Shakespeare at Cambridge

Did I misspeak, in saying that Parker hadn't responded to any of my criticisms? He did implicitly refute the criterion set in "The Downside" for effective communication -- that different listeners more or less agree about what the speaker has said -- by pointing out that if our lecturers failed to meet it, so did Shakespeare.

Did I mean to disparage Shakespeare?

As we know, I was spared the need to think up an answer to this, since in Parker's response to my followup  --

Dear Dr. Parker,

While meaning is often indistinct -- even, as you say, in Shakespeare -- I'd hoped my brief note to you, at least, was clear: "Could we meet?"

[...]

-- he made his refusal to see me explicit.

The summer school was rife with Shakespeare-like communication. As we've seen, the news of my photocopying request underwent transmutation in the path to Ormrod's mind. In the class discussion about Atonement and publication injunctions, people retained their incompatible ideas despite the words circulating about the room. And right from the start, my fellow student Maureen understood that even expecting folks to listen at all was crazy.

I had a chat about computers one day with one of the porters at St. Catharine's College, where I was staying. His view of the gadgets:

I never use them myself. They're just a fad. Next year no one will be using them, it'll be something else. Hula hoop.

Taking pity on the man, I offered him a 10-minute introduction to Google. But he wasn't interested. His ideas too were safe from words.

Even our physical environment reinforced skepticism about the effectiveness of words.

Students staying at St. Catharine's College had breakfast and dinner provided each day in the college's dining hall. People would float in for breakfast at various times, but dinners were served punctually at 6:30 PM, so for that meal we'd be there at the same time, seated at the room's long rectangular tables.

The noise was deafening. Though we only used about half the room's seating capacity, the acoustics of the place were such that it was almost impossible, even with shouting, to have an exchange with the person seated directly across from oneself. It was a relief, once dinner was done, to finally emerge from the unholy din.

Given that Ormrod and Parker were presumably both habituated to the Cambridge way, it's understandable that it would occur to neither to inquire into the substance of a student's criticisms.

In this light, a remark about Jane Austen's Emma made by another Cambridge habitué -- Alex Lindsay, the teacher in another of my courses -- makes perfect sense, though it struck me as peculiar at the time.

The heroine of the title --

handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.

Since Emma is also, however, immature and arrogant, Knightley occasionally reproaches her and tries to set her straight. Knightley is a family friend of many years who harbors great affection for her, despite his relatively severe disposition. Knightley's mentor role is not particularly unnatural, given that he is 17 years her senior and possesses considerably more insight and wisdom.

One day a party of people including Emma and Knightley go for an outing. On arriving at their destination, however, boredom sets in. "There was a languor, a want of spirits, a want of union, which could not be got over." So to liven things up, one of them, Frank, announces:

Ladies and gentlemen, I am ordered by [Emma] to say that she waives her right of knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires something very entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here are seven of you, besides myself (who, she is pleased to say, am very entertaining already), and she only demands from each of you either one thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated -- or two things moderately clever -- or three things very dull indeed, and she engages to laugh heartily at them all.

Among the party is a Miss Bates, a silly but goodhearted woman whose dominant characteristic is acute verboseness. Miss Bates responds to Frank's speech, after which Emma makes a joke at her expense:

"Oh! very well," exclaimed Miss Bates, "then I need not be uneasy. 'Three things very dull indeed.' That will just do for me, you know. I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan't I? (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on everybody's assent) Do not you all think I shall?"

Emma could not resist. "Ah! ma'am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me, but you will be limited as to number -- only three at once."

Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not anger, though a slight blush showed that it could pain her.

"Ah! well -- to be sure. Yes, I see what she means (turning to Mr. Knightley), and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend."

Later, when the others are out of earshot, Knightley reproves Emma:

"Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do: a privilege rather endured than allowed, perhaps, but I must still use it. I cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance. How could you be so unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in your wit to a woman of her character, age, and situation? Emma, I had not thought it possible."

Emma recollected, blushed, was sorry, but tried to laugh it off.

"Nay, how could I help saying what I did? Nobody could have helped it. It was not so very bad. I dare say she did not understand me."

"I assure you she did. She felt your full meaning. She has talked of it since. I wish you could have heard how she talked of it -- with what candour and generosity. I wish you could have heard her honouring your forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions as she was forever receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be so irksome."

"Oh!" cried Emma, "I know there is not a better creature in the world: but you must allow that what is good and what is ridiculous are most unfortunately blended in her."

"They are blended," said he, "I acknowledge; and, were she prosperous, I could allow much for the occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over the good. Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless absurdity to take its chance, I would not quarrel with you for any liberties of manner. Were she your equal in situation -- but, Emma, consider how far this is from being the case. She is poor; she has sunk from the comforts she was born to; and, if she live to old age, must probably sink more. Her situation should secure your compassion. It was badly done, indeed! You, whom she had known from an infant, whom she had seen grow up from a period when her notice was an honour, to have you now, in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at her, humble her -- and before her niece, too -- and before others, many of whom (certainly some) would be entirely guided by your treatment of her. This is not pleasant to you, Emma -- and it is very far from pleasant to me; but I must, I will, -- I will tell you truths while I can, satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel, and trusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice than you can do now."

While they talked, they were advancing towards the carriage; it was ready; and, before she could speak again, he had handed her in. He had misinterpreted the feelings which had kept her face averted, and her tongue motionless. They were combined only of anger against herself, mortification, and deep concern. She had not been able to speak; and, on entering the carriage, sunk back for a moment overcome -- then reproaching herself for having taken no leave, making no acknowledgement, parting in apparent sullenness, she looked out with voice and hand eager to show a difference; but it was just too late. He had turned away, and the horses were in motion. She continued to look back, but in vain; and soon, with what appeared unusual speed, they were half way down the hill, and everything left far behind. She was vexed beyond what could have been expressed -- almost beyond what she could conceal. Never had she felt so agitated, mortified, grieved, at any circumstance in her life. She was most forcibly struck. The truth of his representation there was no denying. She felt it at her heart. How could she have been so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates! How could she have exposed herself to such ill opinion in anyone she valued! And how suffer him to leave her without saying one word of gratitude, of concurrence, of common kindness!

Has Jane Austen created an unbelievable circumstance? Here we have words traversing the space between Emma and her good friend and mentor; they reach Emma unaltered, and she registers the words, absorbing the same meaning that the speaker intended; then, most bizarre of all, the transmitted meaning affects her opinion, causing it to be adjusted to concord with the speaker's.

Alex Lindsay found this too weird. Such a thing would not happen at Cambridge. "It's remarkable," he told the class, "that Emma accepts Knightley's rebukes."

I don't mean to suggest that the Cambridge communication style is unique. Thought transfer of the sort imagined in Emma -- what we might term extreme communication -- is a rare thing in the U.S. Senate as well. When a senator observed the phenomenon in a committee meeting once, a few months ago, he exclaimed to reporters:

I don't know if I've ever seen, in a setting like this, a senator changing his mind as a result of what other senators said. The process worked. It's kind of refreshing.

[Quoted in my Irreconcilable Differences.]

Of course, if we're going to talk about U.S. politics, we are going well beyond Shakespearean communication. There we have a situation where the notion of sharing insight is as quaint as the Geneva Conventions. Using words to overturn insight is the order of the day; and often, as Paul Krugman observes, a very non-Shakespearean consensus is achieved:

What [Karl] Rove understood, long before the rest of us, is that we're not living in the America of the past, where even partisans sometimes changed their views when faced with the facts. Instead, we're living in a country in which there is no longer such a thing as nonpolitical truth. In particular, there are now few, if any, limits to what conservative politicians can get away with: the faithful will follow the twists and turns of the party line with a loyalty that would have pleased the Comintern.

[Excerpted from Karl Rove's America, by Paul Krugman, New York Times, July 15, 2005.]

I suppose the most impressive achievement of the post-Shakespearean illusionists is to have kept Americans from hearing that it was the loser who moved into the White House after the 2000 presidential election:

In November 2001 a media consortium, which included The New York Times, produced results that allowed assessment of nine hypothetical recounts. (You can see the results at www.norc.uchicago.edu/fl/ -- under "articles".) The six hypothetical manual recounts that would have covered the whole state of Florida -- including both loose and strict standards -- would have given the election to Mr. Gore. And other evidence makes it clear that many intended votes for Mr. Gore were frustrated.

So why do so many people believe the Bush win was rock solid?

One answer is that many editorials and op-ed articles have claimed that no possible recount would have changed the outcome. Let's be charitable and assume that those who write such things are victims of the echo chamber, and believe that what everyone they talk to says must be true.

The other answer is that many though not all reports of the results of the ballot reviews conveyed a false impression about what those reviews said. A few reports got the facts wrong, but for the most part they simply stressed the likelihood -- in some cases presented as a certainty -- that Mr. Bush would have won even if the U.S. Supreme Court hadn't intervened. But even if a proper recount wasn't in the cards given the political realities, that says nothing about what such a recount would have found.

[Edited excerpt from Don't Prettify Our History, by Paul Krugman, New York Times, August 22, 2005.]

(Continued....)