Marvin holds open the door of his room, and stands there as Howard walks out. In the department office beyond, Miss Ho types furiously, not looking up, as Howard passes through. He steps out into the corridor, and walks along it to the lift. He goes down, out through the foyer, across the Piazza. On the far side of the Piazza stands the Humanities Building, a different affair altogether from Social Sciences, a place not of height, mass and dark, but of length, light and air. There are corridors here lit by long windows, with bushes growing against them; there are noticeboards on the walls speaking of theatrical productions, poetry readings, lectures followed by wine. Child art, for sore reason, is displayed along the passages; students sit on benches and talk. The doors have bright nameplates; Howard inspects them as he walks. Then, before one labelled 'Miss A. Callendar' he stops, he knocks. There is no response, so he knocks and waits again. The door of a room adjoining opens a little; a dark, tousled-haired head, with a sad visage, peers through, looks at Howard for a little, and then retreats. The face has a vague familiarity; Howard recalls that this depressed-looking figure is a lecturer in the English department, a man who, ten years earlier, had produced two tolerably well-known and acceptably reviewed novels, filled, as novels then were, with moral scruple and concern. Since then there has bin silence, as if, under the pressure of contemporary change, there was no more moral scruple and concern, no new substance to be spun. The man alone persists; he passes nervously through the campus, he teaches, sadly, he avoids strangers. Howard knocks on this man's door; hearing no reply, he opens it. The novelist is not immediately visible; he sits out of the light, in the furthest corner, hunched over a typewriter, looking doubtfully up at his visitor. 'I'm sorry to disturb you,' says Howard, 'but I'm looking for Miss Callendar. Do you know where she is?'
'I don't think I do,' says the man. 'You've no idea?' asks Howard. 'Well, I thought she'd better go home,' says the man, 'she's in a very upset state.'
'Well, this is a very urgent ratter,' says Howard, 'I wonder whether you'd give re her address.'
'I'm afraid I can't,' says the man. 'It's very important,' says Howard. 'Miss Callendar's not easy to find out about,' says the novelist, 'she's a very private person.'
'Do you know her address?' asks Howard. 'No,' says the man, 'no, I don't.'
'Ah, well,' says Howard, 'if you want to find things out about people, you always can, with a little research. A little curiosity.'
'It's sometimes better not to,' says the man. 'Never rind,' says Howard, 'I'll find it.'
'I wish you wouldn't,' says the novelist. 'I will,' says Howard, going out of the room, and shutting the door.
He goes from the light and air of Humanities to the dark and mass of Social Science; he sits at his desk and goes through the faculty address book, the Watermouth telephone directory. He rings the Registry, where these ratters are supposed to be on record; it is not held there. He rings the English department secretary; he rings the Professor of English. He rings the Accommodation Officer; he rings the university library. He rings the university bookshop; 'Yes,' says the manager, 'we require a home address for an account. I'll look and ring back.' Howard puts on his coat and his hat, and sits at the desk, waiting for the telephone to ring. 'Glad to help,' says the manager, 'here it is.' Howard writes down the address, goes to the car park, gets in the van, drives, through the bleak and wintry day, into town. The address is as hard to discover in reality as it is in record, being in a part of town that Howard rarely enters, the quaint and holiday town. Castle Mount is banned to cars; it is a bendy, cobbled, Victorian street overlooking the harbour. You find the house by walking up the steep hill towards the castle bailey; here you ask at a newsagents shop, selling souvenirs, which will misdirect you, and then at a café, which will set you right again. Spirals of mist come off the harbour; there are little hoots from fishing boats. At a house in a line of ornate Victorian properties, there is a bellpush marked 3A, with no name against it; it is so clearly the destination that he pushes it. He stands in the mist; after a while steps occur in the house, descending a staircase. The door opens, and there is Miss Callendar, in the ornate doorway, in a black trouser suit, with a suspicious, dark expression. 'Oh, it's you,' says Miss Callendar, 'how did you find out where I live?'
'It wasn't easy,' says Howard. 'It's not supposed to be easy,' says Miss Callendar. 'No disrespect, Dr Kirk, but I hoped it was impossible.'
'But why?' asks Howard. 'I told you,' says Miss Callendar, 'I don't want just any old Christian existentialist or Leavisite or Sociologist dropping by, just on the off-chance.'
'But we can all be found,' says Howard. 'How?' asks Miss Callendar. 'Let me in, and I'll tell you,' says Howard. 'It's very much against my principles,' says Miss Callendar. 'I haven't come to accuse you or seduce you or convert you,' says Howard, 'I just want to tell you a story.'
'A story,' says Miss Callendar. 'It's very cold here,' says Howard. 'Very well, then,' says Miss Callendar, 'Come up.'
The big Victorian house has a faint smell of must. Howard follows Miss Callendar's velvet bottom up the stairs; then up more stairs, and more, until they are at the top of the house. A dark brown door leads off the landing; Miss Callendar opens it, and leads him in. 'There we are,' says Miss Callendar, 'my very convenient flat.'
'Yes, you told me about it,' says Howard. The flat is quite small; it has twisted walls, with water-stained Victorian prints on them, and a burning gas fire, a ragged red Afghan carpet, a standard lamp with a fringed and flowered lampshade, two armchairs and a sofa done out with chintz loose-covers. 'How did you?' asks Miss Callendar, standing in front of the gasfire. 'You're not in the telephone book,' says Howard. 'Owning no phone,' says Miss Callendar. 'And you're not on the electoral register,' says Howard. 'Owning no vote,' says Miss Callendar. 'But you are on the list at the bookshop, because they need a home address to open an account,' says Howard. 'Ah, well,' says Miss Callendar, 'it's a lot of trouble to go to, just to come and tell me a story.'
'You did hear his version,' says Howard, 'don't you think you ought to hear mine?'
'I'm very fair-minded,' says Miss Callendar, 'but everyone seems to be treating me as if I'm some kind of expert in stories. Which I'm not.'
'I thought it was your field,' says Howard, taking off his coat. 'Oh, no,' says Miss Callendar, 'we live in an era of high specialization-My expertise is in the lyric poem, a very different kettle of fish.'
'What's the difference?' asks Howard. 'Would you like a cup of tea?' asks Miss Callendar, 'I find stories very thirsty.'
'Thank you,' says Howard. Miss Callendar goes through another brown door, and there is the clank of a kettle. 'You didn't explain the difference,' calls Howard. 'Oh, a great difference,' says Miss Callendar, 'if there was a logical difference between form and content, which of course we're agreed there isn't, then stories would be very given to content and lyric poems very given to form.'
'I see,' says Howard. 'You see, my devotion, Dr Kirk, is to form. I'm afraid I find stories very lax and contingent.'
'I see,' says Howard, peering through a third brown door. It is another room Miss Callendar had described to him; the bedroom, with the bed in it. 'I'm glad you were hungry the other night,' he calls into the kitchen. 'I relished the scampi,' says Miss Callendar. 'I thought you'd bring me here then,' says Howard. 'I know you did,' says Miss Callendar, 'but as I explained then, there are limits to my appetite. Clearly very fortunately.'
'Why fortunately?' asks Howard. 'Well, I don't think I'd really have liked to end up in the record, with all the others.'
'Would it have been so bad?' asks Howard. 'Ah,' says Miss Callendar, coming back into the room, carrying a tray with a small brown teapot on it, 'you think it's an honourable roster. A roll of souls redeemed. Is that the gist of your story?' Howard stands in front of the window, which has a view across to the castle, and the wintry sea beyond; he says, 'At least I hope you don't believe Mr Carmody's version.'
'I listen to all stories with a certain healthy scep
ticism,' says Miss Callendar. 'Do you take milk?'
'Thank you,' says Howard, coming and sitting down on the sofa. 'Well,' says Miss Callendar, 'a tale of sexual heroism. Do go on.'
'I gather you know that I'm being accused of giving good marks to Miss Phee in exchange for her sexual favours?' says Howard. 'Yes,' says Miss Callendar, 'sugar?'
'And of general moral corruption,' says Howard, 'with political overtones. No, thanks.'
'I think you're basically being accused of intellectual persecution,' says Miss Callendar. 'Fig biscuit?'
'Thank you,' says Howard, 'but the key question is now my relationship with Miss Phee. You remember Miss Phee?'
'Do I?' says Miss Callendar. 'Yes,' says Howard, 'you saw me with her in my downstairs study, when you were leaving the party.'
'Then that was one of your episodes,' says Miss Callendar, 'I did rather think so.'
'It's a pity you don't know her better,' says Howard, 'then perhaps, instead of supporting Carmody's crazy story, you'd understand what repressed, evil nonsense it is.'
'I don't support his story,' says Miss Callendar, 'I don't know whether his interpretation of what he saw is right at all. I just have some reason, don't I, for thinking he saw what he saw.'
'But he saw nothing,' says Howard, 'he just looked in on me from outside and made corrupt deductions. Miss Phee's one of my advisees. She's a very sad creature. She's been through everything. Boy trouble, girl trouble, an abortion, the identity crisis, a breakdown…'
'The menopause,' says Miss Callendar. 'Not yet,' says Howard. 'Well, you've something to come,' says Miss Callendar. 'A scone? I made them myself.'
'Thanks,' says Howard. 'She had a crisis that night. A lesbian affair she was having was breaking up.'
'Isn't she rather hogging the problems?' asks Miss Callendar. 'She was in trouble,' says Howard, 'she went down there-into my study, and started raking through my papers. She wanted to be caught, I think; anyway, I caught her.'
'The instinct of curiosity,' says Miss Callendar, 'Mr Carmody has that too.'
'Of course I was angry. But the meaning of the situation was obvious. She was crying out for attention.'
'So you laid her down and gave her some,' says Miss Callendar. 'No,' says Howard, 'it was very much the other way around.'
'Oh God, how awful,' says Miss Callendar, 'did she attack you? Were you hurt?'
'I'm explaining to you that she has no attraction for me,' says Howard, 'I didn't want her at all. I wanted someone else. In fact, you. Out there beyond the window.'
'But in my absence you settled for her instead,' says Miss Callendar, picking up, from a table at the side of her chair, a mysterious ravel of knitting, with needles sticking through it, and beginning to work on it, 'I see.'
'I want you to see that this situation isn't as Carmody described it,' says Howard, 'I want you to see it humanly.'
'My Carmody wanted you to see him humanly,' says Miss Callander. 'Miss Phee needed help,' says Howard, 'that's why I took her into my house. That's why she was there over the weekend while my wife was away.'
'Did your wife go far?' asks Miss Callendar. ' London,' says Howard. 'You did tell me about her trips to London,' says Miss Callander, 'she' goes her way, you go yours. No doubt you were able to give her much more attention and help while she was away.'
'She was there,' says Howard, 'to look after the children. We looked after them together. We took them to the fun-fair, walked in the country with them.'
'But you did give her some help,' says Miss Callendar, 'there were photographs of the help.'
'Exactly,' says Howard. 'This was the situation that Carmody spied on and photographed and distorted into a blackmailing accusation, without knowing anything at all about it.'
Miss Callendar, sitting in her armchair, turns a row of her knitting. 'I see,' she says, 'and that's the story.'
'That's the essence of it,' says Howard. 'Do you mind if I criticize,' asks Miss Callendar, 'with my imperfect expertise?'
'Do,' says Howard, 'Well, it's a tale of fine feeling,' says Miss Callendar, 'it's certainly got more psychology than Mr Carmody's. It's less ironic and detached, more a piece of late nineteenth-century realism. But his has more plot and event. I mean, in his, Miss Phee needs help quite frequently. And then you have to nip off one evening and help Dr Beniform, and then there's the little episode with me, not treated in your version at all, though I found it quite significant.'
'It's hardly relevant,' says Howard. 'That's not very kind,' says Miss Callendar, 'one hates not to be of the essence. Relegated to a minor sub-plot. In his version I'm quite a rounded character.'
'I'm not sure where you fit,' says Howard, 'since I thought the point of his story was that I'm giving good marks to Miss Phee for corrupt reasons.'
'That's right,' says Miss Callendar, 'his story does have an ending. Where you hand out the As and Bs. For her overall performance, as they say.'
'Whereas the point of my story is that if I did grade Miss Phee for her performance it wouldn't be As and Bs.'
'Yes,' says Miss Callendar, 'I see that. Well, there we are. It shows how different a story can be if you change the point d'appui, the angle of vision.'
'Angle of vision!' says Howard, 'That man's followed me everywhere, tracked my movements, photographed me through curtains, and then built a lie out of it. He's a fine angle of vision.'
'An outside eye's sometimes illuminating,' says Miss Callendar, 'and of course, as Henry James says, the house of fiction has many windows. Your trouble is you seem to have stood in front of most of them.'
'Look, Miss Callendar,' says Howard, 'these aren't just two little stories, for your bright critical intelligence to play with.'
'No,' says Miss Callendar, 'there's more at stake. But the trouble is I don't find your story's complete. I don't think you're telling me everything. I don't know what you want of Carmody, I don't know what you want of me. There's a plot you haven't given.'
'I don't know whether you know how much is at stake,' says Howard. 'You realize that Carmody's spied on me every day, and made up a story out of what he's seen that could cost me my job?'
'You could say he was trying to make sense of you,' says Miss Callendar. 'For God's sake,' says Howard, 'he's probably outside there right now, on a ladder, making up a story about me taking your clothes off.'
'Does he lie?' asks Miss Callendar, 'Isn't there some truth?'
'I'm not taking your clothes off,' says Howard. 'He's not out there,' says Miss Callendar, putting down her knitting on the table, and staring at him with wet eyes. 'He's got an appointment now. He's seeing the Vice-Chancellor.'
'Giving him his angle of vision,' says Howard. 'Yes,' says Miss Callendar, 'I'm sorry, I really am. Is it true that you could lose your job? All he wants is a chance.'
'There's a thing called gross moral turpitude,' says Howard, 'it's a very vague concept, especially these days. But-I have political enemies who'd pin anything onto me they could.'
'Oh, God,' says Miss Callendar, 'this is why I came home. I just couldn't stand it. That awful, prying meeting this morning. I've been so worried about both of you.'
'About him?' asks Howard. 'He's a blackmailer and a fascist. You worried about him?'
'He's not a fascist, he's a person,' says Miss Callendar, 'he's a boy, and he's silly and frightened, because you frightened him. He's behaved wickedly and ridiculously. I've told him, I've attacked him. But he thinks you're out to destroy him, just because he is what he is, and he's struggling for his survival.'
'That's right,' says Howard. 'In other words, the classic fascist psychology. When everything's going in your favour, you claim belief in the values of decency and convention. But when your position's challenged, to hell with all that. Fight for self-interest with everything you can lay your hands on.'
'But what have you been doing with him?' asks Miss Callendar. 'You boxed him in a corner, and wouldn't let him out. You said on Thursday you might teach him again. Why did you say t
hat?'
'You know why,' says Howard. 'You were playing with him to reach me,' says Miss Callendar. 'Look,' says Howard, 'while we were talking, he was spying. He's not worth your compassion.'
'He's a sad case,' says Miss Callendar, 'appealing for assistance. Like your Miss Phee. But one you bed and one you punish.'
'One's a person, and one's not,' says Howard. 'You're dangerously misdirecting your compassion. Look at him. Inspect his cropped little haircut, his polished shoes. Think about that arrogant, imperial manner. He expects the world to dance to his tune. If it doesn't, he smashes out. He can't face life or reality. He feels nothing except terror at being threatened by those who are actually doing some living. That's the meaning of his story. That's the person you're supporting.'
'I've done no more than I should, as his adviser,' says Miss Callendar, 'and rather less than you've done for Miss Phee.'
'No,' says Howard, 'you've believed him. You told me that. He offered an explanation of what you couldn't understand.'
'I haven't accepted his charge,' says Miss Callendar, 'I have believed what he saw to be true.'
'You haven't also helped him see it?' asks Howard. Miss Callendar looks at Howard; she says, 'What do you mean?' Howard says, 'It was on Tuesday Carmody and I had our fight. But he knows all about Monday night. About Felicity Phee and me in the basement. He must have been standing just about where you were standing, at exactly the same time, to know that.'
'You think I told him?' asks Miss Callendar, 'I didn't.'
'Did you see him that night, when you left?' asks Howard. 'Where was he?'
'I don't know,' says Miss Callendar, 'but I didn't tell him.'
'How do I know?' asks Howard. 'You don't,' says Miss Callendar. 'No,' says Howard.
Miss Callendar gets up out of her chair. She stands in front of the fire; she picks up a glass globe from the mantelpiece. There is a tiny village scene inside the globe; when she picks it up, snowflakes start to foam within the glass. Howard gets up too; he says, 'Do you understand what I'm saying to you?' Miss Callendar looks up; she says, 'Why do you blame me?'
The History Man Page 26