Goodnight, sweet prince
Feb. 9th, 2007 06:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pallas_athenaI heard last night that my favourite tutor from university, eminent Shakespearean Tony Nuttall, has died. Totally unexpected-- he was only 69 and in fine fettle, as far as I knew.
The first time I met Professor Nuttall was at my interview. I stepped into a mellowly lit, bookshelf-lined study with a gas fire going in a corner, and looking around the room saw every Shakespeare item imaginable. On the wall was a Shakespeare clock. On the table was a Shakespeare ashtray. There were Shakespeare posters, Shakespeare busts-- you get the picture. I was wearing an opera cape that I'd found in a thrift store; while making a dramatic entrance I tripped over the coffee table and, unable to use my arms to save myself, fell headlong on the floor.
Professor Nuttall gave me a hand up and asked me a few good questions; I gave the best answers I could. Nobody who'd been interviewed by him that day had any idea how they'd done, because he'd been so nice to everyone. Every candidate I talked to (and there were sixtysomething of us, for English) seemed awestruck by how kind he was.
It hurts to put him in the past tense. Professor Nuttall had a cloud of frizzy curly hair, a mustache, and brown eyes. His voice was a resonant baritone, always steady-- and I can hear it in my mind now, and I can't stop weeping because those eyes and that voice are gone from this world, that mind that knew every inch of coastline around the continent of Shakespeare-- every islet, every smuggler's cove-- and never stopped finding new northwest passages.
I owe to him my love of Lawrence Sterne and my acquaintance with Robert Armin; my understanding of Doctor Faustus and any insight I ever had into the Problem of Evil. I remember sitting in his study discussing Shakespeare's distinction between the fool natural and the fool artificial, something I've internalised to this day. I remember him speaking about the illustrations in Tristram Shandy, asking us to trace the flourish from the end of the book in the air, and being pleased when we got it right. I remember him pointing to Titania's line "The nine men's morris is filled up with mud" and saying "You can win bets in pubs about motor cars in Shakespeare with that line." My ability to identify quotes pleased him; my truly horrible record at turning in essays disappointed him, though he was never harsh about it. When we were given the opportunity to read our reports, I could never bear to read any of mine, but for some years now I've wished I'd read his.
After Finals, as a thank-you card to him, I illuminated this passage from Dante's Inferno in black-letter calligraphy (and burnt the sides of the paper with a candle to make it look old, because that's how much of a cheeseball I was):
Ché ’n la mente m’è fitta, e or m’accora,
La cara e buona imagine paterna
Di voi quando nel mondo ad ora ad ora
M’insegnavate come l’uom s’etterna:
E quant’ io l’abbia in grado, mentr’ io vivo
Convien che ne la mia lingua si scerna.
He thanked me courteously, telling me he'd found it very moving, and then added "The fact that the subject of the lines is being chased round Hell for sodomy is neither here nor there, I suppose."
In later years, I never stopped bending my friends' ears about what a hero he was, what an amazing tutor he was, and how much I'd learnt from him, but-- again, I'm weeping as I write this-- I never told him. I wish I had. He is part of who I am, and he is gone. Death means no second chances.
This sudden loss makes me want to write to every teacher who's ever had an influence on me and tell them what they meant to me, and say "Thank you. I may never have turned in any work, but your time was not spent in vain. I carry you with me."
The first time I met Professor Nuttall was at my interview. I stepped into a mellowly lit, bookshelf-lined study with a gas fire going in a corner, and looking around the room saw every Shakespeare item imaginable. On the wall was a Shakespeare clock. On the table was a Shakespeare ashtray. There were Shakespeare posters, Shakespeare busts-- you get the picture. I was wearing an opera cape that I'd found in a thrift store; while making a dramatic entrance I tripped over the coffee table and, unable to use my arms to save myself, fell headlong on the floor.
Professor Nuttall gave me a hand up and asked me a few good questions; I gave the best answers I could. Nobody who'd been interviewed by him that day had any idea how they'd done, because he'd been so nice to everyone. Every candidate I talked to (and there were sixtysomething of us, for English) seemed awestruck by how kind he was.
It hurts to put him in the past tense. Professor Nuttall had a cloud of frizzy curly hair, a mustache, and brown eyes. His voice was a resonant baritone, always steady-- and I can hear it in my mind now, and I can't stop weeping because those eyes and that voice are gone from this world, that mind that knew every inch of coastline around the continent of Shakespeare-- every islet, every smuggler's cove-- and never stopped finding new northwest passages.
I owe to him my love of Lawrence Sterne and my acquaintance with Robert Armin; my understanding of Doctor Faustus and any insight I ever had into the Problem of Evil. I remember sitting in his study discussing Shakespeare's distinction between the fool natural and the fool artificial, something I've internalised to this day. I remember him speaking about the illustrations in Tristram Shandy, asking us to trace the flourish from the end of the book in the air, and being pleased when we got it right. I remember him pointing to Titania's line "The nine men's morris is filled up with mud" and saying "You can win bets in pubs about motor cars in Shakespeare with that line." My ability to identify quotes pleased him; my truly horrible record at turning in essays disappointed him, though he was never harsh about it. When we were given the opportunity to read our reports, I could never bear to read any of mine, but for some years now I've wished I'd read his.
After Finals, as a thank-you card to him, I illuminated this passage from Dante's Inferno in black-letter calligraphy (and burnt the sides of the paper with a candle to make it look old, because that's how much of a cheeseball I was):
Ché ’n la mente m’è fitta, e or m’accora,
La cara e buona imagine paterna
Di voi quando nel mondo ad ora ad ora
M’insegnavate come l’uom s’etterna:
E quant’ io l’abbia in grado, mentr’ io vivo
Convien che ne la mia lingua si scerna.
He thanked me courteously, telling me he'd found it very moving, and then added "The fact that the subject of the lines is being chased round Hell for sodomy is neither here nor there, I suppose."
In later years, I never stopped bending my friends' ears about what a hero he was, what an amazing tutor he was, and how much I'd learnt from him, but-- again, I'm weeping as I write this-- I never told him. I wish I had. He is part of who I am, and he is gone. Death means no second chances.
This sudden loss makes me want to write to every teacher who's ever had an influence on me and tell them what they meant to me, and say "Thank you. I may never have turned in any work, but your time was not spent in vain. I carry you with me."