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:
When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this sign, that the dunces are all in confederacy against him.”
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?
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air.
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself—”
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.
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
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.
Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice;
Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgement.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not express’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy;
For the apparel oft proclaims the man,
the lieutenant recited, his eyes never leaving her, but she didn’t flinch.
And they in France of the best rank and station
Are most select and generous, chief in that.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be;
For loan oft loses
both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
“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.
There shall be in England seven halfpenny loaves sold for a penny: the three-hooped pot shall have ten hoops and I will make it felony to drink small beer. All the realm shall be in common; and in Cheapside shall my palfrey go to grass.
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.
And when I am king, as king I will be, there shall be no money: all shall eat and drink on my score; and I will apparel them all in one livery, that they may agree like brothers, and worship me their lord.
“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.
Now is the winter of our discontent.
“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.
Take but degree away, untune that sting, And, hark, what discord follows! Each thing meets …
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.
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foil’d—,
She smiled, and said:
—Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toil’d.
“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.
For time is like a fashionable host
That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand.
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.
And with his arms outstretch’d, as he would fly,
Grasps in the comer: the welcome ever smiles,
And farewell goes out sighing,
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.”
ALL’S FAIR IN LOVE AND WAR
RALPH—PRONOUNCED RAIF—DUDLEY DAWSON became squire of the village of Nethercote when his father died. After all, his father and grandfather had always been addressed as “squire” by the locals, and as he’d inherited Nethercote Hall, with its thousand acres of farmland and ten thousand sheep, he rather assumed he’d be treated with the same deference. So convinced was Ralph of his birthright, he refused to open letters that weren’t addresse
d to Ralph Dudley Dawson, Esq.
Any friends Ralph had, of whom there were few, were either richer than he was or listed in Debrett’s, and, like the Royal Family, he considered it nothing less than his duty to marry someone from his own class, or preferably even higher. After all, Ralph was a good catch.
The only problem for Ralph was that he didn’t come across too many young women living in the depths of Cornwall who fitted the bill. The lord lieutenant of the county, Sir Miles Seymour, had three daughters: Arabella, who was beautiful, Charlotte, who was charming, and Clare, who was neither, but inexplicably all three turned him down. The vicar’s daughter, Maud, was a nice enough girl, but frankly he didn’t want to go into the garden with her, and in any case she was about to disappear off to Lady Margaret Hall, which Ralph assumed was a nunnery.
Once Ralph had attained his fortieth year, he accepted that he might have to look further afield if he was to find anyone worthy of him, or at least that was until his eyes settled on Beth Trevelyan.
Ralph, as the village squire, had been invited to present the prizes at a local swimming gala, and when Beth pulled herself out of the water, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He continued to stare at the apparition as she took off her swimming cap and shook out a mass of golden curls that fell to her shoulders, completing a picture that had all the young men, and several of the older ones, looking in her direction.
Ralph was determined to add Beth to his many conquests, but as she passed by the judges’ table, she didn’t give him a second look. Perhaps the three-piece tweed suit, brown suede brogues, and half hunter watch made him look a lot older than he was. He hung around outside the swimming pool hoping to speak to the goddess, but when Beth finally appeared, dressed in a simple yellow frock with a bow in her hair, she was on the arm of a fair-haired, good-looking young man who Ralph thought he recognized, but couldn’t place. It didn’t take Ralph long to discover that Jamie Carrigan was a tenant farmer who rented forty acres of his land and lived in one of the cottages on his estate, and that Beth was the daughter of a local publican who managed the Nethercote Arms, something else Ralph owned, but had never frequented.