CHAPTER THREE

osehispapercrossedhisfeetandextractedhisglasses.Thewholefleshofhisfacethenfellintofoldsasifpropswereremoved.YetstripawholeseatofanundergroundrailwaycarriageofitsheadsandoldHuxtable'sheadwillholdthemall.Now,ashiseyegoesdowntheprint,whataprocessiontrampsthroughthecorridorsofhisbrain,orderly,quick-stepping,andreinforced,asthemarchgoeson,byfreshrunnels,tillthewholehall,dome,whateveronecallsit,ispopulouswithideas.Suchamustertakesplaceinnootherbrain.Yetsometimestherehe'llsitforhourstogether,grippingthearmofthechair,likeamanholdingfastbecausestranded,andthen,justbecausehiscorntwinges,oritmaybethegout,whatexecrations,and,dearme,tohearhimtalkofmoney,takingouthisleatherpurseandgrudgingeventhesmallestsilvercoin,secretiveandsuspiciousasanoldpeasantwomanwithallherlies.Strangeparalysisandconstriction—marvellousillumination.Sereneoveritallridesthegreatfullbrow,andsometimesasleeporinthequietspacesofthenightyoumightfancythatonapillowofstonehelaytriumphant. Sopwith,meanwhile,advancingwithacurioustripfromthefire-place,cutthechocolatecakeintosegments.Untilmidnightorlatertherewouldbeundergraduatesinhisroom,sometimesasmanyastwelve,sometimesthreeorfourbutnobodygotupwhentheywentorwhentheycameSopwithwentontalking.Talking,talking,talking—asifeverythingcouldbetalked—thesoulitselfslippedthroughthelipsinthinsilverdiskswhichdissolveinyoungmen'smindslikesilver,likemoonlight.Oh,farawaythey'drememberit,anddeepindulnessgazebackonit,andcometorefreshthemselvesagain. "Well,Inever.That'soldChucky.Mydearboy,how'stheworldtreatingyou?"AndincamepoorlittleChucky,theunsuccessfulprovincial,Stenhousehisrealname,butofcourseSopwithbroughtbackbyusingtheothereverything,everything,"allIcouldneverbe"—yes,thoughnextday,buyinghisnewspaperandcatchingtheearlytrain,itallseemedtohimchildish,absurdthechocolatecake,theyoungmenSopwithsummingthingsupno,notallhewouldsendhissonthere.Hewouldsaveeverypennytosendhissonthere. Sopwithwentontalkingtwiningstifffibresofawkwardspeech—thingsyoungmenblurtedout—plaitingthemroundhisownsmoothgarland,makingthebrightsideshow,thevividgreens,thesharpthorns,manliness.Helovedit.IndeedtoSopwithamancouldsayanything,untilperhapshe'dgrownold,orgoneunder,gonedeep,whenthesilverdiskswouldtinklehollow,andtheinscriptionreadalittletoosimple,andtheoldstamplooktoopure,andtheimpressalwaysthesame—aGreekboy'shead.Buthewouldrespectstill.Awoman,diviningthepriest,would,involuntarily,despise. Cowan,ErasmusCowan,sippedhisportalone,orwithonerosylittleman,whosememoryheldpreciselythesamespanoftimesippedhisport,andtoldhisstories,andwithoutbookbeforehimintonedLatin,VirgilandCatullus,asiflanguagewerewineuponhislips.Only—sometimesitwillcomeoverone—whatifthepoetstrodein?"THISmyimage?"hemightask,pointingtothechubbyman,whosebrainis,afterall,Virgil'srepresentativeamongus,thoughthebodygluttonize,andasforarms,bees,oreventheplough,CowantakeshistripsabroadwithaFrenchnovelinhispocket,arugabouthisknees,andisthankfultobehomeagaininhisplace,inhisline,holdingupinhissnuglittlemirrortheimageofVirgil,allrayedroundwithgoodstoriesofthedonsofTrinityandredbeamsofport.Butlanguageiswineuponhislips.NowhereelsewouldVirgilhearthelike.Andthough,asshegoessaunteringalongtheBacks,oldMissUmphelbysingshimmelodiouslyenough,accuratelytoo,sheisalwaysbroughtupbythisquestionasshereachesClareBridge:"ButifImethim,whatshouldIwear?"—andthen,takingherwayuptheavenuetowardsNewnham,sheletsherfancyplayuponotherdetailsofmen'smeetingwithwomenwhichhavenevergotintoprint.Herlectures,therefore,arenothalfsowellattendedasthoseofCowan,andthethingshemighthavesaidinelucidationofthetextforeverleftout.Inshort,faceateacherwiththeimageofthetaughtandthemirrorbreaks.ButCowansippedhisport,hisexaltationover,nolongertherepresentativeofVirgil.No,thebuilder,assessor,surveyor,ratherrulinglinesbetweennames,hanginglistsabovedoors.Suchisthefabricthroughwhichthelightmustshine,ifshineitcan—thelightofalltheselanguages,ChineseandRussian,PersianandArabic,ofsymbolsandfigures,ofhistory,ofthingsthatareknownandthingsthatareabouttobeknown.Sothatifatnight,faroutatseaoverthetumblingwaves,onesawahazeonthewaters,acityilluminated,awhitenesseveninthesky,suchasthatnowovertheHallofTrinitywherethey'restilldining,orwashingupplates,thatwouldbethelightburningthere—thelightofCambridge. "Let'sgoroundtoSimeon'sroom,"saidJacob,andtheyrolledupthemap,havinggotthewholethingsettled. Allthelightswerecomingoutroundthecourt,andfallingonthecobbles,pickingoutdarkpatchesofgrassandsingledaisies.Theyoungmenwerenowbackintheirrooms.Heavenknowswhattheyweredoing.WhatwasitthatcouldDROPlikethat?Andleaningdownoverafoamingwindow-box,onestoppedanotherhurryingpast,andupstairstheywentanddowntheywent,untilasortoffulnesssettledonthecourt,thehivefullofbees,thebeeshomethickwithgold,drowsy,humming,suddenlyvocaltheMoonlightSonataansweredbyawaltz. TheMoonlightSonatatinkledawaythewaltzcrashed.Althoughyoungmenstillwentinandout,theywalkedasifkeepingengagements.Nowandthentherewasathud,asifsomeheavypieceoffurniturehadfallen,unexpectedly,ofitsownaccord,notinthegeneralstiroflifeafterdinner.Onesupposedthatyoungmenraisedtheireyesfromtheirbooksasthefurniturefell.Weretheyreading?Certainlytherewasasenseofconcentrationintheair.Behindthegreywallssatsomanyyoungmen,someundoubtedlyreading,magazines,shillingshockers,nodoubtlegs,perhaps,overthearmsofchairssmokingsprawlingovertables,andwritingwhiletheirheadswentroundinacircleasthepenmoved—simpleyoungmen,these,whowould—butthereisnoneedtothinkofthemgrownoldotherseatingsweetsheretheyboxedand,well,Mr.Hawkinsmusthavebeenmadsuddenlytothrowuphiswindowandbawl: