On Bastards and Bastardy

As I’ve mentioned before, I’m applying for a master’s in English at the end of the year in England. These programmes are pretty expensive. I’m looking at Oxford, which costs c. £6000 for tuition, plus a £2000 college fee and a recommended budget of £13,000 for living expenses for a year. About £21,000 in total. Expensive, but pretty standard for Britain. We can’t all be Sweden, I suppose.

These hockey players are very excited about free education

A lot of grants and funding opportunities in Britain are only available to UK or Commonwealth students. Even the AHRC (Arts and Humanities Research Council) awards will only cover fees for EU students. That’s a £13,000 difference depending on where you’re from. So, I decided to look into British citizenship. My father, uncle and aunts are all Scottish after all. But that’s where I ran into a snag. If your mother is British, then you’re automatically a British citizen. If, however, you’re claiming British citizenship through your father and you were born after a certain year, British law goes by the law of your mother’s country. And in my case, that’s the gloriously forward-thinking, socially emancipated, progressive Republic of Ireland.

and Ireland’s lovely

It was perfectly possible, I learned, to claim citizenship from one’s father. I, however, am not eligible because, under Irish law, I am illegitimate. That’s right. In this, the twenty-first century, in a first-world, EU member-state, I am deprived of rights other citizens enjoy because I, like Jon Snow here, am a bastard.

I know that feel, bro

I was born before my parents married, and they have since separated. That fact, over which, I remind you, I had no control, means a difference of £13,000 if I am lucky enough to win funding. It means I am limited in the types of funding I can seek and it makes it all the more likely that I’ll have to go into debt to pay for my education. All because my parents got a little frisky a little early.

Eire herself facepalms

I’m amazed that my bastardy (a really fun word, incidentally) is having such a quantifiable effect on my life. I know the constitution was composed in 1933 but I assumed that 80-odd years of statehood would have curbed De Valera’s more excessive church-appeasing pseudo-medieval sycophancy.

lol, nope

So there’s not really much I can do. I’m in good company, though. The bastard as a historical and literary figure is an old archetype. They range from the aforementioned Jon Snow of A Song of Ice and Fire to Edmund in King Lear. William the Conqueror was William the Bastard before he got motivated and Confucius, Da Vinci and Thomas Paine all seemed to get by despite their less than immaculate conceptions. It’s telling though, that the most recent figure on lists of ‘bastards what done good for themselves’ is Eva Perón, who died in 1952. It really doesn’t seem to figure in recent history and barring a sudden time jump to 1259, it wasn’t something I ever thought I’d have to worry about.

1259 was not a good year for bastards

The ‘bastard speech’ in King Lear reads a little differently now. ‘Wherefore should I Stand in the plague of custom, and permit The curiosity of nations to deprive me, For that I am some twelve or fourteen moon-shines Lag of a brother? Why bastard? wherefore base?’ The question stands.

What, in sooth, is up with this shit?

Now Gods, stand up for bastards. Someone’s going to have to.

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Jack Russells and Jacobeans

My mother has moved to a new house: a converted cottage in rural Donegal. She moved there from another house in rural Donegal (hereafter referred to as simply ‘Donegal’) so it’s not so drastic a transition.

Actually, to call it a converted cottage is a bit inaccurate. Converting cottage is more appropriate, we’re still in the process.

The house belonged to a woman named Mary Hiudaí, my mother’s partner’s grandmother. Mary passed away last year. She was 104 years old, and this house was already standing when she was born. No one living knows when it was built, but it’s been here for over a century.

In the move, we lost our cat Tigger. He disappeared from the house and hasn’t returned since. Bereft of his comparative intellectualism, I’ve been forced to get to know Mum’s step-son, Pepper,

‘How do do?’

and his adoptive sister, Shorty. They’re watching me as I write this because they’re hoping I’ll take them for a walk to the beach. I probably will.

Jack Russells combine some of the more delightful aspects of puberty and ADHD. They’re skittery, excitable, awkward wee things that zoom in through your legs and tangle you up in their leads. They yip too. A lot.

All the same, they grow on you

I watched a three-part documentary on BBC called The King and the Playwright about King James I and Shakespeare. It was hosted by James Shapiro, the author of 1599: A Year in the Life of William Shakespeare.

I’d never really thought of Shakespeare as a Jacobean. The image-myth of Elizabeth and of Shakespeare as the high point of an Elizabethan Golden Age is so strong and well-established in our collective psyche that we tend to forget the other, less arresting, monarch.

Then there’s Shakespeare in Love

But Shapiro makes a compelling case for James’ accession and the resulting political turbulence having had a transformative effect on Shakespeare’s writing and dramaturgy. Elizabeth died after a 44-year reign with no heir. James was king of Scotland, a foreign and belligerent nation, and son of the despised Mary, Queen of Scots.

From this environment of uncertainty and reform emerged the King’s Men, Shakespeare’s newly re-christened company, now operating under the King’s own patronage. Shakespeare’s Jacobean plays include some of his most famous, experimental and difficult dramas. Macbeth, King Lear, The Winter’s Tale, Timon of Athens and The Tempest are all Jacobean plays. Throughout the series, Shapiro demonstrates how they were rooted in, and engaged with, the Jacobean political climate.

I’m interested in the ways Shakespeare used magic in these plays. Compared to earlier works like A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the supernatural in Shakespeare’s Jacobean plays is dark, dangerous and pessimistic. Even The Winter’s Tale, in which a statue comes to life in a fairytale happy ending, is one of the darkest and most tragic of the comedies.

The death of a son, such as that of Leontes’ in The Winter’s Tale, was a horror that Shakespeare himself experienced in 1596. That the tragedy of the first three acts is only allayed by such an undeniably magical event, and that even magic cannot restore Leontes’ son, suggests that Shakespeare is using the fantastic mode reflexively. He is drawing attention to Leontes’ loss rather than providing a happy ending.

This ending fulfils the same function as the ending of Pandosto, the original play on which The Winter’s Tale is based. In that, the character equivalent to Leontes commits suicide, again highlighting how his actions have caused him irreparable loss. In fact, the magical nature of the ending makes the ending even more bittersweet in retrospect.

As Shapiro illustrates, such a point would become extremely pertinent to Jacobean England. In 1612, Prince Henry, James’ son, died suddenly of typhoid fever. The nation mourned for the young heir to the throne and mock funerals were held in three other cities around the country to allow the people to express their grief. At Henry’s sister’s wedding, held the following February, the King’s Men performed The Winter’s Tale before the still-grieving court. I doubt the fairy-tale ending much mitigated the audience’s sharing in Leontes’ grief.

Magic and late-Shakespearean drama is an area of particular expertise for my good friend Emer, whose blog can be found at http://emeramchugh.wordpress.com .

N. B. I took the damn dogs to the beach and lost most of the goodwill I’d developed towards them when they ran off chasing rabbits and pretended not to hear me calling. If they’re growing on me, it’s more fungus than friendship.

Of course, they had a great time

On the plus side, this was the beach.