CHAPTER THREE

"Jo—seph!Jo—seph!"andthenheranashardaseverhecouldacrossthecourt,whileanelderlyman,inagreenapron,carryinganimmensepileoftincovers,hesitated,balanced,andthenwenton.Butthiswasadiversion.Therewereyoungmenwhoread,lyinginshallowarm-chairs,holdingtheirbooksasiftheyhadholdintheirhandsofsomethingthatwouldseethemthroughtheybeingallinatorment,comingfrommidlandtowns,clergymen'ssons.OthersreadKeats.Andthoselonghistoriesinmanyvolumes—surelysomeonewasnowbeginningatthebeginninginordertounderstandtheHolyRomanEmpire,asonemust.Thatwaspartoftheconcentration,thoughitwouldbedangerousonahotspringnight—dangerous,perhaps,toconcentratetoomuchuponsinglebooks,actualchapters,whenatanymomentthedooropenedandJacobappearedorRichardBonamy,readingKeatsnolonger,beganmakinglongpinkspillsfromanoldnewspaper,bendingforward,andlookingeagerandcontentednomore,butalmostfierce.Why?OnlyperhapsthatKeatsdiedyoung—onewantstowritepoetrytooandtolove—oh,thebrutes!It'sdamnablydifficult.But,afterall,notsodifficultifonthenextstaircase,inthelargeroom,therearetwo,three,fiveyoungmenallconvincedofthis—ofbrutality,thatis,andthecleardivisionbetweenrightandwrong.Therewasasofa,chairs,asquaretable,andthewindowbeingopen,onecouldseehowtheysat—legsissuinghere,onetherecrumpledinacornerofthesofaand,presumably,foryoucouldnotseehim,somebodystoodbythefender,talking.Anyhow,Jacob,whosatastrideachairandatedatesfromalongbox,burstoutlaughing.Theanswercamefromthesofacornerforhispipewasheldintheair,thenreplaced.Jacobwheeledround.HehadsomethingtosaytoTHAT,thoughthesturdyred-hairedboyatthetableseemedtodenyit,wagginghisheadslowlyfromsidetosideandthen,takingouthispenknife,hedugthepointofitagainandagainintoaknotinthetable,asifaffirmingthatthevoicefromthefenderspokethetruth—whichJacobcouldnotdeny.Possibly,whenhehaddonearrangingthedate-stones,hemightfindsomethingtosaytoit—indeedhislipsopened—onlythentherebrokeoutaroaroflaughter. Thelaughterdiedintheair.ThesoundofitcouldscarcelyhavereachedanyonestandingbytheChapel,whichstretchedalongtheoppositesideofthecourt.Thelaughterdiedout,andonlygesturesofarms,movementsofbodies,couldbeseenshapingsomethingintheroom.Wasitanargument?Abetontheboatraces?Wasitnothingofthesort?Whatwasshapedbythearmsandbodiesmovinginthetwilightroom? Asteportwobeyondthewindowtherewasnothingatall,excepttheenclosingbuildings—chimneysupright,roofshorizontaltoomuchbrickandbuildingforaMaynight,perhaps.Andthenbeforeone'seyeswouldcomethebarehillsofTurkey—sharplines,dryearth,colouredflowers,andcolourontheshouldersofthewomen,standingnaked-leggedinthestreamtobeatlinenonthestones.Thestreammadeloopsofwaterroundtheirankles.ButnoneofthatcouldshowclearlythroughtheswaddlingsandblanketingsoftheCambridgenight.Thestrokeoftheclockevenwasmuffledasifintonedbysomebodyreverentfromapulpitasifgenerationsoflearnedmenheardthelasthourgorollingthroughtheirranksandissuedit,alreadysmoothandtime-worn,withtheirblessing,fortheuseoftheliving. Wasittoreceivethisgiftfromthepastthattheyoungmancametothewindowandstoodthere,lookingoutacrossthecourt?ItwasJacob.Hestoodsmokinghispipewhilethelaststrokeoftheclockpurredsoftlyroundhim.Perhapstherehadbeenanargument.Helookedsatisfiedindeedmasterlywhichexpressionchangedslightlyashestoodthere,thesoundoftheclockconveyingtohim(itmaybe)asenseofoldbuildingsandtimeandhimselftheinheritorandthento-morrowandfriendsatthethoughtofwhom,insheerconfidenceandpleasure,itseemed,heyawnedandstretchedhimself. Meanwhilebehindhimtheshapetheyhadmade,whetherbyargumentornot,thespiritualshape,hardyetephemeral,asofglasscomparedwiththedarkstoneoftheChapel,wasdashedtosplinters,youngmenrisingfromchairsandsofacorners,buzzingandbargingabouttheroom,onedrivinganotheragainstthebedroomdoor,whichgivingway,intheyfell.ThenJacobwasleftthere,intheshallowarm-chair,alonewithMasham?Anderson?Simeon?Oh,itwasSimeon.Theothershadallgone. "…JuliantheApostate…."Whichofthemsaidthatandtheotherwordsmurmuredroundit?Butaboutmidnighttheresometimesrises,likeaveiledfiguresuddenlywoken,aheavywindandthisnowflappingthroughTrinityliftedunseenleavesandblurredeverything."JuliantheApostate"—andthenthewind.Upgotheelmbranches,outblowthesails,theoldschoonersrearandplunge,thegreywavesinthehotIndianOceantumblesultrily,andthenallfallsflatagain. So,iftheveiledladysteppedthroughtheCourtsofTrinity,shenowdrowsedoncemore,allherdraperiesabouther,herheadagainstapillar. "Somehowitseemstomatter." ThelowvoicewasSimeon's. Thevoicewasevenlowerthatansweredhim.Thesharptapofapipeonthemantelpiececancelledthewords.AndperhapsJacobonlysaid"hum,"orsaidnothingatall.True,thewordswereinaudible.Itwastheintimacy,asortofspiritualsuppleness,whenmindprintsuponmindindelibly. "Well,youseemtohavestudiedthesubject,"saidJacob,risingandstandingoverSimeon'schair.Hebalancedhimselfheswayedalittle.Heappearedextraordinarilyhappy,asifhispleasurewouldbrimandspilldownthesidesifSimeonspoke. Simeonsaidnothing.Jacobremainedstanding.Butintimacy—theroomwasfullofit,still,deep,likeapool.Withoutneedofmovementorspeechitrosesoftlyandwashedovereverything,mollifying,kindling,andcoatingthemindwiththelustreofpearl,sothatifyoutalkofalight,ofCambridgeburning,it'snotlanguagesonly.It'sJuliantheApostate. ButJacobmoved.Hemurmuredgood-night.Hewentoutintothecourt.Hebuttonedhisjacketacrosshischest.Hewentbacktohisrooms,andbeingtheonlymanwhowalkedatthatmomentbacktohisrooms,hisfootstepsrangout,hisfigureloomedlarge.BackfromtheChapel,backfromtheHall,backfromtheLibrary,camethesoundofhisfootsteps,asiftheoldstoneechoedwithmagisterialauthority:"Theyoungman—theyoungman—theyoungman-backtohisrooms."