On Jul 11, 2012, at 5:07 PM, Brian wrote:

The following lines I believe are self-explanatory:
"It’s true, of course, a usurer had grown/accustomed, for a sum, to sign your work/(that Shakespeare – Will – who played the Ghost in Hamlet,/ who lives in pubs, and died before he could/digest in full his portion of a boar’s head)…"
...
Later, Nabokov again implies the true author's name is unknown: "Look what numbers/of lowly, worthless souls have left their trace,/what countless names Brantome has for the asking!/Reveal yourself, god of iambic thunder..."

Both lines, I agree, don't particularly need interpretation.

What needs to be noticed though is the way the final section frames everything that goes before it.

After proposing a clearly fictional scenario in which

such a secret author might have secretly fled England

after the death of Will Shakespeare, the poem, whatever self it has,

asks for the true author to reveal himself;

perhaps as a check on the previously invented story;

but more obviously as a rhetorical device to lead into the final section,

where the poem declares its own, heartfelt & final, conclusions:

No! ...

... midst the shifting dust of ages,

faceless you’d stay, like immortality

itself – then vanished in the distance, smiling.

The No! essentially negates everything that went before.

I regret if this seems condescending but

he poem seems to me to be quite clear,

& clearly comes out against anti-Stratfordism.

If VN were a Stratfordian when he wrote these lines, why would he ask Shakespeare to reveal himself?

See above.

Shakespeare (1924)

Amid grandees of times Elizabethan
you shimmered too, you followed sumptuous custom;
the circle of ruff, the silv’ry satin that
encased your thigh, the wedgelike beard – in all of this
you were like other men… Thus was enfolded
your godlike thunder in a succinct cape.

Haughty, aloof from theatre’s alarums,
you easily, regretlessly relinquished
the laurels twinning into a dry wreath,
concealing for all time your monstrous genius
beneath a mask; and yet, your phantasm’s echoes
still vibrate for us; your Venetian Moor,
his anguish; Falstaff’s visage, like an udder
with pasted-on mustache; the raging Lear..
You are among us, you’re alive; your name, though,
your image, too – deceiving, thus, the world
you have submerged in your beloved Lethe.
It’s true, of course, a usurer had grown
accustomed, for a sum, to sign your work
(that Shakespeare – Will – who played the Ghost in Hamlet,
who lives in pubs, and died before he could
digest in full his portion of a boar’s head)…

The frigate breathed, your country you were leaving,
To Italy you went. A female voice
called singsong through the iron’s pattern
called to her balcony the tall inglesse,
grown languid from the lemon-tinted moon
and Verona’s streets. My inclination
is to imagine, possibly, the droll
and kind creator of Don Quixote
exchanging with you a few casual words
while waiting for fresh horses – and the evening
was surely blue. The well behind the tavern
contained a pail’s pure tinkling sound… Reply
whom did you love? Reveal yourself – whose memoirs
refer to you in passing? Look what numbers
of lowly, worthless souls have left their trace,
what countless names Brantome has for the asking!
Reveal yourself, god of iambic thunder,
you hundred-mouthed, unthinkably great bard!

No! At the destined hour, when you felt banished
by God from your existence, you recalled
those secret manuscripts, fully aware
that your supremacy would rest unblemished
by public rumor’s unashamed brand,
that ever, midst the shifting dust of ages,
faceless you’d stay, like immortality
itself – then vanished in the distance, smiling.