It was early in the morning when the mob first descended upon the hamlet of Stratford-on-Avon. Shakespeare was awakened from a light sleep by a commotion in front of his cottage, including a loud, rather insistent rapping on his front door.
When he opened it, he found several dozen people standing about in the lane. The person closest to the door, a young man no older than 17 years, asked, “Are you William Shakespeare, the Bard of Avon?”
“I am,” Shakespeare answered with as much dignity as he could muster, pulling his robe tightly around him.
The young man turned to the crowd and shouted, “It’s him! It’s him!” The crowd cheered. Turning back to Shakespeare, the young man said, “Tommy Flanagan, your biggest fan. You know, I saw All’s Well That Ends Well 87 times? I even saw Titus Andronicus 43 times, and, well, just between you and me, it wasn’t your best work…”
“Who are you people?” Shakespeare asked, trying to clear his head.
“We’re the Shakespeare London Appreciation Society, Hurrah,” Flanagan explained. Then, a man in the back of the crowd shouted, “Mr. Shakespeare! Mr. Shakespeare! I’ve got a great idea for a play!” The crowd hushed the man into silence.
“We put together a little money to buy a folio of your works,” Flanagan continued. “And, we were hoping you would, well, sign it…”
Shakespeare was about to respond when he noticed an old woman trying to dislodge a stone from his cottage. “Hey, you, there!” he yelled, frightening the woman. “What in heaven’s name do you think you’re doing?”
“I only want a small stone,” the old woman responded, pleading. “I promise that’s all I’ll take. Oh, may I? Please? I’d be ever so grateful.”
“Certainly not!” Shakespeare roared. The old woman skulked away, empty-handed and dark of mien, muttering, “Well, I never really liked Romeo and Juliet much anyway, if you want to know the truth of it! Give me Congreve any day.”
“Oh,” Flanagan said. “If you could spare any autographed portraits of yourself that you may have lying about, we’d appreciate it.”
“Now, stop me if you’ve heard this one before,” the man in the back shouted. “It’s about a king – but not just any king…”
An older man standing to Flanagan’s left said, “Hey, Bill, baby! How sharper than a serpent’s tooth! Eh, Bill? That was a good’un, eh, Bill? Eh?”
Shakespeare smiled weakly. “If you produce the folio at once, I will sign it,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry, but I gave up my last portrait a fortnight gone…”
“No problem,” Flanagan assured him. “Just being in the same neighbourhood, gorblimey, in the same general area as the great William Shakespeare is thrill enough for such as us…”
A young man to Flanagan’s right said, “Mr. Shakespeare, I’d be honoured if you could settle a question for me. Do you remember, in Hamlet, the scene where the prince is alone, brooding to himself? You know, the whole ‘To be or not to be?’ thing?”
Shakespeare nodded. “Well, a bunch of us was wondering whether he really intended to kill hisself,” the man continued, “or whether he was just, you know, musing out loud about the cruel vicissitudes of this mortal coil.”
“Well,” Shakespeare thoughtfully replied, “It was my intention that the speech be ambiguous…”
“Yeah, I realize that,” the man plowed on. “But, if you had to choose, which interpretation would it be?”
“Well, I…”
“Come on, man – I’ve got a shilling riding on this.”
“I’m sorry,” Shakespeare insisted, “but I can’t help you.”
“Sure,” the man bitterly responded.
The man on the other side of Flanagan said, “Hey, Bill! There is a tide in the affairs of man! Eh, Bill? A tide in the affairs of man! That was another good’un, eh, Bill? Eh?”
From the back, another man shouted, “The king has three daughters, see. No, wait – he has…six daughters! And eight sons! And, he has no idea who he should leave his kingdom to, see? It’s a sort of cross between King Lear and Hamlet? So, what do think? Can you use my idea?”
“Where is the folio?” Shakespeare wearily asked.
“Here, Mr. Shakespeare,” Flanagan answered, handing the folio to him.
“Who should I make it out to?”
“Tommy Flanagan.” Shakespeare signed the folio with a flourish and returned it to the boy. Now, please, go back to wherever you came from.”
“Would you mind if we just stood outside all day and stared at your home in the vague hope that we might perchance view your countenance behind a poorly drawn curtain?”
“Yes,” Shakespeare replied, slamming the door on the crowd, which had no intention of going away. Shakespeare sighed. I suppose, he thought to himself, That the price of fame is such. Pity.