«And do you know that writing poems doesn’t make you famous?»
I said, «I don’t want to become famous. I just do that because I like it.»
«Has everyone heard Ella? She writes poems because she likes it!»
He laughed.
Why did he?
So, I asked him why he did.
He said: «Those who don’t laugh, Ella, life becomes a torture.»
«Why so? I think it doesn’t.»
«But I think it does. Who else is of the same mind? Who else think life isn’t a torture?»
It seemed like no one understood why the question was asked. It was History of English literature, not philosophy.
Finally, Edward said he thought so. Edward was our group- (and year-) mate. He always shoved his oar in a conversation when someone needed help. Say, he asked our professor, Mrs Jane, not to stop receiving the papers from Sally, our other groupmate, when the girl needed some more time to finish one. Whereas Mrs Jane was against prolonging the deadline. Anyway, Edward was a good guy. Although he rarely helped me.
Then, after Edward, everyone else in the group said they thought so too. Andrew laughed.
«Of course, you do! Me as well! And do you know why? I’ve just changed my mind!»
A good sense of humour. Just a perfect sense of humour. And it was after I thought he was a masochist or someone like this. A recluse, maybe. Or just a desperate person. Although he didn’t seem one.
We all laughed too. Why cry because of that…?
Then, he asked the other students about their mini-biographies. Nothing special. Full stop.
«Which, hatch’d, would, as his kind, grow mischievous…»
«What do you know about this poem?»
On each desk, there was a handout with the following:
It must be by his death: and for my part,
I know no personal cause to spurn at him,
But for the general. He would be crown’d:
How that might change his nature, there’s the question.
It is the bright day that brings forth the adder;
And that craves wary walking. Crown him? – that; —
And then, I grant, we put a sting in him,
That at his will he may do danger with.
The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins
Remorse from power: and, to speak truth of Caesar,
I have not known when his affections sway’d
More than his reason. But «tis a common proof,
That lowliness is young ambition’s ladder,
Whereto the climber-upward turns his face;
But when he once attains the upmost round.
He then unto the ladder turns his back,
Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees
By which he did ascend. So Caesar may.
Then, lest he may, prevent. And, since the quarrel
Will bear no colour for the thing he is,
Fashion it thus; that what he is, augmented,
Would run to these and these extremities:
And therefore think him as a serpent’s egg
Which, hatch’d, would, as his kind, grow mischievous,
And kill him in the shell.
No one had ever heard about this poem.
«What? And you call yourself students of this department?» Andrew laughed.
«Hey, it’s not that funny,» Edward said.
«But how come you study here and have never heard about this poem?»
«It’s impossible to know everything, is it?»
«Ella,» Andrew said and looked at me, «what do you think about what Edward has just said?»
«Well, I think he’s right.»
«Because?»
«Because it’s not compulsory for us to know all these poems.»
«Hmm… Who told you so?»
I said nothing. We weren’t obliged to know everything anyway.
«Well, if you have nothing to say, then let ME say this: you’re students. And students are those who must learn everything new. Otherwise, how’re you going to pass your exams if not by cramming?»
Indeed, how? We had nothing to do but to cram the things found out.
«Well,» I interfered, «I’ll remember everything without cramming much.»
He laughed.
«How? A human’s brain can accumulate things by remembering them. And if you remember hard, it’ll be a big plus for you, Ella.»
«But I’ll try hard without cramming!»
He didn’t say anything.
«Anyway, at least, guess what the poem is about.»
«It’s about some soldier,» said one of our groupmates.
«And how did you guess that?» Andrew asked.
«According to the words «Caesar’, «power’, «ambition’, and «kill’.»
«Thank you very much, Simona! Any other suggestions?»
A few minutes passed. Still no answer.
«What? No suggestions? How come nobody wants to be a genius?» the teacher smiled. «Well, this poem – to be closer, a monologue – is taken from William Shakespeare’s play called „The Tragedy of Julius Caesar“. Yeah! A tra-ge-dy! Don’t you understand what it all means?»
Finally, Edward was so kind to answer:
«It means this Julius Caesar will die.»
«And that’s it?» the teacher laughed again.
«I think yes.»
«No, it isn’t! The Tragedy of Julius Caesar is a history play and tragedy. It is one of four plays written by Shakespeare based on true events from Roman history. Following Caesar’s death, Rome is thrust into a period of civil war, and the republic the conspirators sought to preserve is lost forever. Although the play is named «Julius Caesar’, Brutus, one of the conspirators against Caesar, speaks more than four times. By the way, the central psychological drama of the play focuses on Brutus’ struggle between the conflicting demands of honour, patriotism, and friendship.»
My God, how did he know it all? How had he learnt it all by heart?
He was definitely a few sandwiches short of a picnic!
«What else do you know about the play?»
No answer. Nobody knew a thing.
Stella said, «There are a lot of characters.»
«Wow! See – Stella knows almost everything about Shakespearian plays!»
I thought, «I’ll show you next time it’s me that knows everything!»
It was in the nick of time.
Andrew said:
«So, your home assignment will be to find out more about this particular play. Post scriptum: I’m not asking you to find out everything about all his plays. Because it’s near