CHAPTER NINE

erstheyhadmuddledthepigeon-holesperhaps. ThereisintheBritishMuseumanenormousmind.ConsiderthatPlatoistherecheekbyjowlwithAristotleandShakespearewithMarlowe.Thisgreatmindishoardedbeyondthepowerofanysinglemindtopossessit.Nevertheless(astheytakesolongfindingone'swalking-stick)onecan'thelpthinkinghowonemightcomewithanotebook,sitatadesk,andreaditallthrough.Alearnedmanisthemostvenerableofall—amanlikeHuxtableofTrinity,whowritesallhislettersinGreek,theysay,andcouldhavekepthisendupwithBentley.Andthenthereisscience,pictures,architecture,—anenormousmind. Theypushedthewalking-stickacrossthecounter.JacobstoodbeneaththeporchoftheBritishMuseum.Itwasraining.GreatRussellStreetwasglazedandshining—hereyellow,here,outsidethechemist's,redandpaleblue.Peoplescuttledquicklyclosetothewallcarriagesrattledratherhelter-skelterdownthestreets.Well,butalittlerainhurtsnobody.Jacobwalkedoffmuchasifhehadbeeninthecountryandlatethatnighttherehewassittingathistablewithhispipeandhisbook. Therainpoureddown.TheBritishMuseumstoodinonesolidimmensemound,verypale,verysleekintherain,notaquarterofamilefromhim.Thevastmindwassheetedwithstoneandeachcompartmentinthedepthsofitwassafeanddry.Thenight-watchmen,flashingtheirlanternsoverthebacksofPlatoandShakespeare,sawthatonthetwenty-secondofFebruaryneitherflame,rat,norburglarwasgoingtoviolatethesetreasures—poor,highlyrespectablemen,withwivesandfamiliesatKentishTown,dotheirbestfortwentyyearstoprotectPlatoandShakespeare,andthenareburiedatHighgate. StoneliessolidovertheBritishMuseum,asboneliescooloverthevisionsandheatofthebrain.OnlyherethebrainisPlato'sbrainandShakespeare'sthebrainhasmadepotsandstatues,greatbullsandlittlejewels,andcrossedtheriverofdeaththiswayandthatincessantly,seekingsomelanding,nowwrappingthebodywellforitslongsleepnowlayingapennypieceontheeyesnowturningthetoesscrupulouslytotheEast.Meanwhile,PlatocontinueshisdialogueinspiteoftheraininspiteofthecabwhistlesinspiteofthewomaninthemewsbehindGreatOrmondStreetwhohascomehomedrunkandcriesallnightlong,"Letmein!Letmein!" InthestreetbelowJacob'sroomvoiceswereraised. Buthereadon.ForafterallPlatocontinuesimperturbably.AndHamletuttershissoliloquy.AndtheretheElginMarbleslie,allnightlong,oldJones'slanternsometimesrecallingUlysses,orahorse'sheadorsometimesaflashofgold,oramummy'ssunkyellowcheek.PlatoandShakespearecontinueandJacob,whowasreadingthePhaedrus,heardpeoplevociferatingroundthelamp-post,andthewomanbatteringatthedoorandcrying,"Letmein!"asifacoalhaddroppedfromthefire,orafly,fallingfromtheceiling,hadlainonitsback,tooweaktoturnover. ThePhaedrusisverydifficult.Andso,whenatlengthonereadsstraightahead,fallingintostep,marchingon,becoming(soitseems)momentarilypartofthisrolling,imperturbableenergy,whichhasdrivendarknessbeforeitsincePlatowalkedtheAcropolis,itisimpossibletoseetothefire. Thedialoguedrawstoitsclose.Plato'sargumentisdone.Plato'sargumentisstowedawayinJacob'smind,andforfiveminutesJacob'smindcontinuesalone,onwards,intothedarkness.Then,gettingup,hepartedthecurtains,andsaw,withastonishingclearness,howtheSpringettsoppositehadgonetobedhowitrainedhowtheJewsandtheforeignwoman,attheendofthestreet,stoodbythepillar-box,arguing. Everytimethedooropenedandfreshpeoplecamein,thosealreadyintheroomshiftedslightlythosewhowerestandinglookedovertheirshouldersthosewhoweresittingstoppedinthemiddleofsentences.Whatwiththelight,thewine,thestrummingofaguitar,somethingexcitinghappenedeachtimethedooropened.Whowascomingin? "That'sGibson." "Thepainter?" "Butgoonwithwhatyouweresaying." Theyweresayingsomethingthatwasfar,fartoointimatetobesaidoutright.ButthenoiseofthevoicesservedlikeaclapperinlittleMrs.Withers'smind,scaringintotheairblocksofsmallbirds,andthenthey'dsettle,andthenshe'dfeelafraid,putonehandtoherhair,bindbothroundherknees,andlookupatOliverSkeltonnervously,andsay: "Promise,PROMISE,you'lltellnoone."…soconsideratehewas,sotender.Itwasherhusband'scharacterthatshediscussed.Hewascold,shesaid. DownuponthemcamethesplendidMagdalen,brown,warm,voluminous,scarcelybrushingthegrasswithhersandalledfeet.Herhairflewpinsseemedscarcelytoattachtheflyingsilks.Anactressofcourse,alineoflightperpetuallybeneathher.Itwasonly"Mydear"thatshesaid,buthervoicewentjodellingbetweenAlpinepasses.Anddownshetumbledonthefloor,andsang,sincetherewasnothingtobesaid,roundah'sandoh's.Mangin,thepoet,cominguptoher,stoodlookingdownather,drawingathispipe.Thedancingbegan. Grey-hairedMrs.KeymeraskedDickGravestotellherwhoManginwas,andsaidthatshehadseentoomuchofthissortofthinginParis(Magdalenhadgotuponhiskneesnowhispipewasinhermouth)tobeshocked."Whoisthat?"shesaid,stayingherglasseswhentheycametoJacob,