“Funny kind of story popped up the other day,” went on Mr. Arbuthnot. “Mysterious business. Couldn’t make head or tail of it. It would have amused old Peter. How is old Peter, by the way?”
“I haven’t seen him for some time. He’s in Rome. I don’t know what he’s doing there, but I suppose he’s on a case of some kind.”
“No. I expect he’s left his country for his country’s good. It’s usually that. I hope they manage to keep things quiet. The exchanges are a bit nervy.” Mr. Arbuthnot looked almost intelligent.
“What’s Peter got to do with the exchange?”
“Nothing. But if anything blows up, it’s bound to affect the exchange.”
“This is Greek to me. What is Peter’s job out there?”
“Foreign Office. Didn’t you know?”
“I hadn’t the slightest idea. He’s not permanently attached there, is he?”
“In Rome, do you mean?”
“To the Foreign Office.”
“No; but they sometimes push him out when they think he’s wanted. He gets on with people.”
“I see. I wonder why he never mentioned it.”
“Oh, everybody knows; it’s not a secret. He probably thought it wouldn’t interest you.” Mr. Arbuthnot balanced his spoon across his coffee-cup in an abstracted way. “I’m damned fond of old Peter,” was his next, rather irrelevant, contribution. “He’s a dashed good sort. Last time I saw him, I thought he seemed a bit under the weather… Well, I’d better be toddling.” He got up, a little abruptly, and said goodnight.
Harriet thought how humiliating it was to have one’s ignorance exposed.
Ten days before the beginning of term, Harriet could bear London no longer. The final touch was put to her disgust by the sight of an advance notice of Death ‘twixt Wind and Water, embodying an exceptionally fulsome blurb. She developed an acute homesickness for Oxford and for the Study of Le Fanu-a book which would never have any advertising value, but of which some scholar might some day moderately observe, “Miss Vane has handled her subject with insight and accuracy.” She rang up the Bursar, discovered that she could be accommodated at Shrewsbury, and fled back to Academe. College was empty, but for herself, the Bursar and Treasurer, and Miss Barton, who vanished daily into the Radcliffe Camera and was only seen at meals. The Warden was up, but remained in her own house.
April was running out, chilly and fickle, but with the promise of good things to come; and the city wore the withdrawn and secretive beauty that wraps her about in vacation. No clamour of young voices echoed along her ancient stones; the tumult of flying bicycles was stilled in the narrow strait of the Turf; in Radcliffe Square the Camera slept like a cat in the sunshine, disturbed only by the occasional visit of a slow-footed don; even in the High, the roar of car and charabanc seemed diminished and brought low, for the holiday season was not yet; punts and canoes, new-fettled for the summer term, began to put forth upon the Cherwell like the varnished buds upon the horse-chestnut tree, but as yet there was no press of traffic upon the shining reaches; the mellow bells, soaring and singing in tower and steeple, told of time’s flight through an eternity of peace; and Great Tom, tolling his nightly hundred-and-one, called home only the rooks from off Christ Church Meadow.
Mornings in Bodley, drowsing among the worn browns and tarnished gilding of Duke Humphrey, snuffing the faint, musty odour of slowly perching leather, hearing only the discreet tippety-tap of Agag-feet along the padded floor; long afternoons, taking an outrigger up the Cher, feeling the rough kiss of the sculls on unaccustomed palms, listening to the rhythmical satisfying ker-klunk of the rowlocks, watching the play of muscle on the Bursar’s sturdy shoulders at stroke, as the sharp spring wind flattened the thin silk shirt against them; or, if the day were warmer, flicking swiftly in a canoe under Magdalen walls and so by the twisting race at King’s Mill by Mesopotamia to Parson’s Pleasure; then back, with mind relaxed and body stretched and vigorous, to make toast by the fire; and then, at night, the lit lamp and the drawn curtain, with the flutter of the turned page and soft scrape of pen on paper the only sounds to break the utter silence between quarter and quarter chime. Now and again, Harriet took out the dossier of the poison-pen and looked it over; yet, viewed by that solitary lamp, even the ugly, printed scrawls looked harmless and impersonal, and the whole dismal problem less important than the determining of a first edition date or the settlement of a disputed reading.
In that melodious silence, something came back to her that had lain dumb and dead ever since the old, innocent undergraduate days. The singing voice, stifled long ago by the pressure of the struggle for existence, and throttled into dumbness by that queer, unhappy contact with physical passion, began to stammer a few uncertain notes. Great golden phrases, rising from nothing and leading to nothing, swam up out of her dreaming mind like the huge, sluggish carp in the cool waters of Mercury. One day she climbed up Shotover and sat looking over the spires of the city, deep-down, fathom-drowned, striking from the round bowl of the river-basin, improbably remote and lovely as the towers of Tir-nan-Og beneath the green sea-rollers. She held on her knee the loose-leaf note-book that contained her notes upon the Shrewsbury scandal; but her heart was not in that sordid inquiry. A detached pentameter, echoing out of nowhere, was beating in her ears-seven marching feet-a pentameter and a half:-
To that still centre where the spinning world
Sleeps on its axis-
Had she made it or remembered it? It sounded familiar, but in her heart she knew certainly that it was her own, and seemed familiar only because it was inevitable and right.
She opened the note-book at another page and wrote the words down. She felt like the man in the Punch story: “Nice little barf-room, Liza-what shall we do with it?” Blank verse?… No… it was part of the octave of a sonnet… it had the feel of a sonnet. But what a rhyme-sound! Curled? furled… she fumbled over rhyme and metre, like an unpracticed musician fingering the keys of a disused instrument.
Then, with many false starts and blank feet, returning and filling and erasing painfully as she went, she began to write again, knowing with a deep inner certainty that somehow, after long and bitter wandering, she was once more in her own place.
Here, then, at home…
the centre, the middle sea, the heart of the labyrinth…
Here, then, at home, by no more storms distrest,
Stay we our steps-course-flight-hands folded and
wings furled.
Here, then at home, by no more storms distrest,
Folding laborious hands we sit, wings furled;
Here in close perfume lies the rose-leaf curled,
Here the sun stands and knows not east nor west,
Here no tide runs; we have come, last and best,
From the wide zone through dizzying circles hurled,
To that still centre where the spinning world
Sleeps on its axis, to the heart of rest.
Yes; there was something there, though the metre halted monotonously, lacking a free stress-shift, and the chime “dizzying-spinning” was unsatisfactory. The lines swayed and lurched in her clumsy hands, uncontrollable. Still, such as it was, she had an octave.
And there it seemed to end. She had reached the full close, and had nothing more to say. She could find no turn for the sestet to take, no epigram, no change of mood. She put down a tentative line or two and crossed them out. If the right twist would not come of itself, it was useless to manufacture it. She had her image-the world sleeping like a great top on its everlasting spindle-and anything added to that would be mere verse-making. Something might come of it some day. In the meanwhile she had got her mood on to paper-and this is the release that all writers, even the feeblest, seek for as men seek for love; and, having found it, they doze off happily into dreams and trouble their hearts no further.