I have always enjoyed Shakespeare. During my last year at Carleton University in Ottawa, I had the opportunity to take a course in Shakespeare studies, taught by professor Charles Haines. Eveything went well until two days before he final exam, when I came down with a bronchal infection.
A big man with a booming, thundering voice, Haines possesssed the warm exuberance of Sir John Falstaff from the Henry IV plays. ("Banish Jack Falstaff, and banish all the world!" was one of his favourite lines.)
He would often step aside, look at his students with sympathetic eyes, and say, in a soft, gentle voice, "Write the way you speak, and speak well. That's the greatest lesson I learned when I went to school." I kept those words in mind when I felt like postponing the exam.
But I'm glad I stuck with it.
In his first class, Haines made it clear that "politically correct" teaching or sanitized teaching of Shakespeare was not his approach. Attending one of his classes was to be entertained and enlightened, as he brought humour and emotion, as well as depth of knowledge to his lectures, always illustrating Shakespeare's relevance for today.
I got to know Haines a little better after he was impressed by the originality of one of my essays. Active beyond the university, he was a regular theatre critic on CBC Radio, an actor, and a passionate supporter of causes. For example, he once donated half his earnings from a TV game show to support children with disabilities.
On the day of the exam, I felt tired and drained of energy. Sitting alone in a computer lab, I was aware of the sunshine outside, but inside I felt as if I were trapped in a "tempest." It took me more than half an hour to start writing once I had entered the computer lab.
Wondering if I would be able to finish the exam, I heard Haines talk to the exam proctor. He then came over to my desk. I told him I was not well, but added that "the show must go on." He smiled, wished me luck, and hoped I would feel better soon. He reassured me that I had plenty had of time to finish the exam.
A few days later, he called me to ask how I was doing. It was too early to give me the official result of the exam, but implied I had done well. He was interested in my career plans, and wanted me to stay in touch. I saw him at his office a week later for the last time, promising to keep in touch.
Three weeks later, upon returning to Toronto from a trip to Scotland, I was shocked to read of his death in the Globe and Mail. He had been in hospital with a respiratory condition two days after he marked the last set of exam papers. A few months earlier, at the age of 70, he had been notified by the university that he could no longer teach Shakespeare. I subsequently learned that he had once told his family, "The moment I stop teaching Shakespeare, I will die."
I will always feel sad that I never got a chance to develop a mutual friendship with Haines outside of the classroom. But I take comfort in believing that I left his life cherishing the greatest lesson that any aspiring journalist could ever learn: write the way you speak, and speak well.
