THE COWARDICE OF SMALL MINDS

I was pleased and then somewhat alarmed and, following that, extremely suspicious, to see a comment posted in response to my posting about the unfortunate incident at the reception, and then to see that the comment had been "removed by the author" before I had a chance to examine it. It does not take a particularly large mind to imagine the small mind that posted this comment only so furtively to remove it; it is almost certainly the nemesis I mentioned in my second posting, a rival from many years back whom I will refer (for reasons of tact) to simply and pseudonymously as "D. Cruz." Prof. Cruz makes quite a spectacle of himself at the Shakespeare Association meeting, if what I saw in San Diego is any indication. I wonder if readers of this page (if such there be) can offer any good reasons to attend next year's rendezvous in DALLAS over and above the privilege of seeing Prof. Cruz "in action." Were it not the case that my companion is currently beckoning me to join her for the drive into town where we will take advantage of lunch special Chinese food, I would elaborate upon one or more of the sources of this rivalry between myself and Prof. Cruz. Suffice to say that we shared, and indeed continue to share (however SURREPTITIOUSLY) the same research interest (of which more in a future posting) and that a too-precise overlap in our work, to say nothing of the indifference of the academy, has caused each of us to adopt a secondary interest for the sake of our public academic personae: mine, that of a scholar of W. Rowley; his, that of a squalid book historian. Reply if you dare, Prof. D. Cruz.

THE DATE OF ALL'S LOST BY LUST

Though the Civill/Seville – orange pun (identified most recently by R. Madelaine, 1982) in Shakespeare’s Ado has a clear analogue in William Rowley’s All’s Lost By Lust (Q 1633, sig. C), there is no reason to assume (with H. Cress, 1942, and others more recent) that the revival of Shakespeare’s play for a performance before the Elector Palatine in 1613 (14 February) implies a date c. 1614 for Rowley’s masterwork. It is true that Rowley was a known Shakespearean acolyte; and it is possible that he was related to the draper John Rowley (chief agent of the New Plantation in Ulster) who may have provided “three seuerall lace curtaines” for the New Place c. 1612; but his working through of the Spanish theme in All’s Lost is so thorough as to render the linguistic fabric unquestionably his own, and not merely derivative of Shakespeare’s acidic Mediterranean quibble. Chambers and others have, on basis of internal evidence, convincingly dated the play later, in some cases as late as 1622. More recently, T. L. Darby has located the play amidst the vogue for Spanish-themed English drama set in motion with the 1619 publication (by Matthew Lownes) of The Travels of Persiles and Sigismunda. A Northern History. In light of this evidence, and the considerable negative evidence controverting a close relationship between Rowley and Shakespeare, I think it is ABSOLUTELY impossible to date All’s Lost By Lust any earlier than c. 1619.

STILL REELING

A fellow scholar at the Shakespeare conference was seen (by me) on Saturday morning to be lying uncomfortably on a kind of chaise lounge in the hallway leading from the bar part of the hotel to the conference rooms and book exhibit part of the hotel. I have to admit I was somewhat impressed by the sheer abandon with which he was sleeping, tie slung over one shoulder, head tipped back, mouth open, one arm dangling toward the floor. Also impressive was the way my fellow academicians clustered nearby in their regular small groupings, sipping coffee, talking with animation, taking no notice of the sleeper in their midst.

At the time I saw the sleeping scholar I did not have time to examine his nametag as I was trying frustratedly to navigate rapidly an archipelago of small groupings of chatting colleagues, and also to manage the bundle of seminar papers I was clutching in one arm and, in my opposite hand, the cup of coffee I had managed to overfill. My purpose this morning had been to arrive in time for the first coffee break and then, while everyone was distracted with the Sheraton Hotel’s caffeinated bounty, make my way to the lobby where I might have a fighting chance of taking advantage of one of the complimentary internet terminals and send an e-mail to my traveling companion (who had been unable to join me on this trip) before they were overrun with disheveled graduate students. Having arrived later than I wished, I was in no little haste, and was moving in and among the little groups of chattering Shakespeareans one eye dead ahead and one on the meniscus of my increasingly tepid coffee and it was at that moment that the corner of my eye was distracted by the sleeper, causing me halfway to reel around, my left elbow jostling the surprisingly soft girth of a large, anonymous Shakespearean immediately in front of me and the impact of that jostle reverberating across my body so that it was only the resolute steadiness of my hand that prevented more than two single drops of light brown liquid to fall neatly onto the sleeper’s cuff.

As I was looking around to see if it was going to be necessary to backtrack to the tables and procure a cloth, and as I was deciding that I remained (per usual) invisible, and that the sleeper had not been awakened, the corner of my eye was again distracted by something bright and yellow that sent my morning on an altogether different course than I had intended. The bright yellow object was a BICYCLE HELMET, connected to a strap on the backpack of a Shakespearean I was very interested to meet because he had, the previous afternoon, nearly been the cause of my DEMISE, or at least my very serious injury, as he had come careening down the hotel driveway (I am not going to speculate whether he was intoxicated) just as I, out for my afternoon “speed-walk,” was emerging from behind the hedge that ended exactly where the sidewalk met the hotel drive. “Your PARDON,” I had shouted at him, hoping at least for a kind of wave of apology. But wave was there none.

Balancing my coffee cup atop my stack of seminar papers and holding these with both hands in front of my chest I sidled up nonchalantly behind him and just to his left, standing off to the side of the conversation he was engaged in (with two others) for what I hoped would be only a brief period but what quickly came to seem a very lengthy period, to the point that one of his fellow conversants began looking at me somewhat nervously. This nervous looking soon turned into a look of partial recognition as I saw his eyes go to my nametag, and then mine went to his, and I realized that this fellow was my seminar leader, the Leader, that is, of the Seminar for which I had not read the stack of papers currently supporting my cup of coffee. I attempted too late to take a step back and to the side, as though to pursue someone else I had just recognized, and the seminar leader stepped forward to introduce himself, extending his hand to shake mine. I extended in return, trying, for reasons that still escape me, simultaneously to use my arm to shield the stack of papers from his view, which resulted in my upsetting the coffee cup and spilling at least half of its contents onto my papers. “Ah!” the seminar leader said (helpfully, I couldn’t avoid thinking) but still clutched at my hand, which I gave him for the briefest possible instant before sinking to my knees in order to balance the sopping wet papers and the upset cup. Attempting to smile gracefully, but probably (I will admit) simply grimacing hideously, I looked up and flashed my teeth at the seminar leader and his two companions, who had both turned briefly toward me, even as they were in the process of moving away, and I was just able to catch the nametag of the mad bicyclist, who somehow managed to stay out of my sight for the remainder of the day, and believe me I was looking, and whose email address I have been unable to find since returning home: Sven Uskofsky. It is a name I will not soon forget, not least because he certainly did not look as Swedish as this moniker implies. I will be grateful to any readers (in the event that I ever have any) who might help me identify his institution.

“Looking forward to our discussion!” the Fearless Leader now said to me brightly before striding away to put his coffee cup down and proceeding to one of the morning paper sessions. It was with sinking heart that I noted the hall clearing, and I tried as quickly as I could to deposit the six or eight wet-beyond-repair papers in a garbage can (I must say I don’t think I have ever been in a hotel with so few garbage cans) and my half-empty cup on the table before proceeding to the lobby internet terminals all of which were, of course, now being used. As I scanned the faces of those sitting at the computers, searching (to no avail) for a sign that one of them might be quickly vacated, I became tense with what I can only describe as a primordial rage, and had to stop myself almost ripping in half the remaining three or four seminar papers in my hands (one of which, I’m afraid, was mine). The source of my rage would be immediately understandable to many of my readers, I think, if I were to reveal his name, but it cannot be the purpose of this web-log, which I write in the service of developing increased collegiality, to reveal names except in the most necessary or friendly circumstances. Suffice it to say that the source of my rage is a rival, in many senses of the word, since our graduate school days, and I have no doubt that he is as universally reviled by my colleagues in the Shakespeare Association as he was in graduate school and as he no doubt is by his family, co-workers, and “friends.” I had not expected to see him here. Unfortunately “the whirligig of time” (Viola) prevents me from writing about him further at present. A stack of student essays beckons (“you know how it is”), and I will not have this One further interfere with my professional development, not even in this context.

LATE AS USUAL

I have been trying to find someone to talk to about my experience at the recent Shakespeare Association conference gathering, because God knows I wasn't able to talk to anyone about it there, and a colleague of mine recently forwarded me the Chaucer web-logs (which I confess I don't think I understood), which led me to some other web-logs apparently written by people “of our profession,” including the one whose name I have all too cleverly pinched. I was pleased to see that the urge toward something like really genuine scholarly community is expressed on these websites, and that there were some similar expressions of frustration or marginalization to my own with respect to the annual gathering of Shakespeareans. Forthwith, I began wrestling with the counterintuitive mechanics of “BLOGGER,” which has as you see taken me some time, or else this little essay might have come forth sooner. Well, you know, “as birdlime oozes through my pate” (Iago).

I have a story about my experience at the Shakespeare Association meeting conglomeration, well, in fact I have a number of stories, that I think exemplify a number of things wrong with Our Profession, or at least the Shakespearean side of it, but I suppose I might just be speaking from a rather naïve position as this was after all my first time there. It is not a happy story for me or the other parties involved, though I suppose there’s no getting away from the fact that it's somewhat amusing, or will be to those who were not involved (MOST, that is).

My usual traveling companion was unable to accompany me on this trip for reasons that are actually quite interesting but not “for general discussion,” and I am not extremely well-connected (yet) so I generally found myself alone at the eating and drinking activities that seem to constitute the bulk of conference life, and the REception was no EXception. (I am sorry this is taking rather a long while getting going.) I was initially unable to locate the departure area for the reception buses, and so ended up being on perhaps the last one from the hotel, with the result that the lines at the bar and the buffet tables were rather long, and there was somewhat of a crush all around me and, whether he knew it or not, a fairly tawdry looking young man, whom I assume was a graduate student, kept pressing his thigh against my posterior while gesticulating wildly to his in-line-companions, with the result that I was pushed forward into the man in front of me. I am not the tallest Shakespearean, so it was my face that kept coming into contact with the back of his head, more particularly his pony-tail.

We did eventually reach the front of the line and the graduate student was able to spread out to one side with his friends, and I followed the pony-tail around the table, taking my cue from the three plates he had lined up along his arm that “STOCKING UP” was de rigueur. I found my way to an empty chair, and put my three plates down on the table, then turned sideways in the seat to face what seemed to be a high-school auditorium stage, and was enjoying one of the many vegetable and/or shellfish dips that had been so generously laid out by the powers that be, when I noticed the pony-tailed man was now sitting next to me, slightly turned away from me so that I could not see his nametag, and talking to someone else.

Almost simultaneous with this realization, I was putting into my mouth a cracker that bore the whole amount of (now somewhat melted) brie cheese I had been able to take before being moved along by the force of the line behind me. This was a considerable amount of brie cheese, and the cracker was small, and my hands are somewhat large, so my thumb and forefinger were pressed into the creamy mass as it entered my mouth. And as I began to pull them away from my mouth, I noticed that they maintained a kind of sensational continuity with it. Something, that is, was connected to my thumb and forefinger as well as my lips, my tongue, the roof of my mouth, and the already partially masticated melted brie cheese. I pulled my hand further and further away from my face, but the continuity did not cease. What I had got hold of, or what my mouth or my cheese had got hold of, was one of the coarse and serpentine hairs from the pony-tail into which I had been so unceremoniously and repeatedly jostled.

For what seemed to be an eternity, I worked with my right hand at removing this excrescence from my body, all the while turned somewhat sideways in my chair, my left elbow supporting me on the table. I cannot exactly explain why, but I was moved to a kind of fury by this experience, and thought I might relieve it “with laughter,” by apprising my pony-tailed neighbor of our new closeness. “Excuse me, I said,” leaning forward, hoping to see around his body to his name tag and call him by name, to follow this with some bluff remark such as “I seem to have eaten your HAIR”; but as I did this, I lifted my left elbow up slightly, and then put it back down, just exactly enough inches further in that it found its way into some kind of salmon mousse, the squishy feeling of which made me recoil, with the result that the plate actually stuck to my elbow for a brief moment, but a moment not brief enough to prevent me from conveying it over the edge of the table, where the forces of gravity took over and sent it falling to the floor. I was now in a state of what can only be described as suspended animation, and my nameless pony-tailed adversary (I saw his nametag briefly. Gene? Garth? Travis?), hearing the dish clatter to the floor, had turned toward me, only to see, with visible disgust, the cheese-and-saliva-begrimed hair I was flailing in his direction, and reflexively recoiled, the force of his sudden awkward arm movement causing his glass to spasm wildly, spilling up to if not more than half of what I took, with a great deal of panic, to be his mojito onto my lap.

What is perhaps the most hideous part of this memory is that the look of alarm from Garth Travis did not lead him to a nearby bathroom where he might have secured a handful of paper towels, but rather preceded the calmly urgent remark, as he turned briefly to his dining companion: “I'd better get another one. I think the bar is closing in a minute.” I am relieved to say that I had a bit of cold comfort at the end of all this, discovering in the Men’s that the mojito was virgin, seeming to consist merely of club soda and mint, but not, as I had feared, any quantity of sticky sweet rum.