But the record of Queen Elizabeth's Annual Expence: Civil and Military,
published by the Society of Antiquarians of London (1790), shows that
"the Ewrie" was a continuously active Court office employing
a "Sergeant," three "Yeomen," two "Groomes,"
two "Pages" and two "Clarks." This quite evidently
means that while Oxford held the honor of the office of providing water
for the Queen's use in freshing up at table and wiping away the "stains"
of her repast, he himself only functioned in this capacity upon great
state occasions, such as a Coronation.
So that myself bring water for my stain
is not, therefore, merely a commonplace figure of speech, but a direct,
colorful self-identification of Edward de Vere as the author of Sonnet
109.
And although it may be demonstrated that these verses are addressed
to some woman other than Oxford's unhappy Dark Lady—even to the
Queen herself—the unmistakable voice of the wayward Officer of
the Elizabethan Ewrie still rings just as clearly on the informed ear.
The emblem of "the Eivrie" (also seemingly unnoted by the
many keen scholars who have discussed Lord Oxford's strange career)
was a silver water-bottle laced with Oxford Blue cord. An ancient drawing
of this badge from the Retrospective Review (1828) is reproduced
herewith. The writer of the accompanying description has mistakenly
attributed the device to the office of "Lord High Chamberlain."
"Shake-speare" makes another pointed reference to Oxford's
long-forgotten office of water-bearer when in that stark and cynical
autobiographical drama of a spendthrift nobleman (Timon of Athens,
III.1) he has one of Lord Timon's followers remark:
I dreamt of a silver basin and ewer tonight.
Coincidences—COINCIDENCES! What a plague they have become to accepted
Shakespearean authority! Always negative in reaction to the furtive
Stratford citizen. But invariably positive in respect to the poet-peer
who bore the nickname of "Gentle Master William!"
Notes
1. NEWS-LETTER. Vol. III, No. 3. back
2. Round: Report on the Lord Great Chamberlainship; MS. in the
Library of the House of Lords, London. back
3. Ward: Seventeenth Earl of Oxford, p. 346. back
