High Spirits - A Collection Of Ghost Stories Part 3

Everybody says the Devil has a vulgar streak, but they are the very same people who will say, on other occasions, that he is a gentleman. This was the side of his character he chose to show now.

aYou are really most considerate,a he continued, aand I should like to make some suitable return. What would you likea"donat restrict your ambitions, please.a Not a word would I say, and almost at once the Devil laughed againa"that silvery laugh I had heard before. aOf course, I quite understand, you are thinking of Faust. But he only gave me a rather shopworn soul; you have given me something n.o.body ever offered me beforea"the most cherished privilege of a Fellow of Ma.s.sey College. But comea"if you wonat have anything for yourself, will you accept something for the College? What about a handsome endowment? Academics always want money. Name your figure!a But the Devil had underestimated me. I know what makes colleges, and it isnat moneya"delightful though money is. This time it was my eyes that were fixed on the reredos. At the extreme of the third row of pictures is one that very few people recognize. It is a symbol so extraordinary, so deep in significance and broad in application that even Professor Marshall McLuhan has not been able to explode it. It is the Santa Sophia, the Ultimate Wisdom.

The Devil knew what I was looking at.

aIall say this for you,a said he, ayou certainly know how to ask.a aIt is for the College, after all,a I replied.

He sighed. aVery well,a said he; abut you must understand that I have only half that commodity you ask fora"Ultimate Wisdoma"in my possession. You shall have it for the College, and it is a considerable gift. When youall get the other half I canat say.a aI can,a I replied; aI shall expect it promptly the very first time you go home for Christmas.a He laughed for the last time, folded his splendid wings, and disappeared.

I made my way reflectively toward my study, to make a note of yet one more day whena"perhaps until the end of timea"we shall display our banner, and ring twenty-one strokes of the Catharine bell. Once again, under circ.u.mstances I could not have foreseen or prevented, the College had been visited bya"not precisely a ghost, for he was plainly of an order of being vastly more energetic and powerful than our owna"but by a spirit of the highest distinction. I sighed for the egalitarians who would confine us to ghosts drawn from the pet.i.t bourgeoisie. The dance, I observed, was over, and our Christmas celebrations were well begun.

Refuge of Insulted Saints

aI see you have guests,a said the youngest of the Fellows, when we met last week at High Table. As he said it I thought he winked.

I made no answer, but I was conscious of turning pale.

aI noticed them in your guest-room a couple of times last week when I was at breakfast,a he persisted.

Of course he would have noticed them. He is an almost professionally observant young man. When he goes back to New Zealand I hope he puts his gift at the disposal of the Secret Service.

The design of this College is such that when the Fellows are taking their leisurely breakfast in the private dining-room they can look directly into the windows of my guest-chamber. Guests have often complained about it. Two or three ladies have used a disagreeable term: ogling. But the guests who are there now I had hopeda"trusting, unworldly creature that I ama"to keep from the eyes of the College, and if they have been seen it must be taken as evidence that whatever influence I once had over them is now dispelled. I long ago accepted the fact that this College is haunted, but until recently it has been my determination to keep apparitions out of my own Lodging. But I know now that I have been cruelly betrayed by what, in justice to myself, I must call the n.o.bility and overflowing compa.s.sion of my own nature.

It all began this autumn, on the thirty-first of October. To be more accurate, it was a few minutes after midnight, and was therefore the first of November. The date and time are important, for of course the Eve of All Hallows, when evil spirits roam the earth, extends only until midnight, after which it is succeeded by All Hallows itselfa"All Saintsa Day, in fact. I was lying in bed reading an appropriate booka"the Bardo Thdol. For those of you whose Tibetan may have grown rusty I should explain that it is the great Tibetan Book of the Dead, a kind of guide book to the adventures of the spirit after it leaves this world. I had just reached the description of the Chonyid State, which is full of blood-drinking, brain-pulping and bone-gnawing by the Lord of Death, and as I read, I munched an apple. Then I became aware of a rattling at the College gate.

This happens often when the Porter has gone off duty and I have retired for the night. I frequently vow that never again will I get up and put on a dressing-gown and slippers and traipse out into the cold to see who it is. But I always do so. It is the compa.s.sion I have already spoken of as amounting almost to a weakness in my character that makes me do it. The rattler is often some girl who a.s.sures me that she simply must get back a paper that is being marked by one of the Teaching Fellows in the College. Or it may be that some young man has ordered a pizza and is too utterly fatigued by his studies to go down to the gate and get it for himself. It would be heartless to disregard such pathetic evidences of what it is now fas.h.i.+onable to call the Human Condition. So up I got and down I traipsed.

The night was cold and wet and dark, and as I peered through the gatea"for of course I was on the insidea"I could just make out the form of a girl, who seemed to have a bicycle with her.

aMake haste to open gate,a she said in a peremptory voice and with a marked foreign accent. aI vant to see priest at vonce.a aIf you want a priest, young woman, you had better try Trinity,a said I.

aPfui for Trinity,a she snapped, insofar as an expression like aPfuia may be snapped. aIs here the Ma.s.sey College, no? I vant Ma.s.sey College priest. Be very quick, please.a I was a prey to conflicting emotions. Who was this undeniably handsome, rudely demanding girl? And whom could she mean by the Ma.s.sey College priest? Our Chaplain lives out. Could it be our Hall Don? A priest undoubtedly buta"was he leading a double life? Or was this girl a bait to lure him forth on an errand of mercy, so that he might be destroyed? I would defend him.

aWe have no priest here,a said I, and turned away. But I was frozen to the spot by the girlas compelling cry.

aBabs!a she shouted; ashow this rude porter what you have!a Who could Babs be? Suddenly, there she was, right behind the other, with what I thought was another bicycle. But oh! (I hate using these old-fas.h.i.+oned and high-flown expressions, but there are no others that properly express my emotions at this instant) as I looked I became transfixed, nay, rooted to the spot. For what Babs hada"and it seemed to make it worse that Babs was no less a beauty than the other, with splendid red hair instead of blacka"was a cannon, and it was pointed straight at the College gates! Babs looked as if she meant business, for she had a flaming linstock in her hand, dangerously close to the touch-hole of the cannon.

aNow,a said the dark girl, drawing a huge sworda"a horrible two-handed weapona"from the folds of her cloak, awill you open the gate, or will Babs blow it off its hinges, as she very well knows how to do?a Here was student power as even our President has never encountered it! But my mind worked with lightning swiftness. All that I had ever read of von Clausewitz came back to me in a flash: aIf the enemyas attack cannot be resisted, lure him forward, and then attack his rear.a I would admit these girls, then, and with a sudden rearward sally I would shove them and their cannon into the pool. I flung open the gate.

aEnter, ladies,a said I, with false geniality, aand welcome to Ma.s.sey College, home of chivalry and courtesy.a But they did not rush forward as I had hoped. Babs, who really looked a rather jolly girl, turned and waved her linstock in what seemed to be a signal, and the other onea"the dark one who spoke English so clumsilya"cried aloud in unimpeachable Latin, aAdeste, fideles!a Suddenly the whole of Devons.h.i.+re Place was filled with a turbulent rabble that I, still under the delusion that these were students, took to be the New Left Caucus in more than their usual extravagance of dress. Half-naked, hairy men, dirty girls whose hair blew wildly in the wind, girls carrying roses, lilies and flowers I could not identify, men carrying objects which I took to be the abortive creations of ill-mastered handicrafts, people with every sort of flag and bannera"you never saw such a gang. They rushed the gate, and I was forced to retreat before them, shouting aStop! Wait!a as loudly as I could.

You may imagine how relieved I was to hear another voice, unmistakably English, crying aStop! Wait!a as well. Suddenly, right through the middle of the crowd rode a man in full armour, on a splendid horse; it is true he had a naked girl, not very effectively wrapped in his cloak, clasped in one arm, but in these permissive days such things are not unknown in our university, and whoever he was, he brought with him an atmosphere of trustworthiness that contrasted very favourably with the hostile spirit of Babs and her friend. He looked down at me, and I knew at once I was in the presence of an officer of Staff rank.

aYou are the seneschal, I suppose,a he said.

aNo,a I replied, athe seneschal is at home in Leaside, and at this moment I would to G.o.d that I were with him. But I am the Master of this College, and I will defend it with all my strength, though it be but that of a poor old man, sore stricken in years; and I shall defend it also with all my art and craft, which is virtually unlimited. Now, sir, who in h.e.l.l are you?a aIt is to avoid h.e.l.l that I, and all this rabble (for I know no other way to describe most of them) seek your hospitality,a said he. aI am Saint George of Cappadocia, formerly patron saint of England. This lady, with the wheel and the great Sword of Truth, is Saint Catherine of Alexandria. This other ladya"the redhead with the cannona"is Saint Barbara, patroness of artillery. And we are all, every one of us here, deposed, degraded, denuded, despoiled, defeased, debauched, and defamed by that arch tyrant Giovanni Batista Montini, pseudonymously describing himself as Supreme Pontiff, Servant of the Servants of G.o.d, Bishop of Rome and Pope Paul the Sixth!a There is something about other peopleas rhetoric that reduces my own language to the lowest common denominator. I regret my reply. It was unworthy of an academic. But history is history and truth must out.

aWhatas your beef?a I said.

It was the girl who shared the horse who replied. aHe means that Pope Paul announced last ninth of May that all this lot werenat really saints any more. Demoted them to legends, you see. A stinking trick, when you consider what theyave been worth to the Papacy, over the centuries. But he wanted to make places for some Africans, and Americans, and other trendy riffraff. So since then weave been racketing all over Christendom trying to find someplace to stay. My name is Cleodolinda, by the way, and Iam not a saint. I just have to travel around with Georgie here because Iam a reminder of his greatest triumph. You remember, when he slew the dragon? I was the girl the dragon wasa"well, nowadays they call it molesting. Will you take us in? Itas All Saints, today; if we donat get a home, and a place where we are respected, before midday, itas Limbo for us, Iam afraid. And Limbo is the absolute end, you know.a I liked Cleodolinda. As I listened, her history came back to me. Daughter of the King of Lydia. Iave always got on well with princesses. But as I looked at that streetful of sanctified hippies and flower-children, my heart misgave me.

aWhy Ma.s.sey College?a I asked her. aWith all the earth to choose from, why have you come here?a It was Saint George who answered. He never let Cleodolinda get a word in edgewise. The way he insisted on having all the good lines for himself, you might almost have thought they were married.

aYou need us,a he said, ato balance the extreme, stringent modernity of your thinking; nothing grows old-fas.h.i.+oned so fast as modernity, you know; weall keep you in touch with the real worlda"the world outside time. And we need you, because we want handsome quarters and you have them. It is our intention to set up a Communion of Saints in Exile, and this is the very place to do it. We wouldnat dream of going to the States, of course. But here in the colonies is just the spot.a Cleodolinda saw that I didnat like Saint Georgeas tone; she leaned forward and whispered, aHeas begging, you know, really; please let them in.a Compa.s.sion overcame common sense, and I nodded. Immediately the crowd began to surge forward, and that tiresome girl Saint Catherine shouted aAdeste fideles!a again. I began to dislike her; she reminded me of a girl whose thesis I once supervised; she had the same quality of overwhelming feminine gall.

aOne moment,a I shouted. aIt must be understood that if you enter here, Iam running the show. Thereall be no taking over, do you understand? The first rule is, you must keep out of sight. I presume you are all able to remain invisible?a aOh, absolutely,a said Saint George; abut we really must resume physical form for a little while each day. Youave no idea how cold invisibility is, and most of us are from the East; we have to warm up, every now and then.a aFive minutes a day,a I said, aand I donat want you scampering all over the College. Iall tell you where to go, and there you must stay. Oh, yes, you may run along to the Chapel daily, but donat loiter. And no ostentatious miracles without written consent from the House Committee. We have partic.i.p.atory democracy here Iad like you to know, and that means you maynat do anything without getting permission from the students. Now, one at a time please, and no shoving.a Saint George helped me to check them in, and it was no trifling job. There were about two hundred of them, but the trouble was that they all insisted on bringing what they called their aattributesaa"the symbols by which they have been recognized through the ages. Saint Ursula, for instance, brought her eleven thousand virgins with her, and insisted that they were simply personal staff, and only counted as one; they were a dowdy lot of girls, and I sent them to the kitchen, thinking the Chef would probably be able to put them to work. Saint Barbara I packed off to the Printing Room; I thought that bra.s.s cannon of hers wouldnat be noticed among all the old presses down there. Because of his a.s.sociation with travel I sent Saint Christopher to the parking-lot; many College people have remarked that they have never had any trouble finding a s.p.a.ce since that moment. Saint Valentine was tiresome; he insisted that he must be free to roam at large through the living quarters, or I would regret it. I mistrusted the look in his eye. Indeed, I quickly realized that all of these saints had a strong negative side to their characters, and could turn ugly at a momentas notice. So I told Valentine to go where he liked, but that I would hold him responsible for any scandal.

Saint Lucy seemed a nice little thing, but conversation was made difficult by her trick of carrying her eyes before her on a salver. Still, she was simplicity itself compared with Saint Agatha, who walked up to me, confidently carrying her two severed b.r.e.a.s.t.s on a platter; I was so disconcerted that, before I grasped the full implication of my deed, I sent her to the kitchen. I made the same mistakea"so full of potentialities for College cannibalisma"with Saint Prudentiana, who was carrying a sponge, soaked in some jam-like substance that she insisted was martyras blood. I can tell you that after these it was a relief to admit Saint Susanna, who carried nothing more disconcerting than a crown. As for Saint Martin, I recalled that he had once rent his cloak in two, in order to share it with a beggar, so I knew that he had experience in tearing up rags, and sent him down to our Paper-Making Room. Nor was Saint Thomasius a problem: I knew that his knack was for turning water into wine, and I thought he could make himself useful in the bar.

In fairness I must say that I foresaw certain problems that did not arise. Saint Nicholas, for instance. I was sure he would miss children, but he a.s.sured me he did not care if he never saw a child again this side of the Last Judgement; he said he wanted to re-establish himself as what he originally wasa"a treasurer, an administrator, a dealer in money. I s.h.i.+pped him straight off to the Bursary, and I understand he has since made himself very comfortable in that grandfatheras clock.

Many of the saints had animals, and these gave me a lot of trouble. Saint Hubert, for instance, had brought a large white stag, which was interesting enough because it bore a blazing cross between its horns; I told him to put it to work cropping the croquet lawn, but not to let it nibble the flowering shrubs. But then there was Saint Euphemia, who had brought a bear, and knowing how bears love to catch fish, I was worried about what Roger would think; we finally made a deal that if the bear would chase those squirrels that eat all our crocus bulbs, it could stay. But the problem presented by these animals is that their powers of invisibility are not under such control as those of their saintly owners, and I donat want that bear to turn up unexpectedly ina"well, for instance, in a quorum of university presidents. You may imagine I was glad to face such easy decisions as that of Saint Dorothy with her basket of fruit and flowersa"very handy in the private dining-room. And when Saint Petronilla turned up with her dolphin, I simply gestured her toward the pool.

Dragons were a perfect nuisance. An otherwise decent fellow named Saint Germa.n.u.s of Auxerre wanted to bring in a dragon with seven heads. I asked him to wait. But then along came that detestable Saint Catherine of Alexandria, with a very nasty dragon which she insisted was not a dragon at all. aIs a pet, a symbol of all that is evil in my nature, which I have utterly subdued,a she said. But the dragon did not look as subdued as I should have liked, and we had high words. She wanted to have the Round Room all to herself and she wanted a priest always with her; she had some extraordinary plans for examinations: but I insisted that she scramble up the tower, and accommodate herself in our Saint Catharine bell, with her great spiky wheel, and her gigantic Sword of Truth, and her disgusting dragon.

aBut I am patroness of all scholars,a she protested.

aYouall see them to great advantage from up there,a I replied, and refused to budge. She went off in a sulk.

It was with Saint George I had the worst trouble. Not only did he insist on bringing in his horse, but he also had a perfectly frightful dragon with him. I had to put my foot down.

aBut it isnat a dragon,a he shouted; aitas a dog. Watch, now. Sit, Rover!a he cried. But the dragon did not sit. It leapt up at me and snuffled me intimately and licked me, and tore the leg of my pyjamas, and uttered the most horrifying howls. Mind you, this was not wholly surprising. I have known scores of Englishmen who owned nasty, rough, smelly dragons that they insisted were really dogs. But this was too much.

aThatas no dog,a said I, and gave the dragon a kick in the cloaca. aItas blowing fire out of its nose. Seea"itas scorched a great hole in my dressing-gown.a aOf course.a he said, haughtily; aitas a fire-dog.a This was the last straw. aAll dragons to the furnace-room immediately,a I shouted. aIn the morning Professor Swinton will examine them, and if they are really prehistoric animals, he will take them to the Museum.a They saw I meant it, and the dragons slithered and puffed off down the stairs.

At last the whole tribe of refugee saints was disposed of about the College somehow, and I was able, in a very slight degree, to recover my composure. But then I saw that Cleodolinda had been left behind. Saint George, a real Englishman, had been so concerned about his dog he had forgotten his girl.

aWell, young woman, what are we going to do with you?a I said.

aOh, I suppose itas Limbo for me,a she replied in a resigned but not a complaining tone. aIam only an attribute, you see, not a saint, and as youave put Georgie on to help the Porter he wonat have time for me. After all, I canat hang about the lodge undressed like this.a I looked at her. She repaid looking at, but I felt our Ma.s.sey College men were not quite ready for so much feminine beauty, all at one gaze, so to speak.

aI donat like to think of you in Limbo,a said I, abut the College is crammed with your friends and their luggage and pets. Soa"for a while, anyhowa"you may use my guest-room.a Never trust a woman. aOh, you are kind,a she said, and hopped up and down with delight, producing a very agreeable effect. aAnd you wonat mind if I bring a friend, will you?a aIt depends,a said I, aa beheaded virgin or something of that kind would be all right, but no young men. Iam expected to set an example.a aWell, itas a man, but not a bit young,a said she. aItas Saint Patrick, you see. The poor old sweet never thought he would be desanctified, and just when the Pope p.r.o.nounced his sentence he was in one of the steam baths in Rome, and he hadnat a minute to pick up a few things, so he hasnat even an attribute to bless himself with, anda"a You know how it is. Women always overdo explanations. As Cleodolinda spoke a forlorn figure hobbled forward out of the darkness beyond our gate; a shrivelled little old fellow, covered only by his flowing beard and a very small towel on which was embroidered, in red, Sauna Grande di Roma. He was talking long before Cleodolinda had finished.

aYezall have pity on me, I know,a he said, aseeing as how Iam a fella-Celt. Sure, amnat I a Welshman meself? Isnat it well-known I sailed from Wales to Ireland on a millstone, to convert them heathen? And wouldnat I have brought the millstone itself if that dirthy ould double-crosser in Rome had give me a minute? But awww, no! It was aOut with Saint Path-ricka, and no two ways about it. Youall notice that Saint Andrew is safe and snug, right where he was. Leave it to the Scotch to get it all their own way. And that roaring ould tough, Saint David is still in his placea"aw but I forgot, heas a Welshman like yourselfa"I mean like ourselves. Things havenat been so bad with me since the last Englishman sat on the throne of Peter, and thatas d.a.m.ned near six centuries. Youave got to let me in. Iam just a poor roont old fella like yourselfa"a Here I noticed Cleodolinda kick him on the s.h.i.+n, and he hastily changed his tactics.

aI mean to say, a fine young lad, just in the flower of his splendour, like yourself, isnat going to turn me away, and Limbo gaping before me. You wouldnat have it on your soul. And youave a giant of a soul. I can tell by the kindly light in your eyes.a And so on. Much, much more. And the upshot was that I sent him off with Cleodolinda to my guest-room, with strict orders not to manifest themselves in the flesh except when they were safely locked in the bathroom.

But you know how people are. Especially people who have been used to having their own way (not to speak of adoration and prayers addressed to them) for over a thousand years. It worked for a few days, and then those two were prancing around in there, quite naked, waving to Saint Catharine up in the tower, whistling at the stag, and stirring up the bear by shooting pins at it with an elastic. And the Fellows, as they sit at their breakfast, have been ogling.

If it is Patrick they see, I presume they take him for a rather more than ordinarily demented visiting professor. But from the light in my young friendas eye, I have a feeling it is Cleodolinda.

And now they are in, how shall I ever get them out? Beware of compa.s.sion!

d.i.c.kens Digested

In this, the centenary of his death, I should like to speak well of Charles d.i.c.kens; the literary world has united to do him honour as one of the half-dozen foremost geniuses of our great heritage of poetry, drama and the novel. That I should have to stand before you tonight and direct at that Immortal Memory a charge ofa"the word sticks in my throat, but it must be given voicea"a charge of Vampirism, repels and disgusts me, but when d.i.c.kens has cast this hateful shadow across the quadrangle of Ma.s.sey College, I have no other course.

This is what happened.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulitya"in short, it was the beginning of the autumn term, and the year was 1969. I met the incoming group of Junior Fellows, and among the thirty-five or so new men were some who immediately attracted my attentiona"but the subject of my story was not one of these. No, Tubfast Weatherwax III had nothing about him to draw or hold oneas interest; he was a bland young man, quite unremarkable in appearance. Of course, I was familiar with his dossier, which had been thoroughly examined by the Selections Committee of the College. He came to us from Harvard, and he was a young American of distinguished backgrounda"as the dynastic number attached to his name at once made clear. His mother, I know, had been a Boston Winesap. But young Weatherwax bore what one politely a.s.sumed to bea"in republican termsa"a n.o.ble heritage lightly, and indeed un.o.btrusively.

He was a student of English Literature, and he sought a Ph.D. When I asked him casually what he was working at, he said that he thought perhaps he might do something with d.i.c.kens, if he could get hold of anything new. I considered his att.i.tude rather languid, but this is by no means uncommon among students in the English graduate school; hoping to encourage him I said that I was certain that if once d.i.c.kens thoroughly took hold of him, he would become absorbed in his subject.

Ah, fatal prophetic words! Would that I might recall them! But noa"I, like poor Tubfast Weatherwax, was a p.a.w.n in one of those grim games, not of chance but of destiny, which Fate plays with us in order that we may not grow proud in our pretension to free will.

I saw no more of him for a few weeks, until one day he came to see me, to enquire about d.i.c.kens as a dramatist. I am one of the few men in the University who has troubled to read the plays of Charles d.i.c.kens, and relate them to the rest of his work, so this was normal enough. He knew nothing about the nineteenth-century theatre, and I told him I thought d.i.c.kensa drama unlikely to yield a satisfactory thesis to anyone but an enthusiastic specialist. aAnd you, Mr. Weatherwax,a I said, adid not seem very much caught up in d.i.c.kens when last we spoke.a His face changed, lightening unmistakably with enthusiasm. aOh, thatas all in the past,a he said; aitas just as you said it would bea"I feel that d.i.c.kens is really taking hold of me!a I looked at him more attentively. He had altered since first I saw him. His dress, formerly that elegant disarray that marks the Harvard mana"the carefully shabby corduroy trousers, the rumpled but not absolutely dirty s.h.i.+rt, the necktie worn very low and tight around the loins, in lieu of a belta"had been changed to extremely tight striped trousers, a tight-waisted jacket with flaring skirts, and around the throat what used to be called, a hundred and fifty years ago, a Belcher neckerchief. Anda"was I mistaken, or was that shadow upon his cheeks merely the unshavenness which is now so much the fas.h.i.+on, or might it be the first, faint dawning of a pair of sidewhiskers? But I made no comment, and after he had gone I thought no more about the matter.

Not, that is, until the Christmas Dance.

There are many here who remember our Christmas Dance in 1969. It was a delightful affair, and, as always the dress worn by the College men and their guests ran through the spectrum of modern university elegance. I myself always wear formal evening clothes on these occasions; it is expected of me; of what use is an Establishment figure if he does not look like an Establishment figure? But somewhat to my chagrin I found myself outdone in formality, and by none other than Tubfast Weatherwax III. And yeta"was this the ultimate in modern fas.h.i.+on, or was it a kind of fancy dress? His bottle green tail coat, so tight-waisted, so spiky-tailed, so very high in the velvet collar and so sloping in the shoulders; his waistcoat of garnet velvet, hung all over with watch-chains and seals depending from fobs; his wondrously frilled s.h.i.+rt, and the very high starched neck-cloth that came up almost to his mouth; his skin-tight trousers, anda"could it be? yes, it certainly wasa"his varnished evening shoes, were in the perfection of the mode of 1836, a date whicha"it just flashed through my minda"marked the first appearance of Pickwick Papers. And his haira"so richly curled, so heaped upon his head! And his side-whiskers, now exquisite parentheses enclosing the subordinate clause which was his innocent face. It wasa"yes, it was certainly clear that Tubfast Weatherwax III had got himself up to look like the famous portrait of the young d.i.c.kens by Daniel Maclise.

But his companion! No Neo-Victorian she. I thought at first that she was completely topless, but this was not qtiite true. Braless she certainly was, and her movement was like the waves of ocean. As for her mini, it was a minissima, nay, a parvula. She was a girl of altogether striking appearance.

aAllow me to present Miss Angelica Crumhorn,a said Weatherwax, making a flouris.h.i.+ng bow to my wife and myself; aa.s.suredly she is the brightest ornament of our local stage. But tonight I have tempted her from the footlights and the plaudits of her ravished admirers to grace our academic festivities with beauty and wit. Come, my angel, shall we take the floor?a aAw, c.r.a.p!a said Miss Crumhorn,awhereas the gin at?a I knew her. She was very widely known. Indeed, she was notorious, but not as Angelica Crumhorn, which I a.s.sume was her real name, but as Gates Ajar Honeypot, star of the Victory Burlesque. She was the leader of an accomplished female group called the Topless t.o.s.s.e.rs.

If there is one point that has been made amply clear by the university revolt of the past few years, it is this: students will no longer tolerate an educational inst.i.tution which professes to stand in loco parentis; good advice is absolutely out. Therefore I did not call young Weatherwax to me the following morning and tell him that he stood on the brink of an abyss, though I knew that this was the case. It was not that, at the dance, he had eyes for no one but Gates Ajar Honeypot; in that he was simply like all the rest of us, for as she danced, Miss Crumhorn gave a stunning exhibition of the accordion-like opening and closing of her bosom by means of which she had won the professional name of Gates Ajar. No, what was wrong was that when he looked at her he seemed to be seeing someone elsea"some charming girl of the Regency period, all floating tendrils of hair, pretty ribbons, modest but witty speech, and flirtatious but essentially chaste demeanour. I saw trouble ahead for Tubfast Weatherwax III, but I held my peace.

I thought, you see, that he was trying to be like Charles d.i.c.kens. This happens very often in the graduate school; a young man chooses a notable literary figure to work on, and his subject is so much more vital, so infinitely more charged with life than he himself, that he begins to model himself on the topic of his thesis, and until he has gained his Ph.D.a"and sometimes even aftera"he acts the role of that great literary man. You notice it everywhere. If you were to throw an orange in any English graduate seminar you would hit a foetal Henry James, or an embryo James Joyce; road-company Northrop Fryes and Halloweaen versions of Marshal McLuhan are to be found everywhere. This has nothing to do with these eminent men; it is part of the theopathetic nature of graduate studies; the aspirant to academic perfection so immerses himself in the works of his G.o.d that he inevitably takes on something of his quality, at least in externals. It is not the fault of the G.o.d. Not at all.

Very well, I thought. Let Tubfast Weatherwax III take his fair hour; he has heard of d.i.c.kensa early infatuation with Maria Beadneil; let him try on d.i.c.kensa trousers and see how they fit.

This meant no small sacrifice on my part. Whenever I met him, I said, as I should, aGood-day, Mr. Weatherwax;a and then I had to listen to him shout, aOh, capital, capital! The very best of days, Master! Whoop! Halloo! G.o.d bless us every one!a Or if perhaps I said, aNot a very fine day, Mr. Weatherwax,a he would reply: aWhat is the odds so long as the fire of soul is kindled at the taper of conviviality, and the wing of friends.h.i.+p never moults a feather!a I began to avoid encounters with Weatherwax. The only d.i.c.kensian reply to this sort of thing that I could think of was, aBah! Hambug!a but I shrink from giving pain.

But I saw him. Oh, indeed, I saw him crossing the quad, his step as light as a fairyas, with that notable strumpet Gates Ajar Honeypot upon his arm. aAngelicaa he insisted on calling her, poor unhappy purblind youth. I longed to speak, but my Wiser Selfa"who is, I regret to tell you, a cynical, slangy spirit whom I call the Ghost of Experience Past, would intervene, snarling, aNix on the loco parentis,a and I would refrain.

Even when he came, last Spring, to ask permission to marry Angelica Crumhorn in the Chapel, late in August, I merely gave formal a.s.sent. aI shall fill the little Chapel with flowers,a he rhapsodized; aflowers for her whose every thought is pure and fragrant as earthas fairest blossom.a I repressed a comment that a bridal bouquet of Venusa fly-trap would be pretty and original.

I prepared the required page in the College Register, but August came and went, and as nothing had happened I made a notationa"Cancelleda"on that page, and waited the event.

Poor Weatherwax pined, and I ceased to avoid him and began to pity him. I enquired how his d.i.c.kens studies went on? He asked me to his rooms in the College and when I visited him I was astonished to find how Victorian, how like chambers in some early nineteenth century Inn of Court he had contrived to make them. He even had a bird in a cage: inevitably it was a linnet. The most prominent objects of ornament were a large white plaster bust of d.i.c.kensa"very large, positively dominanta"and a handsome full set of d.i.c.kensa Works in twenty-five volumes. I recognized it at once as the Nonesuch d.i.c.kens, a very costly set of books for a student, but I knew that Weatherwax had money. He languished in an armchair in a long velvet dressing-gown, his hair hanging over his face, the picture of romantic misery. I decided thata"prudent or nota"the time had come for me to speak.

aRally yourself, Mr. Weatherwax,a cried I; amarshal your powers, recruit your energies, sir!a I started to hear myself give utterance to these unaccustomed phrases, but with that bust of d.i.c.kens looking at me from a high shelf, I could not speak in any other way. So I told him, in good round Victorian prose that he was making an a.s.s of himself, that he was well quit of Gates Ajar Honeypot, and that he must positively stop trying to be Charles d.i.c.kens. aEating your G.o.d,a I cried, raising my hand in admonition, acannot make you into your G.o.d. Stop aping d.i.c.kens, and read him like a scholar.a To my dismay, he broke down and wept. aOh, good old man,a he sobbed, ayou come too late. For I am not eating my G.o.d; I fear that my G.o.d is eating me! But bless you, bless your snowy locks! You have sought to succour me, but alas, I know that I am doomed!a I rose to leave him, and as I did soa"I tell you this knowing how incredible it must seema"the bust of d.i.c.kens seemed to smile, baring sharp, cruel teeth. I shrieked. It was a mental shriek, which is the only kind of shriek permitted to a professor in the modern university, but I gave a mental shriek, and fled the room.

Of course I returned. I know my duty. I know what I owe to the men of Ma.s.sey College, to the spirit of university education, to that sense of decency which is one of the holiest possessions of our changing world. And as autumn wore ona"it was this autumn just past, but as I look back upon it, it seems far, far awaya"the conviction grew upon me that Weatherwaxas trouble was greater than I had supposed; it was not that he thought he was d.i.c.kens, but that he thought he was one of d.i.c.kensa characters, and by that abandonment of personality he had set his foot upon a shadowed and sinister path. One of d.i.c.kensa characters? Yes, but which? One of the doomed ones, clearly. But which? Which? For me this past autumn was a season of painful obligation, for not only had I to care for Weatherwaxa"oh yes, it reached a point where I took him his meals, and fed him such scant mouthfuls as he could ingest, with my own handsa"but I had to adapt myself to the only kind of language he seemed now to understand.

One daya"it was in early Novembera"I took him his usual bowl of gruel, and found him lying on his little bed, asleep.

aMr. Weatherwax,a I whispered, anay, let me call you Tubfast; arouse yourself; you must eat something.a aIs it you, Grandfather?a he asked, as he opened his eyes, and across his lips stole a smile so sweet, so innocent, so wholly feminine, that in an instant I had the answer to my question. Tubfast Weatherwax III thought he was Little Nell.

His decline from that moment was swift. I spent all the time with him I could. Sometimes his mind wandered, and seemed to dwell upon Gates Ajar Honeypot. aI never nursed a dear Gazelle, to glad me with its soft black eye, but when it came to know me well and love me, it was sure to prefer the advances of a fat wholesale furrier on Spadina Avenue,a he would murmur. But more often he talked of graduate studies, and of that great Convocation on High where the Chancellor of the Universe confers Ph.D.s, magna c.u.m angelic laude, on all who kneel before his throne.

When I could no longer conceal from myself that the end was near, I dressed his couch here and there with some winter berries and green leaves, gathered in a secluded portion of the parking-lot. He knew why. aWhen I die, put me near to something that has loved the light, and had sky above it always,a he murmured. I knew he meant our College quadrangle, for though the new Graduate Library will shortly throw upon our little garden its eternal pall of shadow, it had been while he knew it a place of suns.h.i.+ne and of the laughter of the careless youths who play croquet there.

Then, one drear November night, just at the stroke of midnight, the end came. He was dead. Dear, patient, n.o.ble Tubfast Weatherwax III was dead. His little birda"a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crusheda"was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its child-owner was mute and motionless for ever.

Where were the traces of his early cares, the pangs of despised love, of scholarly tasks too heavy for his feeble mind? All gone. Sorrow was dead indeed in him, but peace and perfect happiness were born; imaged in his tranquil beauty and profound repose. So shall we know the angels in their majesty, after death.

I wept for a solitary hour, but there was much to be done. I hastened to the quad, lifted one of the paving stones at the north-east end, wherea"until the Graduate Library is completeda"the sun strikes warmest and stays longest. For such a man as I, burdened with years and sorrow, the digging of a six-foot grave was heavy work, and it took me all of ten minutes.

With the little chisel in my handy pocket-knife, it was the work of an instant to incribe the stonea"

Hic jacet

STABILIS WEATHERWAX TERTIUS.

and then, as my Latin is not inexhaustible, I continueda"

He bit off more than he could chew.

It was my intention to place the stone over the grave, with the inscription downward, so that no unhallowed eye might read it. Now all that remained was to wrap the poor frail body in the velvet dressing-gown and lay it to rest. Or rather, I should be compelled to stand it to rest, for the grave had to be dug straight down.

It was only then I raised my eyes toward the windows of Weatherwaxas room, which lay on the other side of the quad. What light was that, which flickered with an eerie effulgence from the cas.e.m.e.nt? Had I, stunned by my grief, forgotten to turn off the electricity? But no; this light was not the bleak glare of a desk-lamp. It was a bluish light, and it seemed to ebb and flow. Fire? I sped up the stairs, and threw open the door.

Oh, what a sight was there revealed to my starting eyes? My hair lifted upward upon my head, as if it were fanned by a cold breath. The bust of Charles d.i.c.kens, before so white, so plaster-like, was now grossly flushed with the colours of life. The Nonesuch d.i.c.kens, which had hitherto worn its original binding of many-coloured buckram wasa"Oh, horror, horror!a"bound freshly in leather, and that leathera"would that I had no need to reveal ita"was human skin! And that smella"why did it so horribly remind me of a dining-room in which some great feast had just been completed? I knew. I knew at once. For the bodya"the body was gone!

As I swooned the scarlet lips of the d.i.c.kens bust parted in a terrible smile, and its beard stirred in a hiccup of repletion.

It was a few days latera"last Friday, indeeda"when a young colleague in the Department of Englisha"a very promising Joyce mana"said to me, aIt is astounding how d.i.c.kens studies are picking up; quite a few theses have been registered in the past three months.a I knew he despised d.i.c.kens and all the Victorians, so I was not surprised when he added, aWonderful how the old wizard keeps life in him! Upon what meat doth this our Charlie feed, that he is grown so great?a He smiled, pleased at his little literary joke. But I did not smile, because I knew.

Yes, I knew.

The Kiss of Krushchev

Any invasion of this College by uncanny and irrational elements is a source of distress to me. We have here an inst.i.tution devoted to scholars.h.i.+p; we toil in Ma.s.sey College to raise what I like to think of as a Temple of Reason. But, alas, from time to time I am forced to recognize that nowhere, not even here, is Apollo the sole shaper of human existence. Dionysian forces are also at work. But there is one element in our college community which, I consoled myself until recently, had never suffered painful invasions from the realm of unreason; that was our College Choir.

They have been with us from the beginning. A merry, highhearted group, they have for eight years welcomed our summers with their song, lent a sombre splendour to our Chapel services, and, on such occasions as this, they have marked the season with the widest variety of Christmas music. Nor have they stood apart from the ideal of scholars.h.i.+p which is the chief purpose of the College. They recover, from ma.n.u.scripts or rare publications, choral music which has been unjustly neglected; they dust it off, and bring it into the world again. And that is just how this whole grotesque incident began.