It took a real-life visit from William Shakespeare to prove the usefulness of simple civility. Yes, I mean a visit from William Shakespeare in the flesh.
At the time of the incident, I was working as a reference librarian at Harvard University’s Harry Elkins Widener Memorial Library. Built as a memorial to the eponymous young Harvard undergraduate and book collector who went down with the Titanic, that large edifice housed some 6 million books, including countless copies of Shakespeare’s works in English and in several other languages, too. In fact, the library’s elegant Memorial Room held a priceless copy of the Bard’s First Folio.
In the days before the advent of the Internet, the librarians at Widener were agile at answering questions using printed materials, including thousands of reference books that were housed in the main Reading Room where the reference desk stood. They were also trained to think of themselves as “the face of the university.” In other words, they prided themselves on being competent, helpful and unfailingly polite as they answered everything from queries that could be answered with facts abstruse or simple, to questions that required considerable research.
They also needed to be unflappable in the face of prank questions from undergraduates, who never tired of trying to get a rise from the librarians. Like librarians the world over, members of Harvard’s reference staff prided themselves on possessing polite aplomb in their interactions with even the most challenging library patrons.
And so, when a handsome young man approached the reference desk that day, I readied myself to answer any question he might ask. In fact, at first I was rather disappointed when he mildly inquired, “Do you have a lost and found here? I seem to have lost my library card.”
“Yes, of course,” I said helpfully. “What is your name please?” I asked as I opened the drawer where stray library cards were stored.
“William Shakespeare,” the young man said, watching my face for a reaction. I glanced around to see if some other undergrads were looking on to get a laugh at my expense, and saw that this young man was apparently on his own. I paused for just an instant to collect myself. Then, smiling cordially, I stated firmly, “Mr. Shakespeare, there is hardly any place on Earth where you would be more welcome than here in the halls of Harvard University.”
The young man stared at me in some surprise. And then he gave me the warmest of smiles.
I turned my attention back to the drawer. Sorting through the stash of lost library cards, which my library colleagues had naturally arranged alphabetically, I came to those cards bearing last names beginning with the letter “S.” And there it was, the card bearing a photograph of the very young man who stood before me.
The name on the card read, “William Shakespeare.”
“Gadzooks!” I thought, but confined myself to saying, “Here you are, Mr. Shakespeare,” as I handed the student his card.
“Thank you,” William Shakespeare said mildly as he turned away from me and the Reference Desk, library card in hand.
“It was a trifle,” I managed to say to the departing lad. I felt my cheeks flush at the realization that I’d managed that one with some serious aplomb.
I had to wonder how conversant young Will Shakespeare of Harvard was with his namesake’s work. Could he know I was calling to mind the line, “I am the very pink of courtesy”?
Well, perhaps that quote from “Romeo and Juliet” would be too obscure even for the likes of him. After all, as Juliet put it, “What’s in a name?” Just because a man bears the Shakespeare moniker does not mean he’s a walking dictionary of quotations. That sort of aspiration — along with an aptitude for civility — may be reserved for librarians.