Story: Bill Shakespeare's Hedgehog

By the end of my sophomore year of college, I was tired of school--- of the process, of the lectures, of the ease with which I could write a mediocre B+ essay. I’d only been at it for two years, but the work had already become industrial. Each paper I handed in was an impersonal product straight off an assembly line of thesis statements and counter-points.

I was burnt to a wax stump far sooner than I had expected, but I had expected it. Studying abroad had always been part of a loose contingency plan, knowing that I’d tire of whatever I’d be doing. The choice of Oxford was natural, and practical: among the original ivory towers, I could satisfy coursework for my degree and I could indulge some then-relevant Harry Potter fantasies.

So I went.

A large portion of school work at Oxford is done independently, in an arrangement where you meet a tutor once a week, with a ten page paper to be read aloud and discussed. My chosen topic was Shakespeare. Not Shakespeare’s treatment of gender, not Shakespeare’s use of classical imagery, not anything specific--- just plain Shakespeare, a couple of plays per week, one essay per week. The details would come as I read.

So I did. It went well enough. It was hard work some weeks, and during lazier weeks I’d just skim over something familiar, like Romeo and Juliet, and write down whatever new thoughts I had. But I was answerable to any assertions made when I read the paper to my tutor, Ms. Dodd, a friendly old woman, classically British in her mannerisms, and that sense of accountability necessitated proactive involvement in the writing. At any rate, I became increasingly acquainted with the works of Bill Shakespeare. (When you strain your eyes and neck and soul by reading and breaking and reconstructing every perfect line to discover why it’s perfect, and how it all works together and builds into five wonderful acts, and when you fall asleep under books or atop desks mid-sentence, pen in hand, you get to call him Bill).

Every term, a trip is arranged to take all of the students in the study-abroad program to Stratford-upon-Avon. I didn’t let on to anyone that I was anticipating a religious experience in this literary pilgrimage--- to see William Shakespeare’s grave, of all things, would confirm the man’s humanity, his skull and bones, his physical existence. And what of it, you ask? In that would be the confirmation of man’s possibilities and the possibilities of myself. I have no religion--- there are no gods but in the men and women of the past. And so I would find myself in finding Shakespeare. That’s what I thought, anyway, while staring out the window of the bus, watching the passing fields of yellow mustard flowers. It seemed poetic.

Of course, Stratford-upon-Avon was a rather boring place. It is exactly what you might picture: a small town with a central road lined with shops appealing to tourists, in addition to a couple of Shakespeare museums. The Shakespeare Birthplace was nice, but with few artifacts to see, and I was skeptical that it was his verifiable birthplace. The staff members were accustomed to the question and didn’t flinch at my query, but were a little annoyed anyway.

Altogether Stratford could have been a bust. I never bothered finding the grave at Holy Trinity Church because no one else was interested. The whole experience had been less profound than I had hoped during the bus ride daydreams. It was just a town, I was just a tourist. But there was also Anne Hathaway’s cottage.

Bill’s wife’s home, Bill’s sometimes home, stood proudly a few minutes away from the town. It is a creaky old building with a creaky old staff with a reportedly famous flower garden. In late autumn the garden was little more than rows of well-labeled twigs; I had faith it would bloom beyond words in spring. I saw it in the postcards.

The tour guide inside the house was not to be toyed with. He’d stop if there was a giggle in the crowd, and ask to be enlightened, putting a group of pompous college students rightly in their place like a gaggle of school children.

Once more, there was nothing profound about the old house and its garden. I believed it--- Bill had been there, but so what? I was beginning to see that it wasn’t very important where he had lived and written and worked, but that it happened at all, regardless of the man. Someone with a quill, with paper, with time, with a need of money, produced some of the greatest and lasting literature humanity could hope for. The man didn’t matter, only the art.

The gift shop was obligatory. I looked for something unique that would epitomize the silly journey and that I could cherish or give away, something that could only be purchased at William Shakespeare’s home, internet be damned. There weren’t many interesting options; the place was filled with children’s pencils topped with the scribe’s head, silly feather pens with ballpoints at their tip, and all sizes of postcards.

I almost left without yielding my wallet. But I was caught by something near the register, near the exit: an impressive array of small stuffed animals. There were ladybugs and hedgehogs, only ladybugs and hedgehogs, arranged in neat rows, at least a dozen across in each direction. A hedgehog! a hedgehog, my kingdom for a hedgehog. Only a few inches tall and only a pound or two in price, it was perfect. Why? Because it meant so little to anyone besides myself. It meant nothing, just like the town.

I was going to give it away. Here’s a hedgehog, I’d say to a friend, I got it in Stratford for you, from Bill’s house. I’d give it to someone who would enjoy the non sequitur and not ask any questions, and would simply light up and pet the hedgehog.

Unsurprisingly, I was unable to part with it when I arrived home. I had not stood upon Shakespeare’s grave to ruminate on life and literature, and it did not matter, and I had not experienced any profound epiphanies in the pilgrimage, and it did not matter. I had a furry little hedgehog friend. That was quite enough. What a piece of work is a man, eh?