Tell Tale: Stories

A Gentleman and a Scholar

When she entered the lecture theater for the last time, the entire faculty rose and cheered. She progressed up the steps and onto the stage, feigning to be unaffected by their warm reception. She waited for her students to resume their places before she began to deliver her final lecture.

She held her emotions in check as she looked up at the assembled audience for the first time. A lecture theater that held three hundred and was rarely full was now so packed with professors, lecturers, and scholars she had taught over the past four decades, that some of them had spilled out onto the steps at the sides, while others stood hugger-mugger at the back.

Many had traveled from across the nation to sit at her feet and acknowledge the curtain coming down on an illustrious career. But as she stood and looked at them, Professor Burbage couldn’t help recalling it hadn’t always been that way.

Margaret Alice Burbage had studied English literature at Radcliffe before sailing across the ocean to spend a couple of years at the other Cambridge, where she completed a Ph.D. on Shakespeare’s early sonnets.

Dr. Burbage was offered the chance to remain in Cambridge as a teaching fellow at Girton, but declined as she wished to return to her native land, and like a disciple spreading the Gospel, preach about the Bard of Stratford-upon-Avon to her fellow countrymen.

Although vast areas of America had become emancipated, there still remained a small group of universities who were not quite ready to believe a woman could teach a man — anything. Among the worst examples of these heathens were Yale and Princeton, who did not allow women to darken their doors until 1969.

In 1970, when Dr. Burbage applied for the position of assistant professor at Yale, she told her mother after being interviewed by the all-male panel that she had no hope of being offered the post, and indeed, she expected to return to Amersham, where she would happily teach English at the local girls’ school where she had been educated. But to everyone’s surprise, other than that of the interviewing panel, she was offered the position, albeit at two-thirds of the salary of her male colleagues.

Questions were whispered in the cloisters as to where she would go to the lavatory, who would cover for her when she was having her period, and even who would sit next to her in the dining room.

Several former alumni made their feelings clear to the president of Yale, and some even moved their offspring to other universities lest they be contaminated, while another more active group were already plotting her downfall.

When Dr. Burbage had entered the same theater some forty-two years before to deliver her first lecture, the troops were lined up and ready for battle. As she walked onto that same stage, she was greeted by an eerie silence. She looked up at the 109 students, who were ranged in the amphitheater around her like lions who’d spotted a stray Christian.

Dr. Burbage opened her notebook and began her lecture.

“Gentlemen,” she said, as there weren’t any other ladies in the room, “my name is Margaret Burbage, and I shall be giving twelve lectures this term, covering the canon of William Shakespeare.”

“But did he even write the plays?” said a voice who didn’t attempt to make himself known.

She looked around the tiered benches, but wasn’t able to identify which of the students had addressed her.

“There’s no conclusive proof that anyone else wrote the plays,” she said, abandoning her prepared notes, “and indeed—”

“What about Marlowe?” another voice demanded.

“Christopher Marlowe was unquestionably one of the leading playwrights of the day, but in 1593 he was killed in a bar-room brawl, so—”

“What does that prove?” Yet another voice.

“That he couldn’t have written Richard II, Romeo and Juliet, Hamlet, or Twelfth Night, all of which were penned after Marlowe’s death.”

“Some say Marlowe wasn’t killed, but to escape the law went to live in France, where he wrote the plays, sent them back to England, and allowed his friend Shakespeare to take the credit.”

“For those who indulge in conspiracy theories, that rates alongside believing the moon landings were set up in a TV studio somewhere in Nebraska.”

“The same doesn’t apply to the Earl of Oxford.” Another voice.

“Edward de Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford, was unquestionably a well-educated and accomplished scholar, but unfortunately he died in 1604, so he couldn’t have written Othello, Macbeth, Coriolanus, or King Lear, arguably Shakespeare’s greatest work.”

“Unless Oxford wrote them before his death.” The same voice.

“There can’t be many playwrights who, having written nine masterpieces, then leave them to languish in their bottom drawer and forget to mention them to anyone, including the producers and theater owners of the day, one of whom, Edward Parsons, we know paid Shakespeare six pounds for Hamlet, because the British Museum has the receipt to prove it.”

“Henry James, Mark Twain, and Sigmund Freud wouldn’t agree with you.” Another voice.

“Neither would Orson Welles, Charlie Chaplin, or Marilyn Monroe,” said Dr. Burbage, “and perhaps more interesting, they were unable to agree with one another.”

One young man had the grace to laugh.

“Can Francis Bacon be dismissed quite so easily? After all, he was born before Shakespeare, and died after him, so at least the dates fit.”

“Which is about the only thing that does,” said Dr. Burbage. “However, I acknowledge without question that Bacon was a true Renaissance man. What we would today call a polymath. A talented writer, an able lawyer, and a brilliant philosopher, who ended up as Lord Chancellor of England during the reign of King James I. But the one thing Bacon doesn’t seem to have managed during his busy career was to write a play, let alone thirty-seven.”

“Then how do you explain that Shakespeare left school at fourteen, was not well versed in Latin, and somehow managed to write Hamlet without visiting Denmark, not to mention half a dozen plays set in Italy, having never set foot outside of England?”

“Only five of Shakespeare’s plays are set in Italy,” she said, landing her first blow. “And scholars also accept that neither Marlowe nor Oxford, or even Bacon, ever visited Denmark.” Which seemed to send her recalcitrant pupils into retreat, allowing her to add, “However, the distinguished satirist, Jonathan Swift, who was born a mere fifty years after Shakespeare’s death, put it so much better than I could:

As that seemed to silence them, Dr. Burbage felt she had won the first skirmish, but suspected the battalions were reforming before they launched an all-out attack.

“How important is it to have a good knowledge of the text?” asked someone who at least had the courtesy to raise a hand so she could identify him.

“Most important,” said Dr. Burbage, “but not as important as being able to interpret the meaning of the words, so you have a better understanding of the text.”

Assuming the battle was over, she returned to her lecture notes. “During this semester, I shall require you all to read one of the history plays, a comedy and a tragedy, and at least ten sonnets. Although you may make your own selection, I shall expect you, by the end of term, to be able to quote at length from the plays and sonnets you have chosen.”

“If we were to, between us, select every play and every sonnet, could you also quote at length from the entire canon?” The first voice again.

Dr. Burbage looked down at the names on the seating plan in front of her and identified Mr. Robert Lowell, whose grandfather had been a former president of Yale.

“I consider myself familiar with most of Shakespeare’s work, but like you, Mr. Lowell, I am still learning,” she said, hoping this would keep him in his place.

Lowell immediately stood, clearly the leader of the rebels. “Then perhaps you would allow me to test that claim, Dr. Burbage.” And before she could tell the young man to sit down and stop showing off, he added, “Shall we begin with something easy?

Dr. Burbage was impressed that he didn’t once look down at the text, so she obliged him and took up where he had left off.

One or two of the students nodded when she added, “The Tempest, act four, scene one.” But Lowell was right, he’d begun with something easy. Their leader sat down to allow a lieutenant to take his place, who looked equally well prepared.

the lieutenant recited, his eyes never leaving her, but she didn’t flinch.

“Hamlet, Act one, scene three.”

It was now clear to her that several among their dwindling ranks were not only following the text word for word in open books, but then turning a few pages clearly aware where the next volley would come from, and although another foot soldier had been shot down, someone quite happily rose to take his place. But this one looked as if he’d have been more at home on a football field, and read directly from the text.

Dr. Burbage had to concentrate as it had been some time since she’d read Henry VI. She hesitated for a moment while everyone’s eyes remained fixed on her. A flicker of triumph appeared on Mr. Lowell’s face.

“Henry VI, Part Two—” She couldn’t remember the act or scene, so to cover herself immediately said, “But can you tell me the next line?”

A blank look appeared on the young man’s face, and he clearly wanted to sit down.

“‘The first thing we do,’” said Dr. Burbage, “‘let’s kill all the lawyers.’”

This was greeted with laughter and a smattering of applause, as the questioner sank back in his place. But they hadn’t given up yet, because another foot soldier quickly took his place.

“Too easy, move on,” she said, as another soldier bit the dust to allow the next brave soul to advance over his fallen comrades. But one look at this particular young man, and Dr. Burbage knew she was in trouble. He was clearly at home on the battlefield, his bayonet fixed, and ready for the charge. He spoke softly, without once referring to the text.

She couldn’t remember the play the lines were from, and she certainly wasn’t able to complete the verse, but he’d made a mistake that just might rescue her.

“Wrong word,” she said firmly. “Not sting, but string. Next?” she added, confident that no one would doubt she could have delivered the next four lines. She would have to look up the scene once she was back in the safety of her room.

Dr. Burbage stared defiantly down at a broken army in retreat, but still their commanding officer refused to surrender. Lowell stood among the fallen, undaunted, unbowed, but she suspected he only had one bullet left in his barrel.

She smiled, and said:

“Can you tell me the number of the sonnet, Mr. Lowell?”

Lowell just stood there, like a man facing the firing squad, as his fallen comrades looked on in despair. But in her moment of triumph, Margaret Alice Burbage allowed her pride to get the better of her.

“‘I would challenge you to a battle of wits,’ Mr. Lowell, ‘but I see you are unarmed.’”

The students burst out laughing, and she felt ashamed.

Professor Burbage looked down at her class.

“If I may be allowed to leave you with a single thought,” she said. “It has been my life’s mission to introduce fertile and receptive minds to the greatest poet and playwright that ever lived in the tide of times. However, I have come to realize in old age that Will was also the greatest storyteller of them all, and in this, my final lecture, I shall attempt to make my case.

“If we had all been visiting London in 1595, when I would have been a whore or a lady-in-waiting — often the same thing...” Professor Burbage had to wait for the laughter to die down before she could continue, “I would have taken you to the Globe Theatre on Cheapside to see the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, and for a penny, we could have stood among a thousand groundlings to watch my great ancestor Richard Burbage give you his Romeo. Of course we would have marveled at the poetry, been entranced by the verse, but I would suggest that it would have been the tale that would have had you on the edge of your seats as we all waited to find out what was going to happen to our hero and his Juliet. What modern playwright would dare to poison the heroine, only to bring her back to life to find her lover, thinking she was dead, has taken his own life, and she, no longer wanting to live, stabs herself? Of course, we are all familiar with the story of Romeo and Juliet, but if there are those among you who have not read all thirty-seven plays, or seen them performed, you now have a unique opportunity to find out if I’m right. However, I wouldn’t bother with The Two Noble Kinsmen, as I’m not altogether convinced Shakespeare wrote it.”

She looked at her enthralled audience, and waited only for a moment before she broke the spell.

“On a higher note, I would also suggest that if Shakespeare were alive today, Hollywood would insist on a happy ending to Romeo and Juliet, with the two star-crossed lovers standing on the prow of Drake’s Golden Hind staring out into the sunset.”

It was some time before the laughter and applause died down, and she was able to continue.

“And as for the politically correct, what would the New York Times have made of a fourteen-year-old boy having sex with a thirteen-year-old girl on Broadway?”

While the professor waited for the applause to die down, she turned to the last page of her notes.

“And so, ladies and gentlemen, despite this being my final lecture, you will not escape without attempting the Burbage witch test to discover who among you is a genuine scholar.” An exaggerated groan went up around the room, which she ignored. “I shall now read a couplet from one of Shakespeare’s plays, in the hope that one of the brighter ones among you will give me the next three lines.” She looked up and smiled at her audience, to be met with apprehensive looks.

A silence followed, and Professor Burbage allowed herself a moment to enjoy the thought that she had defeated young and old alike in her final lecture, until a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman rose slowly from his place near the back of the auditorium. Although she hadn’t seen him for over forty years, Margaret knew exactly who he was. Now gaunt of face, with gray hair, and a severed arm from a recent war to remind her that he wasn’t someone who retreated in the face of the enemy.

he offered in a voice she could never forget.

“Which play?” she demanded.

“Troilus and Cressida,” he said confidently.

“Correct. But for your bonus, which act and which scene?”

He hesitated for a moment before saying, “Act three, scene two.”

It was the right act but the wrong scene, but Professor Burbage simply smiled and said, “You’re quite right, Mr. Lowell.”