by PAMELA DEAN
It was Robin, however, who answered Christina. "No; hated him," he said. "He thought he was vulgar. No dignity in his language, he said. Russians, fie."
"Dostoyevski's vulgar," said Christina. It took Janet a moment to realize what Christina's remark implied. The girl who thought Madeleine L'Engle silly had read Dostoyevski.
"Do you like him?" said Robin.
"Well," said Christina, "no. I liked Freud's essays about him, so I read the books; but they weren't nearly as interesting. But he was vulgar, at least I thought so—so some Russians are vulgar, even if Tolstoy didn't like it."
Robin looked at her thoughtfully, and then concentrated on his meal. Nobody else said anything for some time. Janet had framed and discarded several remarks when an enormous crack of thunder smacked the air outside.
"Oh, good," said Robin. "If everybody's finished, let's go out onto the porch. The wind's in the east; we won't get much wet."
"Fine," said Christina, dropping her fork with a splat into her uneaten veal. "This stuff's like leather."
"I'll buy you a hamburger later," said Robin.
They disposed of their trays and left the dining hall.
"That's right," said Nick as they climbed the stairs. "Robin and Rob and I are going to catch the ten o'clock movie. Would you ladies like to come with us?"
"Sure," said Christina.
"What's the movie?" said Molly.
"Olivier's Othello," said Nick; he was looking at Robin with an expression Janet could not decipher.
"I have class early tomorrow," she said. "I was going to go tomorrow night."
"I might be up for seeing it again," said Nick.
"I mightn't," said Robin, firmly.
They passed down a long red-carpeted hall and went out onto the wide veranda that overlooked the playing fields and the stream and the Upper Arboretum. It was pouring.
They were sheltered by an overhang from the rain itself, but a fine spray hit them as they approached the balustrade.
Janet leaned her arms on the damp stone and stared at the dark. It resolved itself gradually into the smooth field, the dark trees, a darker sky, and a few gray gleams from the water.
"It's cold out here," said Christina.
Nick took off his sweater and gave it to her; she draped it over her shoulders and smiled at him. "You need a larger chevalier, lady," he said to her.
"This is fine," said Christina.
"I don't think she needs a chevalier at all," said Molly, dreamily.
"Autre temps, autre mores," said Nick, not sounding at all put out. Christina, Molly, and Robin separated him from Janet; she couldn't see his face.
"I'd be thrilled to have a chevalier," said Christina, rather sharply.
"Yes, I know," said Molly. "That's why you shouldn't have one."
"I suppose you should?"
"Nope," said Molly. "I did have one. It was bad for me. Oh, far out, look at that lightning."
The thunder that followed made answering her impossible. They stayed, leaning in a row on the balustrade, silent except for an involuntary exclamation or two. Janet stood next to Robin. She became gradually aware that he smelled of lavender. She wondered if he was gay. That would put a spoke in Tina's wheel. And in Janet's own, too, maybe, depending on what, if anything, Robin's choice of roommate meant. Maybe Tina could take up with Rob Benfield instead, if she insisted on taking up with somebody. Janet thought briefly of Danny Chin, whom she had made sure to kiss before he went off to college, since she did not want to go unkissed to college herself. It seemed a foolish action, now. She had kissed Danny not because he aroused any romantic feelings in her, but because they had known each other so long that her attempt was unlikely to turn out to be embarrassing. She hadn't thought it had—but he hadn't written her from Dartmouth, either.
Kissing Robin would be odd; he had that beard. Kissing Nick might be pleasant. On the other hand, she had a great deal to do in the next four years; that much was obvious already. Staying offshore of the entire country of love might be pleasant also—or, if tonight was any example, at least amusing.
"If we want a choice of seats, we'd better be going along ," said Robin. "Are you sure you won't come, Janet?"
"No, I've got an early class and a lot of reading to do by Monday."
"That's what Sunday evening is for," said Nick.
"I'm having dinner with my family on Sunday."
"Oh, are you a townie?"
"Afraid so," said Janet. "My father's Professor Carter, in English."
"Oh, the expert on the Romantic poets," said Nick. "Is that your morning class?"
"No—English 10, with Evans."
"My brother says Evans is hellacious, but worth it," said Nick. "He's better of a Saturday—he doesn't want to be there either, so he's kind to those who show up."
"We'd better go," said Christina.
They walked around the veranda to the steps, and set off past the Women's Center and Forbes Hall. Movies were shown in Olin; Janet stopped beside Ericson.
"Good night, everybody." She wanted to add, "Behave yourselves," but managed not to.
"I'll call you tomorrow," said Nick in her ear, and bolted off after the others.
Janet went upstairs and read Aristotle with a distracted mind.
CHAPTER 4
Mindful of Professor Evans's reputation, Janet got up early enough on Saturday to eat breakfast. Christina snored gently, Molly slept with her head under her pillow, a habit, she said, acquired when her sister complained that she talked in her sleep.
Outside a mist like gauze was on the lakes, full of the small noises of ducks. Janet made her way to Masters Hall feeling cheerful and virtuous; this was a mood she knew could shatter in a moment into irritability, but perhaps this once it wouldn't. The English 10
classroom was the smallest she had been in so far. There were five people in the room when Janet arrived, and she sat well to the back, remembering Melinda Wolfe's stricture. By eight-thirty there were nineteen people, most of them yawning and all of them looking apprehensive. At eight thirty-six Professor Evans walked in.
He and Janet's father did not get along very well. He had been over for dinner a few times; he had worn jeans and a Chemistry Department T-shirt, and talked politics with her parents and elephants with Andrew. He was a slight, fair man in his forties, with a sharp face, pale eyes, and reddish hair. Today he was wearing a tweed jacket and a tie, whereas most of his students looked as if they had been lucky to remember to put their clothes on at all. For one wild moment, Janet wished she were wearing a skirt, which was completely foolish.
Evans looked the class over impartially; his voice when he spoke was mild.
"Are all the front-row seats broken?" he said. There was a stirring, and one laugh.
Professors Evans smiled. "This room's too small to hide in," he said. "Furthermore, I'm going to oppress your free spirits and abridge your civil rights by seating you in alphabetical order; I have a hard time with names and it will help me to keep you straight Please start with the leftmost seat in the front row, fill that up, and then start over on the left of the second row. If somebody's not present, leave a seat for him anyway. We don't throw people out this early in the term." Nobody laughed at that. Evans pulled a flat green book from under his arm and opened it. "Andrews," he said "Atwater, Barge, Broden, Cannon, Carter, Darrish, Dixon, Dobas, Engel, Harris, Hecht, Johns, Michaelson, Minge, Reinstra, Schneider, Senneth, Shepherd, Zimmerman."
When everybody had scrambled and milled about and finally sat down—Janet had the leftmost seat in the second row, by the window—Nick Tooley, whom Janet had not even seen come in, stood by the door looking obliging, with a green Drop-Add slip in his hand.
"In or out?" Evans said to him.
"In, please. Tooley."
Shepherd stirred; Evans said, "Just sit next to Miss Zimmerman, Mr. Tooley." Miss Zimmerman, a diminutive blonde in a pair of red overalls, looked pleased. Nick sat down, grinned at Janet over Zimmerman's head, and dropp
ed his notebook on the floor. Evans walked over to the long table in the front of the room, leaned his elbows on the lectern there, and waited while Nick picked up his notebook and the whispered conversation subsided. It did so fairly quickly.
"I'm Professor Evans," he said. "This is English 10. Is anybody in the wrong room?"
Nobody, it appeared, was. "Does anybody else need a slip signed?" Nobody, it appeared, did. "Good," said Evans. "The catalog describes this course as 'Introduction to English Literature, I.' They used to call it 'Survey of English Literature, I,' and in terms in which the course did not begin on Saturday morning, I used to ask the students to tell me what they thought a survey of English literature was. I have my suspicions about the change in the course description, but no proof."
Janet grinned, and several people snickered."I don't intend to introduce you to English literature, as if we were at a polite party," said Evans. "Parts of it certainly resemble one; and indeed my specialty is in those parts. But as some of you perhaps know already, it's rude to cut anybody to whom you've been introduced—" Janet giggled in spite of herself, and behind her she heard an unfamiliar female chortle and Nick's abrupt chuckle.
Recognize it already, do you? she said to herself, and stopped grinning. "—and we will certainly find it necessary to cut some of the offerings on the syllabus this term. This does not," said Evans, leveling a severe gaze at them, "mean that I will look kindly on missed classes or missed reading. It means that negative commentary on the works in question, provided that it is intelligent and organized, will not be frowned upon. We shall be surveyors, not gentlemen." He considered their faces one by one, until Janet could hardly bear to sit still. "Not ladies and gentlemen," he said, finally, and a little grimly. The class was very quiet. "Surveyors in the more technical sense," said Evans. "To survey may be to look out over a landscape from a height; or it may mean to tramp around in the mud with heavy, fragile, cantankerous instruments. Some of my colleagues favor the view from a height; I myself feel that to consider the twentieth century a height of any sort, except that of folly, is in fact foolish. So we will wander in the mud. I think that when you come home again you'll find that the mud has been on the slopes of mountains. Your instruments you'll acquire along the way."
He considered them again, as if waiting for a question. Janet couldn't resist. She raised her hand. "Miss Carter," he said, without either consulting the list or looking as if he had ever seen her before.
Janet said, "What will our instruments be?"
"Intellect," said Evans gravely, "without which, I hope, none of you would be here.
Linguistic aptitude, without which none of you should be taking this course; poetic sensitivity, which I hope to instill even in the dullest ear; moral stature, which is none of my business; and serendipity, which will be bestowed by grace. Any further questions?"
Nobody had any. Janet could feel the entire class staring. She made sure her own mouth was closed. None of the dire stories about Evans had said anything like this. Maybe this was a treat he saved for the first Saturday morning.
"I will now pass out the syllabus," said Evans, and did so. When everybody had the four stapled sheets covered with purple type (and half of them, Janet observed, had sniffed it for the familiar, comforting, and no doubt narcotic whiff of ditto fluid, just as everybody had done in high school), he said, "Every year, one publisher lies to us about the availability of a textbook. This year, it's the Medeous edition of the Roman de la Rose. This is a French poem written by two different authors forty years apart. We are concerned with it because there is a Middle English translation of part of it, pieces of which were probably composed by Geoffrey Chaucer, of whom we'll have much to say; and also because it had a profound effect on medieval English literature. We'll be discussing the fragmentary Middle English version in detail; the text for that is available. But as background, I want you to read a modern translation of the French text. I've reserved two copies of the Dahlberg translation and one of the Medeous for you at the library. We won't be discussing this for two weeks, but I advise you to do your background reading before the rush begins. Reserve reading materials may not be removed from the library, which closes at midnight."
He looked over Janet's head. "Yes, Mr. Tooley?"
"Which translation do you recommend?"
Evans smiled. "The Dahlberg is the standard," he said. "The Medeous is much livelier, you'll find. It occasioned considerable controversy on its publication, but is not in fact more inaccurate than any other poetic translation. Follow your heart, Mr. Tooley." Mr. Tooley didn't answer, which Janet thought wise of him. Evans walked around to the front of the table with the lectern on it and perched himself on the table's edge. "English literature is usually held to begin with Beowulf," he said.
A hissing of pens filled the room. Janet dutifully noted this piece of information down, though she was fairly certain that nobody would be asked to repeat it. Evans said,
"We will dodge the entire question because of everybody's linguistic ineptitude. We can't really begin much before Chaucer if we want to deal with original texts, which is the best way of looking at literature. We'll be reading 'Sir Gawain and the Green Knight' in translation, because it's written in a dialect of Middle English that didn't survive. But Chaucer we will read in the original Middle English, edited for clarity and consistency, but not for spelling. After Chaucer you should find the language plain sailing. Now for some historical background," said Evans, and launched into a rapid lecture about the fourteenth century that occupied the rest of the class period. Janet's hand and wrist ached by the time he stopped.
She was still occupied in shaking the cramp out of her fingers when Nick Tooley appeared in front of her. He was wearing the same yellow sports shirt and jeans he had had on yesterday, the shirt was buttoned crookedly, and his hair had not seen a comb since he got up.
"Hello," said Janet. "How was the movie?"
"I have no idea," said Nick. "Robin took one look at Olivier in blackface and burst into hysterical laughter. He couldn't stop. He couldn't even walk. Tina and I had to help him out of the auditorium. Molly said she would never go to a movie with him again, and stayed to watch. We took him over to the Tea Room and soothed him with ice cream. If Benfield doesn't impale me over Schiller, do you want to go see the movie tonight?"
"If I get my philo reading done by then,'" said Janet.
"Do you have to go do it right now?" He looked at his watch. "I hate this," he said. "It's nine-forty on a Saturday morning, and I'm dressed, washed, and fed, and my appointment with Swifte's not till eleven-thirty. It's more than a poor player can cope with."
"Are you majoring in Theater?"
"What? Oh. No. I'm just exaggerating my stature. I do it constantly; you'll have to beware. I've acted in a lot of local productions, that's all, and Robin's probably going to employ my dubious talents in some experimental stuff in Ericson Little Theater later in the year."
Janet finished restoring her fingers and tucked her various pens and papers away in
her knapsack. Everybody else had left.
"Do you want to go for a walk?" said Nick. "The sun should have burned the mist off by now. We can wander in the Upper Arb and pick the loosestrife."
"Sure," said Janet. "Molly and Tina probably aren't up yet; I wouldn't want to wake them turning pages."
They went from the empty classroom into the vast, airy hallway of Second Masters.
The walls above the oak wainscoting were painted institutional green; but the floor was polished hardwood, scuffed over already with dusty footprints, and the vaulted ceiling was decorated with a riot of plaster molding.
"I love this building," said Janet.
"I rather like the science ones," said Nick. "All shiny black and white and silver."
"And plastic," said Janet disgustedly.
"Oh, well, I like it. You know that people built it; it didn't grow by itself."
They went down the worn marble steps, and over the worn marble
floor of the first-floor lobby, and emerged between Masters's two huge Corinthian columns into a fragile sunshine and a brisk wind.
"What experimental stuff is Robin going to do?" said Janet, not feeling up to a discussion of the merits of plastic or of buildings that looked as if they hadn't just grown.
"We haven't decided," said Nick. He kicked at a dandelion on the edge of the sidewalk, and added, "We thought maybe a production of Pygmalion with an all-black cast."
"You can't blame Olivier, can you?" said Janet. "One of the best tragic roles ever written? He did all the rest of them."
"You didn't see that makeup," said Nick. "And he didn't have to roll his eyes. Good God, old Dickon himself never—"
"What?" said Janet.
"Somebody I knew once. Never mind. All right, you pity Olivier, and I'll pity all the black actors who'll never play Hamlet."
"That's harder," said Janet, thinking it over. "Because Hamlet's a family play. All the rest of the tragedies are."
"I saw Lear with a black cast," said Nick, "a most gorgeous production—and I remember thinking, afterwards when I'd recovered myself, how absurd it was. They thought that because the actor playing Lear was black, his daughters must all be too. But it wouldn't have mattered. That's such an isolated play, it's got no cultural context, if Lear were black and his daughters white, it would just show up, in the proper time, the ways in which they were unnatural."
Janet thought of Molly, and Molly's brothers, and the Robin Hood game. "I'll feel sorry for all your deprived black actors," she said, "when I'm allowed to play Hamlet."
Belatedly, she remembered Sarah Bernhardt; but Nick didn't seem to.
"What, do you want to?" he said.
"No, I don't want to be an actress."
"That's refreshing."
"Why, does everybody you know want to be in theater?"
They passed between the back side of Olin and the tiny, charming brick observatory with its huge silver dome from which Janet had used to help hack the ivy every spring.
Somebody shot by them on a bicycle, bumped madly over the high curbs of the asphalt road just ahead, and slammed down the hill to Dunbar in a rattle of baskets.