The Alchemist’s Tragedy is a tale of Shakespeare’s self-discovery at perhaps the most psychologically troubled time of his life when he finds himself subject to the theological politics of England’s James I and the Church of the Bishop of London. It is the two-year period between the tragedies and the late romances, when William Shakespeare was exhausted, even repulsed, by the human corruption he has had to plumb in the creation of his most penetrating tragedies, a creative phase that ended with him leaving Timon of Athen (1609) unfinished. While his company tries to salvage something from Timon (as a knockabout farce). Will realizes:
“It is the words. It is the words that mold my world. These penetrating syllables that, giving utterance to action, chase a gossamer of truth found gasping in their breathy pulse. I need a dark, still den to parse it out, but hath no longer grit nor pluck enough to lock me in the dank, dark cell of my embittered soul.”
But then, in an attempt to keep his very private sonnets from being published, Shakespeare’s brother Edmund is killed, and Will finds himself incarcerated by the arbitrary assertions of church and state law. The charges are self-serving and contradictory: either his writing is a subversive act of treason, or he is a fraud, putting his name to seditious writings of better-educated courtiers. In any case, the capricious application of authority, particularly the laws governing theatrical presentations, supposedly for the good of the people, but actually to serve the greed of the Bishop and the self-asserted divinity of the King, lead Shakespeare to a cell in the Tower of London. There the King angry that his favorite poet might be proven a traitorous charlatan, sets aside the law and orders Will to write a new play to prove the King’s faith in the bard he praises to the crowns of Europe is well founded. The play’s subject is, of course, to be feature The King of England being confirmed in his divinity by God. Uninspired, Will manages to produce snatches of dialogue which, when a reading is demanded, he weaves into a chamber play performed by the drunken King and his courtiers. , during which Shakespeare expiates his personal demons, excoriating everyone including the King but turns his most venomous words upon himself, discovering…
I see how willfully for years I have escaped into illusion to refute, deny, avoid the crippling life prescribed me at my birth. So damned a-feared of the baseness I was born to, I chose to live in words and dreams, in all the magic horrors of history, its illusions, yea, of witchcraft and romantic cleverness. I read the library of my Lancashire Lord. I studied everyone I ever met - the peasants and their betters, rank by rank. I sought the sense of aristocracy, and learned nobility was better found in the heart of the wretched base-born, poor and... no, but, no... still hiding from the terror even now ... Hiding? Yea, between these very lines, blinded by the glare of brilliant quips in verbal cascades. Why? To run from the fear of death, alive. I’m dead, if not to life, then to the living of it. Why!?
In the end, he comes to understand:
If I’m to know the infinity of my imagination, I must pay homage to my nature’s limitations… I’m neither free to have faith in god, nor to deny him… The tragedy for me is not being able to believe. In anything. I alchemize my words into people and I’m then duty-bound to live with their beliefs, but only as I create them. Faith is the luxury of those who will not question – everything. What I know of the world I live in’s only this. It is cheerless, dark, and deadly. But only when we fail to exercise out Will, and Will it otherwise.