“N-N-No, Miss Smith—” The lad bravely lied.
“Alright then—” She said.
Ponce tried hard to imagine he was in class. But it didn’t really help all that much of course, for the closer he got to realizing that fantasy, the more pronounced became the phenomenon associated with the actual reality of being there, i.e., in his dream’s class. And no matter how hard he tried to control it. He was mortified.
“Are you alright, Ponce?” the divine creature asked.
“S-Sure—Miss Smith—” Ponce said, lying again.
She snuggled around on the sofa, before him, making herself very comfortable. She pulled out another cigarette. She lit it. waiting to hear more from her top student. “Go on then,” She said, very softly.
Ponce plunged on, getting in stride, in spite of everything, “In the early poems, for example, II Penseroso, Milton meditating in the cathedral expresses no aversion as a Puritan should for the beauty of the lofty arches, the stained-glass windows, and the music—”
“Yes,” Ponce said, “Milton’s love of organ music, so well described in the poem, continued throughout his life, and its tones and its dignified rhythms are reflected in the music—of his lines—Miss Smith.”
“Absolutely, Ponce,” Miss Smith purred at him, absolutely delighted with him, “And where does that take us?” Ponce’s organ, at this juncture, despite all efforts, was going somewhere. Definitely. He did his best to camouflage the mortifyingly and supremely embarrassing development, with his book and notebook, no less. He only prayed his teacher-hostess would not ask him to stand up—under any circumstances.
“Well—” he said, still in stride, “I just mentioned that because it seems like a good way to approach Paradise Lost—”
Miss Smith nodded her head, obviously more than delighted with Ponce, the best, without the slightest doubt, the most receptive, and perceptive, of all her Lit students, by far. She had certainly done the right thing asking him over tonight. It was always the case that one, just one student like this made all the sometimes dreary effort worthwhile. She pulled an extra long pull on her cigarette, her eyes shining.
“That’s a good idea, Ponce,” she said, exhaling a cloud of smoke, slowly, as she spoke, part of it touching Ponce, and thrilling him, no end.
“Take—” said Ponce, soaring on, “The masque Comus —and the elegy Lycidas—” The lad paused, “Here again, in both of these works, you can see the effects upon him of both Renaissance and Puritan—” He paused, for a breath, “Influences." He stopped.
“Thai’s right, Ponce,” said the dream, “Absolutely—and what an interesting, interesting approach to it—” She said, “Exciting almost—” She added, “And accurate—” She paused, “And when did you think of it?”
Her warm eyes surveyed the lad’s face. He only wanted to plunge, head first, into them, lose himself, forever, in them.
“Ever since—just since—” He faltered.
“This morning?” She offered.
Ponce shook his head, forlornly, at the mere thought of this morning, “No—*’ He told her. “Since—well—after you met me in the hall, to tell you the truth, Miss Smith— It all started then—and developed I guess quite a lot between then and now—no doubt—” He informed her.
“I inspired you!” She smiled.
“I guess so—” He murmured, also smiling, shyly.
“Would you like a cup of cocoa?” She inquired.
“That would be—great—” Ponce answered.
‘Til get it in just a minute,” Miss Smith said, “O.K.? Right now, what about telling me more, in general terms, about Paradise Lost—?”
The lad thought, and answered, quietly, finally, “Well— it’s an epic or heroic poem—and—Milton had more or less planned and prepared for it since his youth, to tell the truth. It was part of a trilogy, actually. Paradise Regained and Samson Agonistes are the other two parts—” He paused —“They explore the mystery of God's dealings with those who dwell on earth—in short, human beings—mainly— which was of great interest to the Puritan Age—” He paused again, casting his eyes on her, “They reveal the vastness of Milton's learning, the loftiness of his language, the stately music of his lines—” He paused once more, his eyes glued on her—“In short, his genius. Paradise Lost actually tells the story of the—temptation of Adam and Eve and their expulsion from Paradise—” He halted.
“Go on—” She murmured, encouragingly.
“Well, more than that, and on top of that, it describes the origin of the Devil, or Satan, and the War in Heaven, from which he was finally expelled and evolved into the Devil, taking his revenge on God by corrupting his finest, his most unique creation, Mankind, I mean.”
“Yes—” She said, obviously affected—She almost whispered.
“How is the imagery?” She asked.
“Vivid,” he answered.
“ \ . . eagerly the Fiend o’er bog or steep, through strait, rough, dense, or rare, with head, hands, wings, or feet pursues his way, and swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies too.* ” She quoted, partly closing her eyes, as Ponce admired the astonishingly beautiful eyelids and eyelashes, of his dream.
“That’s right,” she said, looking at him.
“And so—” the lad said, “And so—that’s what I have in mind to do, Miss Smith, that’s it—” He said.
She nodded, and smiled, at the boy, “And I think you can do it—I know your theme will be the best, the most original, in the class—” She paused, adding, “As usual.”
“I always try my best—” the lad said modestly.
“I’m glad you do.”
“Because I think—I think—You're just about the most terrific Lit teacher a guy could have—” Ponce heard himself say.
"Well thank you, Ponce! Well isn’t that nice. That’s awfully nice of you to say. It’s so nice, Ponce,” she responded, next.
“I think you are.”
Silence, next. They were looking at one another.
“And who is the hero of Paradise Lost?" Miss Smith, in that soft voice, unexpectedly asked.
“Man,” answered Ponce, without losing his pace.
“I’m really looking forward to this theme,” said the dream, pulling on her cigarette, as Ponce stared.
“How long—” he said, “Should it be?”
She shrugged, in an exquisitely gentle way, maddening him, “Don’t write a book,” She said, “Oh, say—five typewritten pages? Double spaced—”
“O.K.” Ponce said.
“Bv the end of next week—”
“O.K.”
“Now, some cocoa—” She said, stirring herself, rising from the sofa, Ponce’s eyes glued to her, evermore.
“Come in the kitchen,” she said, in the friendliest way, smiling also.
The moment Ponce dTeaded most had come, no doubt of it, and he sat there, going numb.
“Come on then,” Miss Smith repeated, standing, patiently waiting for him.
How could he get out of it? Ponce, turning all colors, on fire within, tried desperately to find a way. Oh for Aladdin’s Lamp! Should he pray?
“O.K. if I wait here?” He tried, feebly.
“Oh, come and watch,” she said, “It’s a lot of fun.”
He sat still.
“What’s the matter?” She said, genuinely concerned, “Frightened again?”
He made no move.
She moved, toward him. She stood just before him. She leaned over and touched his cheek with her fantastic hand. He felt the soft, warm treasure-hand.