“You can’t exercise the old kind of discipline in these days,” said the Dean; “it’s too bitterly resented.”
“The modern idea is that young people should discipline themselves,” said the Librarian. “But do they?”
“No; they won’t. Responsibility bores ’em. Before the War they passionately had College Meetings about everything. Now, they won’t be bothered. Half the old institutions, like the College debates and the Third Year Play, are dead or moribund. They don’t want responsibility.”
“They’re all taken up with their young men,” said Miss Burrows.
“Drat their young men,” said the Dean. “In my day, we simply thirsted for responsibility. We’d all been sat on at school for the good of our souls, and came up bursting to show how brilliantly we could organize things when we were put in charge.”
“If you ask me,” said Harriet, “it’s the fault of the schools. Free discipline and so on. Children are sick to death of running things and doing prefect duty; and when they get up to Oxford they’re tired out and only want to sit back and let somebody else run the show. Even in my time, the people from the up-to-date republican schools were shy of taking office, poor brutes.”
“It’s all very difficult,” said Miss Burrows with a yawn. “However, I did get my Library volunteers to do a job of work today. We’ve got most of the shelves decently filled, and the pictures hung and the curtains up. It looks very well. I hope the Chancellor will be impressed. They haven’t finished painting the radiators downstairs, but I’ve bundled the paintpots and things into a cupboard and hoped for the best. And I borrowed a squad of scouts to clean up, so as not to leave anything to be done tomorrow.”
“What time does the Chancellor arrive?” asked Harriet.
“Twelve o’clock; reception in the S.C.R. and show him round the College. Then lunch in Hall, and I hope he enjoys it. Ceremony at 2:30. And then push him off to catch the 3:45. Delightful man; but I am getting fed up with Openings. We’ve opened the New Quad, the Chapel (with choral service), the S.C.R. Dining-Room (with lunch to former tutors and Fellows), the Tudor Annexe (with Old Students’ Tea), the Kitchens and Scouts’ Wing (with Royalty), the Sanatorium (with address by the Lister Professor of Medicine), the Council-Chamber, and the Warden’s Lodgings, and we’ve unveiled the late Warden’s Portrait, the Willett Memorial Sundial and the New Clock. And now it’s the Library. Padgett said to me last term, when we were making those alterations in Queen Elizabeth, ‘Excuse me, madam dean, miss, but could you tell me, miss, the date of the Opening?’ ‘What Opening, Padgett?’ said I. ‘We aren’t opening anything this term. What is there to open?’ ‘Well, miss,’ says Padgett, ‘I was thinking of these here new lavatories, if you’ll excuse me, madam Dean, miss. We’ve opened everything there was to open up to the present, miss, and if there was to be a Ceremony, miss, it would be convenient if I was to know in good time, on account of arranging for taxis and parking accommodation.’”
“Dear Padgett!” said Miss Burrows. “He’s the brightest spot in this academy.” She yawned again. “I’m dead.”
“Take her away to bed. Miss Vane,” said the Dean, “and we’ll call it a day.”
6
Often when they were gone to Bed, the inner doors were flung open, as also the Doors of a Cupboard which stood in the Hall; and this with a great deal of Violence and Noise. And one Night the Chairs, which when they went to Bed stood all in the Chimney-corner, were all removed and placed in the middle of the Room in very good order, and a Meal-sieve hung upon one cut full of Holes, and a Key of an inner Door upon another. And in the Day-time, as they sate in the House spinning, they could see the Bam-doors often flung open, but not by whom. Once, as A lice sate spinning the Rock or Distaff leapt several times out of the Wheel into the middle of the room… with much more such ridiculous stuff as this is, which would be tedious to relate.
– William Turner
Peter,” said Harriet. And with the sound of her own voice she came drowsing and floating up out of the strong circle of his arms, through a green sea of sun-dappled beech leaves into darkness.
“Oh, damn,” said Harriet softly to herself. “Oh, damn. And I didn’t want to wake up.”
The clock in the New Quad struck three musically.
“This won’t do,” said Harriet. “This really will not do. My subconscious has a most treacherous imagination.” She groped for the switch of her bedside lamp. “It’s disquieting to reflect that one’s dreams never symbolize one’s real wishes, but always something Much Worse.” She turned the light on and sat up.
“If I really wanted to be passionately embraced by Peter, I should dream of something like dentists or gardening. I wonder what are the unthinkable depths of awfulness that can only be expressed by the polite symbol of Peter’s embraces. Damn Peter! I wonder what he would do about a case like this.” This brought her mind back to the evening in the Egotists’ Club and the anonymous letter; and thence back to his absurd fury with the sticking-plaster.
“… but my mind being momentarily on my job…”
You’d think he was quite bird-witted, sometimes, she thought. But he does keep his mind on the job, when he’s doing it. One’s mind on the job. Yes. What am I doing, letting my mind stray all over the place. Is this a job, or isn’t it?… Suppose the Poison-Pen is on its rounds now, dropping letters at people’s doors… Whose door, though? One can’t watch all the doors… I ought to be sitting up at the window, keeping an eye open for creeping figures in the quad… Somebody ought to do it-but who’s to be trusted? Besides, dons have their jobs to do; they can’t sit up all night and work all day… The job… keeping one’s mind on the job…
She was out of bed now and pulling the window curtains aside. There was no moon and nothing at all to be seen. Not even a late essay-writer seemed to be burning the midnight lamp. Anybody could go anywhere on a dark night like this, she thought to herself. She could scarcely see even the outline of the roofs of Tudor on her right or the dark bulk of the New Library jutting out on her left from behind the Annexe.
The Library; with not a soul in it.
She put on a dressing-gown and opened her door softly. It was bitterly cold. She found the wall-switch and went down the central corridor of the Annexe, past a row of doors behind which students were sleeping and dreaming of goodness knew what-examinations, sports, undergraduates, parties, all the queer jumble of things that are summed up as “activities.” Outside their doors lay little heaps of soiled crockery for the scouts to collect and wash. Also shoes. On the doors were cards, bearing their names: Miss H. Brown, Miss Jones, Miss Colburn, Miss Szleposky, Miss Isaacson-so many unknown quantities. So many destined wives and mothers of the race; or, alternatively, so many potential historians, scientists, schoolteachers, doctors, lawyers; as you liked to think one thing of more importance than the other. At the end of the passage was a large window, hygienically open at top and bottom. Harriet gently pushed up the bottom sash and looked out, shivering. And suddenly she knew that whatever reason or instinct had led her to look at the Library had taken a very just view of the situation. The New Library should have been quite dark. It was not. One of the long windows was split from top to bottom by a narrow band of light.
Harriet thought rapidly. If this was Miss Burrows, carrying on legitimately (though at an unreasonable and sacrificial hour) with her preparations, why had she troubled to draw the curtains? The windows had been curtained, because a Library that faces south must have some protection against strong sunlight. But it would be absurd for the Librarian to protect herself and her proper functions from scrutiny in the middle of a dark March night. College authorities were not so secretive as all that. Something was up. Should one go and investigate on one’s own, or rouse somebody else?