There was nothing unusual about Davies’s argument: She held that Shakespeare was simply Shakespeare. “I do not find his copious output problematic,” she said. “Nature is prolific. Her permutations are endless, and everywhere there can be found examples of rare and gifted variations from the norm.
“Although Professor Martext is correct in pointing out that Shakespeare was not fussy about authority and may even have encouraged input from his actors—after all, the records show they were extremely devoted to him—nevertheless, I cannot see how that flexibility necessarily indicates collaboration. And though there is an array of voices in Shakespeare’s work, they are the natural and fully realized voices of different characters, all springing from the same authorial imagination.
“As for your theory, Professor Bibb, I’m afraid I don’t agree that Shakespeare would have needed any specialized education or upbringing to write what he did. One must keep in mind that The Globe—Burbage’s theater, where many of Shakespeare’s plays were produced—was designed to accommodate the unlettered commoners, and that for the most part Shakespeare’s plays deal with universal experience and our most fundamental concerns at the visceral, or gut, level.
“Therefore, whatever facts Shakespeare may have needed to know he probably acquired by the age of twelve through the rudimentary education available to anyone of his station. All the rest is the polish and craft of the professional, which he surely learned as an apprentice to the stage. Thus, although scholarship may help us elucidate certain idiosyncrasies of Shakespeare’s diction and syntax, we don’t have to be geniuses to read and enjoy him, nor did Shakespeare the man have to be a prodigious scholar to be Shakespeare the writer.
“In fact, though it may seem paradoxical, Shakespeare’s language was both novel and vernacular, highly innovative and yet thoroughly accessible. Linguists have shown that Shakespeare made up more than 8.5 percent of his vocabulary, and many of the words and phrases he coined or recorded have proved tenacious enough to stand the test of time. Some are among the most ubiquitous in our vocabulary today. Consider where we would be, for example, without such basic words as generous, lonely, and hurry or such audaciously highfalutin words as auspicious, multitudinous, and sanctimonious. Shakespeare invented those and hundreds more. Indeed,” Davies added with a mischievous smile, “where would we college professors be had Shakespeare not given us the word critic?”
The panelists all roared with laughter and Phil frantically adjusted the levels on their microphones. When the tumult subsided, Davies continued.
“I think it’s fair to say that Shakespeare almost single-handedly transformed English from the tongue of roughnecks and barbarians into a sophisticated language full of beauty and vitality. As one scholar wrote, ‘Reading his works is like witnessing the birth of language itself.’ Who but a single genius, with one ear trained on the common speech and the other tuned to his muse, could have done such a remarkable thing?
“Yet,” she concluded, “perhaps the most compelling evidence that Shakespeare was Shakespeare is the simple fact that none of his contemporaries ever suspected him of being anyone else. On the contrary, in his lifetime some fifty plays were falsely attributed to him, which attests to his great popularity and renown. Apparently, his name alone could draw an audience, and of course it still does. As Ben Jonson put it, ‘He was not of an age, but for all time.’
“And so I ask you, how could a man so much in the public eye, working in a medium, as Professor Martext so rightly pointed out, that requires constant interaction and emotional exposure, have kept secret an enormous literary hoax for so many years? That would be not only improbable but impossible. I must conclude, therefore, that despite a paucity of conclusive evidence to prove it, Shakespeare was indeed the author of his work.”
Through the studio window, Davies saw Phil waving at her and pointing to his watch. “And now,” she said, acknowledging him with a nod, “I’m afraid our time is up. It has been an exciting and illuminating discussion. Thank you all for sharing your views.” The three other panelists gave Davies a polite round of applause. “Until next week’s round table, this is Professor Enid Davies wishing you good day.”
“And you’re listening to KHCR, your standing ovation station,” Phil said into his board mike, right on cue. As he shut off the studio mikes, he glanced at the schedule Randy Malone had left for him. “Stay tuned for the news at two o’clock, followed by a special program of Elizabethan folk music hosted by Professor Thomas Arne.”
Phil activated a tape of transitional music, then leaned back in his chair and breathed a sigh of relief.
“Nice job,” Caitlin said, flashing him a thumbs-up sign.
Chapter 13
The Gentleman Doth Protest Too Much
Shortly after the professors departed, the two freshmen made their way out of the radio station to the lawn in the courtyard of the Calhoun Humanities Complex. Phil lay down on the grass and basked in the Sunday midafternoon sun while Caitlin sat cross-legged, poring over her notes.
“So, what did you think of the discussion?” he asked when she seemed close to finishing.
“Just a sec,” she said, flipping quickly through the pages again to make sure she had recorded everything she needed. Finally she looked up. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I was just wondering what you thought of the panel. Obviously you had a lot of thoughts about it,” he added, indicating her notepad. “You want to know what I think?”
“Sure.”
“I agree with Professor Davies’s analysis. Shakespeare was a man, no doubt about it. And he was probably just good old Willy Shakespeare, although Professor Bibb’s hypothesis about Francis Bacon was interesting. Martext’s and Torres’s theories were just plain crazy. Shakespeare a collective? No way. And Shakespeare a woman? Give me a break!”
Caitlin set her notebook on the grass. “Actually, I thought Carmen’s presentation was the most interesting one.”
Phil chuckled. “It figures.”
“What do you mean ‘it figures’?”
“It figures that a woman would be attracted to the notion that Shakespeare was a woman.”
Caitlin grimaced. “Look, just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I’m biased if I entertain the idea that Shakespeare was a woman—or, to be more precise, that a woman may have ghostwritten some of Shakespeare’s work. It’s simply a matter of liking Carmen’s views on the subject. She made some insightful comments that really opened up the debate.”
“Maybe. Or perhaps you’re just so enamored of Carmen,” Phil stressed the name in a mocking tone, “that you’re inclined to accept her opinion, even if it’s totally implausible.”
“Implausible? What’s so implausible about it?”
“It’s an innovative idea and nothing more. You can accept it, but you can’t prove it. Look, I don’t mean to disparage Professor Torres, who obviously knows a lot more about literature than I do, but where’s the beef? I heard a lot of speculation, but I didn’t hear anything conclusive, did you?”
Caitlin sighed. “No, I didn’t, but Carmen wasn’t the only one who couldn’t prove her theory. Frankly, I thought Professor Bibb’s case for Francis Bacon was pretty dubious, and although Professor Davies’s argument for Shakespeare as Shakespeare was reasonable and articulate, it was commonplace—she just told us the same old stuff with no new proof. I did like a lot of what Professor Martext said about collaboration, but I thought he went off the deep end a couple of times.”
“Tell me about it,” Phil said.
“But all that’s beside the point,” Caitlin went on, “which is that there’s precious little conclusive evidence about Shakespeare at all—especially concerning his identity, which is why people are still arguing about it today. I’m not saying you have to endorse everything Carmen said, but you should at least give her theory some impartial consideration before you go around implying that she’s a charlatan and I’m prejudiced.”
“I’m not implying that at
all,” Phil protested. “That’s what you inferred.”
“Oh c’mon, Phil. Why don’t you just admit it? You were making subjective judgments, dismissing anything that didn’t fit your preconceived opinions about Shakespeare. Tell me, what do you really know about him—or her—anyway?”
“Look, just because I may not know as much about Shakespeare as Professor Torres or you or anybody else doesn’t mean I can’t have my own opinion on the subject. Besides, there’s plenty of evidence to show that Shakespeare was a man.”
“Such as?”
“Such as . . . such as his picture, his name, what everybody says he is. Well, almost everybody. Oh, the heck with it, Caitlin. You win, all right? If you want to believe Shakespeare was a woman, or hired a woman to write for him, fine. All I know is you don’t have to be a Renaissance scholar to see that you’re the one who’s distorting the facts to suit your opinion.”
“I’m not distorting any facts, Phil. I’m just considering possibilities. Why are you being so obstinate?”
“If you think I’m being stubborn, fine. I don’t care. The real issue here is, whose opinion has more credibility?”
“I guess we’ll see,” Caitlin said cryptically. She looked at her watch. “Hey, I’d really like to talk more, but I don’t have time right now. Nothing personal, but I’ve got a seven o’clock deadline on this article. Gotta go. See you soon, I hope.” She stood up. “No hard feelings, right?”
“Yeah, sure,” Phil grumbled.
Caitlin smiled. “Great. See you later!”
Phil watched as she took off down the path. At one point she turned and waved, and he waved back halfheartedly. When she rounded a corner and disappeared from sight, he put his hands behind his head and stared at the sky. He tried to eradicate their conversation from his mind, but her question—what did he really know about Shakespeare anyway?—kept nagging him. He had to admit that he didn’t know much at all, and the admission made him feel incompetent and foolish.
Phil knew that if he expected to be a serious, diligent student and not just cruise through the next four years for the sake of a diploma, he would have to take some initiative and cultivate his interests. His education was his responsibility. He had known it before, but he had never felt it as keenly.
He also knew that when one’s knowledge of a subject was insufficient, there was only one way to rectify the situation: read more about it. He resolved to go to the library first thing in the morning and get a good book on Shakespeare—or maybe a couple of good books.
After that he’d see what Caitlin Ciccone had to say.
Chapter 14
Fortune Favors the Hungry
Monday
At the corner of College and Holyfield streets, a colossal tractor-trailer had double-parked to make a delivery at Steinbach Commons, impeding the flow of traffic down to State Street and beyond.
Caitlin was amazed. She did not hear the usual incessant honking of irascible hacks. Nor did she see an exasperated driver step out of his car to give the owner of the offending vehicle a few strident tips on driving. Instead, here in the city of Holyfield, the placid motorists waved to each other in neighborly fashion as they patiently took turns using the narrow lane around the tractor-trailer.
The sight of this unexpected civility had a soothing effect on Caitlin’s nerves, which had been wound tightly on this first day of classes. She took a deep breath of the invigorating morning air, and as she exhaled she felt her shoulders relax.
“I can’t believe it!” Juliet exclaimed as she and Lucy and Caitlin joined the throng at the crosswalk. “I’m so nervous.”
“Don’t worry,” Lucy said, trying to assuage Juliet’s fears. “No one’s going to give you a test or anything on the first day of class.”
“Don’t bet on it,” Caitlin said. “My father’s an English professor, and he always gives a vocabulary and reading comprehension test the first day. He calls it a ‘competence assessment test,’ says he’s trying to ‘ascertain the students’ propensity for apprehension and misapprehension.’”
“How horrible,” said Juliet. “I mean the test, not your dad.”
Caitlin laughed. “Yeah, I took it last spring, just to see how I’d do, and it was arduous, a real killer. Sort of like taking the SAT verbal all over again.”
As they waited for the light to change, Caitlin looked down College Street toward the Student Center. Maybe the Herald had come out, she thought. Last night she had typed her story on the Shakespeare radio panel into the computer, but she hadn’t seen any galley proofs or mechanicals.
“Hey, guys?” she said as the “walk” sign appeared and the crowd of students surged into the street. “I’m going to drop in at the Herald for a second. Will you save me a seat at breakfast?”
“You’re going over there at seven-thirty in the morning?” Juliet asked incredulously.
“Sure, why not? If I check in early, maybe I can pick up a lead or get another assignment.”
Juliet shook her head. “Wow, that’s diligence.”
“I hope you catch the worm, early bird,” Lucy said. “But we’ll save you a seat just in case.”
“Thanks,” Caitlin said and hurried off.
As she weaved through the pedestrian traffic, Caitlin wondered if the Herald would be open this early. If anyone was there it would be Bill. He had been pleased with her story. Although he had cut a few lines that he described as digressions and a few phrases that he called verbose, he had pronounced the finished product “a solid piece of work.” She liked the sound of those words.
The door to the office was open and there was a meeting taking place in the newsroom. When Caitlin entered, Bill Berkowitz looked up from the head of one of the long layout tables and waved her over.
“Hey, Caitlin. Come join us. We just started.”
Bill introduced her to the rest of the staff. Tanesha Jackson was art director and production manager. Tony Scolari was assistant editor for campus affairs. Gina Prescott handled the financial end of operations. Caitlin hadn’t expected to get involved in any editorial decisions, but she was glad Bill had invited her to join. She took a seat at the table.
“Look at this, you guys,” Bill said, holding up a copy of The Plains, the City of Holyfield’s daily newspaper. He pointed to a salient headline in the left-hand column: “Tillinghast Library chief attacked.”
“Whoa, this looks big,” Tony Scolari said. “What happened?”
“Someone, for reasons still obscure, assaulted Harold Hargrave, the chief curator, while he was working last night in his office,” Bill said.
“Is he all right?” Tanesha asked.
“Apparently. But he was knocked out cold and it appears the place was searched. The security guard found him at about eight o’clock and radioed campus security, who brought in the Holyfield police. Listen, here are the details.” Bill read the story aloud. When he was done he folded the paper and laid it on the table. “Can you believe it?” he asked no one in particular. “If something this deplorable happens on the first day of classes, what’s the rest of the semester going to be like?”
Caitlin listened intently as Bill explained that he had called the meeting to decide whether to put out a special two-page edition of the Herald that afternoon. He noted that this could be one of the most significant campus stories ever and it would look bad if The Plains scooped the Herald on its own turf.
Tanesha said that as far as she was concerned an extra edition was no problem. If her help was needed, she’d be glad to give it; she wasn’t going to miss much on the first day of classes. Gina warned that money was tight and that an extra would be costly. Tony suggested that they wait until they had enough information to put together a scrupulous in-depth report.
A short discussion followed, a vote was taken, and a compromise was reached. They all agreed there was no sense in going to the trouble of publishing an extra if their story was not substantially different from the one in The Plains. Instead, they would lead with the st
ory in tomorrow’s edition. This would give them time to come up with some new information for a front-page feature. Then they could follow up on all the angles later in the week. Although Bill had not gotten his way on the issue, Caitlin noticed that his enthusiasm did not wane once the decision had been reached. It was a good trait in a boss.
Bill decided they needed a team to cover different aspects of the story. Tony would contact Walter Chang, the public relations officer for the college, and the Holyfield Police. Bill would talk to campus security and track down the security guard who had found Hargrave. “And you,” he said, turning toward Caitlin, “I want you to go to CHS and see if you can speak with Hargrave himself. He was being treated last night and The Plains reporter couldn’t get to him for a statement. It’s imperative that we talk to him first.”
“What’s CHS?” Caitlin asked.
“Oh, sorry. I forgot you’re still new around here. It’s College Health Services—right up Holyfield Street, two blocks past Madison. You can make it in ten minutes if you leave now.”
Caitlin frowned.
“What’s the matter?” Bill asked.
“I’ve got classes from nine to noon, and I haven’t had breakfast yet.”
“I see,” Bill said, scratching his head. “All right, you have to make your classes and we have to have the story. So I guess you’ll have to skip breakfast.”
Caitlin laughed nervously. “You’re kidding, right?”
Bill pulled off his glasses and looked her dead in the eye. “No, I’m not. I could put Steve Rosenblum on this—he’s got a lot of experience with hard news—but you’re the one who wanted to do something on the Prospero collection, and this is a great place to start. Don’t you see, Caitlin? This could be a big story, really big, and I’m putting you on the team because I’m confident you’re inquisitive and astute enough to be a good investigative reporter. So what’s it going to be? I need something on my desk by five o’clock. What’s more important, your education and your writing career or your stomach?”
Tooth and Nail: A Novel Approach to the SAT (A Harvest Test Preparation Book) Page 12