"... the monumental edifice that is Renaissance literature, that edifice which is the cornerstone of the great poetry of the nineteenth century. The question of proof, endemic to the dull course of scholarship as distinguished from criticism, is also sadly at lack. What proof is offered that Shakespeare even read this obscure Roman grammarian? We must remember it was Ben Jonson"—he hesitated for a brief moment—"it was Ben Jonson himself, Shakespeare's friend and contemporary, who said he had little Latin and less Greek. And certainly Jonson, who idolized Shakespeare this side of idolatry, did not impute to his great friend any lack. On the contrary, he wished to suggest, as do I, that the soaring lyricism of Shakespeare was not attributable to the burning of the midnight oil, but to a genius natural and supreme to rule and mundane law. Unlike lesser poets, Shakespeare was not born to blush unseen and waste his sweetness on the desert air; partaking of that mysterious source to whence all poets go for their sustenance, what need had the immortal bard of such stultifying rules as are to be found in a mere grammar? What would Donatus be to him, even if he had read him? Genius, unique and a law unto itself, needs not the support of such a tradition as has been described to us, whether it be generically Latin or Donatan or whatever. Genius, soaring and free, must . . ."
After he became used to his anger Stoner found a reluctant and perverse admiration stealing over him. However florid and imprecise, the man's powers of rhetoric and invention were dismayingly impressive; and however grotesque, his presence was real. There was something cold and calculating and watchful in his eyes, something needlessly reckless and yet desperately cautious. Stoner became aware that he was in the presence of a bluff so colossal and bold that he had no ready means of dealing with it.
For it was clear even to the most inattentive students in the class that Walker was engaged in a performance that was entirely impromptu. Stoner doubted that he had had any very clear idea of what he was going to say until he had sat at the desk before the class and looked at the students in his cold, imperious way. It became clear that the sheaf of papers on the desk before him was only a sheaf of papers; as he became heated, he did not even glance at them in pretense, and toward the end of his talk, in his excitement and urgency he shoved them away from him.
He talked for nearly an hour. Toward the end the other students in the seminar were glancing worriedly at one another, almost as if they were in some danger, as if they were contemplating escape; they carefully avoided looking at either Stoner or the young woman who sat impassively beside him. Abruptly, as if sensing the unrest, Walker brought his talk to a close, leaned back in the chair behind the desk, and smiled triumphantly.
The moment Walker stopped talking Stoner got to his feet and dismissed the class; though he did not realize it at the time, he did so out of a vague consideration for Walker, so that none of them might have the chance to discuss what he had said. Then Stoner went to the desk where Walker remained and asked him if he would stay for a few moments. As if his mind were somewhere else, Walker nodded distantly. Stoner then turned and followed a few straggling students out of the room into the hall. He saw Katherine Driscoll starting away, walking alone down the hall. He called her name, and when she stopped he walked up and stood in front of her. And as he spoke to her he felt again the awkwardness that had come over him when, last week, he had complimented her on her paper.
"Miss Driscoll, I—I'm sorry. It was really most unfair. I feel that somehow I am responsible. Perhaps I should have stopped it."
Still she did not reply, nor did any expression come on her face; she looked up at him as she had looked across the room at Walker.
"Anyhow," he continued, still more awkwardly, "I'm sorry he attacked you."
And then she smiled. It was a slow smile that started in her eyes and pulled at her lips until her face was wreathed in radiant, secret, and intimate delight. Stoner almost pulled back from the sudden and involuntary warmth.
"Oh, it wasn't me," she said, a tiny tremor of suppressed laughter giving timbre to her low voice. "It wasn't me at all. It was you he was attacking. I was hardly even involved."
Stoner felt lifted from him a burden of regret and worry that he had not known he carried; the relief was almost physical, and he felt light on his feet and a little giddy. He laughed.
"Of course," he said. "Of course that's true."
The smile eased itself off her face, and she looked at him gravely for a moment more. Then she bobbed her head, turned away from him, and walked swiftly down the hall. Her body was slim and straight, and she carried herself unobtrusively. Stoner stood looking down the hall for several moments after she disappeared. Then he sighed and went back into the room where Walker waited.
Walker had not moved from the desk. He gazed at Stoner and smiled, upon his face an odd mixture of obsequiousness and arrogance. Stoner sat in the chair he had vacated a few minutes before and looked curiously at Walker.
"Yes, sir?" Walker said.
"Do you have an explanation?" Stoner asked quietly.
A look of hurt surprise came upon Walker's round face. "What do you mean, sir?"
"Mr. Walker, please," Stoner said wearily. "It has been a long day, and we're both tired. Do you have an explanation for your performance this afternoon?"
"I'm sure, sir, I intended no offense." He removed his glasses and polished them rapidly; again Stoner was struck by the naked vulnerability of his face. "I said my remarks were not intended personally. If feelings have been hurt, I shall be most happy to explain to the young lady—"
"Mr. Walker," Stoner said. "You know that isn't the point."
"Has the young lady been complaining to you?" Walker asked. His fingers were trembling as he put his glasses back on. With them on, his face managed a frown of anger. "Really, sir, the complaints of a student whose feelings have been hurt should not—"
"Mr. Walker!" Stoner heard his voice go a little out of control. He took a deep breath. "This has nothing to do with the young lady, or with myself, or with anything except your performance. And I still await any explanation you have to offer."
"Then I'm afraid I don't understand at all, sir. Unless ..."
"Unless what, Mr. Walker?"
"Unless it is simply a matter of disagreement," Walker said. "I realize that my ideas do not coincide with yours, but I have always thought that disagreement was healthy. I assumed that you were big enough to—
"I will not allow you to evade the issue," Stoner said. His voice was cold and level. "Now. What was the seminar topic assigned to you?"
"You're angry," Walker said.
"Yes, I am angry. What was the seminar topic assigned to you?"
Walker became stiffly formal and polite. "My topic was 'Hellenism and the Medieval Latin Tradition,' sir."
"And when did you complete that paper, Mr. Walker?"
"Two days ago. As I told you, it was nearly complete a couple of weeks ago, but a book I had to get through inter-library loan didn't come in until—"
"Mr. Walker, if your paper was nearly finished two weeks ago, how could you have based it, in its entirety, upon Miss Driscoll's report, which was given only last week?"
"I made a number of changes, sir, at the last minute." His voice became heavy with irony. "I assumed that that was permissible. And I did depart from the text now and then. I noticed that other students did the same, and I thought the privilege would be allowed me also."