‘Were you taught about Desperate Dan when you were in the University? Did someone decide that you were too immature to know about Donne? Or about Shakespeare? What right have you to take on yourself to judge us in this way?’
It was noticeable that the girl who was trembling with emotion was listened to with a certain degree of gravity and in a reasonable silence and if she had sat down at that point she might have swayed the meeting but as so often happens she overstated her case: ‘Even Beowulf,’ she concluded fiercely, ‘is more interesting than Desperate Dan.’
Whereupon there was a universal roar of execration, ‘Rubbish’, ‘Codswallop’, ‘Piss’, etc., and she was forced to sit down though battling valiantly to the end, her mouth opening and shutting soundlessly like someone on a TV screen when the sound has been cut off and the temporary fault extends for minute after minute.
All this while the professor sat happily and placidly believing that presently from the world of charge and counter charge there would emerge some heroic figure who would tell what the commotion really meant. It was as if he was waiting for such a figure. Meanwhile he sat perfectly still and relaxed while the mass seethed and shouted, instinctively waiting for a leader, speaking for the moment broken words like ‘DONNE – OUT OUT OUT’, ‘TO HELL WITH SHAKESPEARE’ and even ‘MACDUFF FOR THE PRIMARIES’ which at that moment were being fought in distant Florida.
But as always happens the hour produced the man and the dialogue proceeded.
This time the speaker was a tallish bearded student who stood up with a book in his hand. His beard was of a strawy colour, his lips were red and blubbery and his cheeks had a red slightly hectic tinge. His clothes looked dirty, as if he had been sleeping in them.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, ‘I for one have listened to the previous speakers with amazement. What is their definition of education? I might ask this question without hoping for much of an answer.’ There was an interjection from the girl who was howled down after which the students settled down to listen to what the student had to say.
‘Are the previous speakers some sort of élite? Is that what they are? Let me ask you, how many of you really like reading Donne’s poetry or Shakespeare’s plays? It would be interesting to find out. How many of you are not bored to death by what the so-called critics call “the intellectual and imaginative, working together”. How many of you believe with me that most of their work is a load of crap with nothing to say to any of us? How many of you really like these people? Let’s have a show of hands on this.’
Five hands went up slowly. ‘There you are. Five people. And most certainly they have been brainwashed. If there are only five people here who really like reading Donne and Shakespeare what conclusion do we draw from this? I’ll tell you: we’ve been conned. Lecturers tell us we’re stupid because we don’t like reading Troilus and Cressida. And yet are we really to believe that we are any stupider than any previous generation? Is this feasible? Is it likely that a whole generation of stupid people has suddenly emerged? Is this a reasonable assumption? I can’t believe it. It’s ridiculous. A much more reasonable assumption would be that for us these people, these writers, are dead, not only physically dead but spiritually dead. And after all what’s wrong with the comics? Our brothers outside read the comics. In factories, on the workshop floor, they read the comics, uncountable numbers of them. Soldiers in the army, airmen in the air force, read the comics. They read them in shops and offices. They are people exactly like us, they are human beings. Are we saying that we are better than them because we have read some of Shakespeare’s plays? Are we not separating ourselves from our brothers? I say that Donne and Shakespeare are methods to separate us from our brothers, that in order to get back to them again we should return to the world of comics, that Donne and Shakespeare are divisive influences.
‘And furthermore I suggest that we hold a festival. I suggest that we have an open air festival in which we will have readings from the comics, dramatic performances based on the comics, an extravaganza of joy.’
At this suggestion there was a roar of approval, which died down when he raised his arm and said: ‘I think we should elect a committee here and now to organise this festival. And I mean my suggestion to be taken quite seriously. I suggest that Professor MacDuff be made Honorary President of this committee.’
The Professor signified that he accepted and rose to his feet. In perfect silence he continued with his lecture. ‘I was about to outline one of the episodes in the saga of Desperate Dan . . . ’
2
The Principal of the University was a scientist (or rather an ex-scientist) with an MSc and various other degrees from other universities. His main work had been done during the war when as a member of a chosen group, he had invented a method of distinguishing between the voices of European and Japanese soldiers in the jungles of Burma. It was a well-known fact that the Japanese had used techniques of imitation to entice British (and lesser) soldiers to their deaths by training some of their people to speak good English. Professor Carstairs had put a stop to that by showing that a tape recorder with a simple attachment could easily distinguish between Eastern and Western voices. It was according to his often repeated explanations at cocktails a simple matter of breath control and pace. These two, he remarked, are very different in different races. He had once been in the same swing door as Winston Churchill but to listen to him one might imagine that Churchill had hearkened with bated breath and composed intelligence for hours to his explanations of how inferior the breath control and pace of Japanese voices were to British ones. It was often remarked that he looked rather like Churchill with his great bald head, his smallish stature, the bulldog thrust of his jaw, his habit of jumping head first into situations from which he would later extricate himself with a sophisticated cunning and especially his trick of removing his glasses when he was making a speech. He had lately taken to attaching them to a piece of tape which swung on his breast and would put them on and remove them at regular intervals.
His favourite character was the Chief Constable in Softly, Softly which he never missed. He liked to affect that sudden sharkish smile, the brutal physical presence, the air of decision, the ultra-sophistication and self-confidence.
He had long ago given up any pretence to creative science, involved as he was in administration. After all, the university was expanding – what it was expanding to was another question – and there were so many people to see, so many people to consult . . . How could one retire to a laboratory in moments of such frantic change?
It is true that now and again he felt a certain nostalgia for his days of creativity, for the military companionship which he had so much enjoyed, for certain equations, for the marvellous randomness of the world. But though he felt this nostalgia there was a part of him which hated randomness, which felt that God must in fact be a ruler and not an artist. He used to say that Einstein was right in not accepting by intuition alone the ideas of probability.
Perhaps if he had had children . . . but he hadn’t.
It was this man who met Professor MacDuff for lunch in a Chinese restaurant neighbouring the university. He had a fondness for Chinese restaurants though he couldn’t have said why. Perhaps it was memories of the war when he had been busy outmanœuvring the inscrutable Japanese. Not that there seemed much difference between the Chinese and the Japanese: they both looked expressionless and were probably very cunning. He didn’t really find their reading of the newspapers backwards very odd: after all he did this himself on Sundays with the Times and the Observer.
There was something churchlike about Chinese restaurants too. Or perhaps templelike. And the decor always seemed to be either lilac or red. Dragons on friezes on the walls. A moody Chinaman standing next to a telephone. You knew where you were in Chinese restaurants. It was really a business transaction. No nonsense about ‘dearie’ or ‘love’ or any of that stuff. All straightforward capitalist procedure.
It was on a Monday that he met Profe
ssor MacDuff who came in rather hesitantly not to say gingerly as he was not a devotee of Chinese restaurants, in fact hating them a bit and not liking the food very much. ‘I see you’re grazing already,’ he said as he sat down looking with disfavour on the acres of rice the Principal was guzzling. He ordered some tomato soup and shuddered. He knew in advance what it would be like. Why did the Chinese manage to take all the flavour out of European food? What would happen if we ever went into the Chinese Common Market?
The Principal had decided to flatter him. ‘I suppose you’ve done the Ximenes this week,’ he said. ‘What was that word for Six Across? I believe the clue was “Brown, that is, was Northern shall, a Highland gentleman”. Eleven letters.’
‘Dunie wassal,’ said MacDuff with not much satisfaction since he knew he was being conned and didn’t like being patronised. Nevertheless there was enough of the pedagogue in him to explain that ‘dunie wassal’ was a Highland gentleman (grossly anglicised) and that ‘sall’ was the Northern version of ‘shall’.
‘Of course you’re Highland yourself,’ said the Principal. ‘I keep forgetting that. You’ve been here so long.’
MacDuff didn’t bother to reply.
After a while the Principal said, still munching, ‘Funny how we academics are always doing crosswords. I often wonder whether Kant would have been a crossword fan. Perhaps it’s something to do with solving the enigma of the world by words alone.’
‘O I think it’s just an amusement,’ said MacDuff bluntly. The tomato soup was as bad as he’d feared. It looked like blood mixed with water. And not very high class blood at that. There was also some horrible music leaking from the walls like sweat. ‘Naturally,’ he said aloud, ‘these are Chinese from Hong Kong.’
‘Yes,’ said the Principal vaguely. ‘Exiles.’ He raised his eyes from the suey and said, ‘Have you ever read any of the Charlie Chan stories.’
‘All of them,’ said MacDuff, ‘I believe there are only five full length ones in existence. I wish people would republish the great detective classics. You never get anything but thrillers nowadays and sociological analyses. These things have no place in the true detective story, which should be a puzzle. The people should be cardboard not human beings. As in Ellery Queen for instance. Or Carr in his great period.’
‘I see,’ said the Principal keenly, ‘a puzzle eh?’ Suddenly MacDuff realised and not for the first time that this man was no fool but in fact had a very fine brain when he chose to use it.
‘There was another one, wasn’t there?’ said the Principal. ‘Van somebody or other. He did the Bishop Murder Story. I’ve been trying to get hold of his books for some time.’
‘Van Dine,’ said MacDuff briefly. ‘Yes, he’s good, very good.’ He pushed the half-consumed tomato soup away from him. Some of it had spilt on his jacket.
‘Yes, the Chinese detective stories all seem to be a bit comic,’ said the Principal laying a cunning emphasis on the last word, as if he thought it would entrap MacDuff into some revealing confession.
But MacDuff at this point was holding in front of him a menu as big as a newspaper and was trying to work out which would be the least punishing item for him to choose.
‘I said they’re slightly comic,’ said the Principal.
‘Who?’
‘Chinese detectives. Chink private eyes.’
‘Yes, I suppose so, but then the rest of us don’t have the same insight into the Oriental mind as you have,’ said MacDuff. He wished he could smoke his pipe. But Chinese restaurants didn’t seem to take kindly to pipes. It would be like smoking in church. He thought: The best clue I ever saw was ‘Nothing squared is cubed.’ The answer was OXO. That was pure genius.
‘Regarding your lectures,’ said the Principal, deciding on a frontal attack.
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘I said regarding your lectures. Comic, I’ve been hearing,’ said the Principal. ‘I mean I’ve had letters. From influential parents. Complaints. Some from ministers and nationalists. Crank ones of course. But some very fierce. Some of them accuse you of being a communist.’
‘I see,’ said MacDuff scrubbing vaguely at the red stain left by the tomato soup.
‘By the way, are you?’ said the Principal.
‘Am I what?’
‘A communist.’
‘You must know my background.’
‘Yes I know. Brilliant First in English, in 1934. Member of University Socialist Party Club for the last two years of your student career. Spoke against Franco at various meetings. Why didn’t you go to Spain?’
‘Cowardice basically, I suppose. I should have gone. Why didn’t you?’
‘You must remember I’m younger,’ said Carstairs with some satisfaction. He pushed the plate away and ordered banana fritters from an impassive waiter. ‘Junior lecturer. Senior lecturer. Full professor. You’ve never been in any other university. Oh I forgot. You married in 1940. You weren’t in the war of course were you?’
‘I have bad eyesight as you know.’
‘Of course. Your wife was a lecturer in Greek. Died last year. We were all very sorry.’ He jabbed at his banana fritter. ‘I wonder why you lectured on the comics. It’s not really the sort of thing one does. And you of all people. What was that book you wrote, The Theme of Resurrection in Shakespeare’s Later Plays.’
‘I also wrote two on Milton.’
‘Of course. I know you’re a popular lecturer but you can’t possibly continue with this rubbish. Desperate Dan indeed. Many people might think you were going off your rocker.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘No, I don’t. I still don’t know what the game is.’
‘It’s not a game. It’s desperately serious.’
‘I see. After all you’re a scholar and you’re not off your rocker as we’ve agreed. So what is all this about? I know I’m only a scientist and as far as I know we haven’t got the equivalent of comics in the world of . . . ’ He paused for a moment and then said dreamily, ‘apart of course from Bergen. But that’s beside the point. I should like to know what you’re trying to do. Parents are protesting. You must realise that this is an odd situation. In fact I’ve never heard of anything like it before.’
‘Well, if that’s all,’ said MacDuff.
‘Naturally some people on the Senatus are likely to discuss it. However I’ll leave it with you now. I’m sure you will see reason.’
Carstairs sat staring at his coffee for some time after MacDuff had gone. For some reason a tag kept coming into his mind, ‘Lead on, MacDuff.’ He couldn’t make up his mind whether he was going to be Duncan or Macbeth. After thinking about this for some time he decided it didn’t make much difference. He looked vaguely around him. Odd that MacDuff didn’t like Chinese restaurants. Perhaps if it had been a communist restaurant he might have liked it better. Or perhaps it was all a big bluff. He got up slowly and paid his bill at the desk. Then he went out into the fine spring day, where everything was fresh and new. If one didn’t have troubles like this one might even enjoy it. There was a Chinaman standing in the sunshine just outside the door staring at him inscrutably.
Professor MacDuff lived by himself since his wife had died a year before. In general he took most of his meals out, though in the evenings he made some food for himself and did a good bit of reading. He had also taken to playing chess though it wasn’t until three years before that he had bought a set and was surprised to find that it wasn’t quite as tormenting as he had feared. His wife had died of cancer and it had been a slow death. He had married her when he was thirty years old. He had met her in the university library where she was reading a book on Virgil. He remembered that she had looked rather like a nun, perhaps like the one mentioned in Il Penseroso. Her face was classical yet not cold. She was quite small.
When he came home at night he often thought about her and about the classics. The whole house seemed very empty especially in the winter time. At times however he felt that she was still there and sometimes ev
en in his bed he would stretch out his arm as if she was present. It was a strange feeling. Sometimes he would glance up from his book thinking that she was still sitting in the chair opposite him. And then he was stabbed by the most incredible pain.
He had let the house become rather untidy though not dirty. Books were piled behind the chair in which he sat. He read indiscriminately, Science fiction, detective stories, academic books, they were all grist to his mill. Sometimes he would be reading five books at the one time. He was all right during the academic year but the vacations were difficult because they were so long. The previous year he had gone to British Columbia to see his brother who was a businessman over there. He had found the trip interesting – Fable Cottage on Vancouver Island for instance – but was a bit put off by the ‘stroll down Chaucer Lane in the English Village which leads to Anne Hathaway’s Cottage’. However he hadn’t particularly cared for his brother who had become much more vulgar and superficial than he had remembered, and who was absolutely interested in money and little else. His brother in fact was a brutal red-faced crashing bore. He would never see him again.
He sat down in the chair after coming back from his meeting with the Principal. On the floor in front of him was a bottle of Parozone, yellow, and he stared at it for a long time. It seemed in some way to soothe him. After a while he slept. Then he got up and got out his notes on Milton. In his new book which he might never complete he was trying to show how far Samson Agonistes was from the true Greek style of drama, how clumsy the versification was. He had always believed that Milton was strongest in poems like Allegro and Il Penseroso and that at that point there was life and gaiety and the exact elegance of true poetry.
He thought about his wife. She had a clear quick-witted practical mind but at the same time she was an idealistic scholar. She had been in far more jobs than he had ever been in. For instance she had once been a waitress during the long vacation. Another time she had worked in the cinema as an usherette. She had looked after the garden which he now neglected. She also had, he thought, a purer and more zealous love of learning than he had, a combination of love and precision. Her feeling for the classics made her adore Housman whom he had always considered a bad poet. But, strangely, after she had died he had read the poems again and found that they were more piercing than he could recall. Sometimes when searching in a drawer for a cuff link he would come on a glove or handkerchief that had belonged to her and would be stabbed by that dreadful agony.
The Red Door Page 41