Ansell was in his favourite haunt--the reading-room of the British Museum.
In that book-encircled space he always could find peace. He loved to see the volumes rising tier above tier into the misty dome. He loved the chairs that glide so noiselessly, and the radiating desks, and the central area, where the catalogue shelves curve, round the superintendent's throne.
There he knew that his life was not ignoble. It was worth while to grow old and dusty seeking for truth though truth is unattainable, restating questions that have been stated at the beginning of the world. Failure would await him, but not disillusionment. It was worth while reading books, and writing a book or two which few would read, and no one, perhaps, endorse. He was not a hero, and he knew it. His father and sister, by their steady goodness, had made this life possible. But, all the same, it was not the life of a spoilt child.
In the next chair to him sat Widdrington, engaged in his historical research. His desk was edged with enormous volumes, and every few moments an assistant brought him more. They rose like a wall against Ansell. Towards the end of the morning a gap was made, and through it they held the following conversation.
"I've been stopping with my cousin at Sawston.""M'm."
"It was quite exciting. The air rang with battle. About two-thirds of the masters have lost their heads, and are trying to produce a gimcrack copy of Eton. Last term, you know, with a great deal of puffing and blowing, they fixed the numbers of the school. This term they want to create a new boarding-house.""They are very welcome."
"But the more boarding-houses they create, the less room they leave for day-boys. The local mothers are frantic, and so is my queer cousin. I never knew him so excited over sub-Hellenic things. There was an indignation meeting at his house. He is supposed to look after the day-boys' interests, but no one thought he would--least of all the people who gave him the post.
The speeches were most eloquent. They argued that the school was founded for day-boys, and that it's intolerable to handicap them.
One poor lady cried, 'Here's my Harold in the school, and my Toddie coming on. As likely as not I shall be told there is no vacancy for him. Then what am I to do? If I go, what's to become of Harold; and if I stop, what's to become of Toddie?' I must say I was touched. Family life is more real than national life--at least I've ordered all these books to prove it is--and I fancy that the bust of Euripides agreed with me, and was sorry for the hot-faced mothers. Jackson will do what he can. He didn't quite like to state the naked truth-which is, that boardinghouses pay.
He explained it to me afterwards: they are the only, future open to a stupid master. It's easy enough to be a beak when you're young and athletic, and can offer the latest University smattering. The difficulty is to keep your place when you get old and stiff, and younger smatterers are pushing up behind you.
Crawl into a boarding-house and you're safe. A master's life is frightfully tragic. Jackson's fairly right himself, because he has got a first-class intellect. But I met a poor brute who was hired as an athlete. He has missed his shot at a boarding-house, and there's nothing in the world for him to do but to trundle down the hill."Ansell yawned.
"I saw Rickie too. Once I dined there."
Another yawn.
"My cousin thinks Mrs. Elliot one of the most horrible women he has ever seen. He calls her 'Medusa in Arcady.' She's so pleasant, too. But certainly it was a very stony meal.""What kind of stoniness" "No one stopped talking for a moment."
"That's the real kind," said Ansell moodily. "The only kind.""Well, I," he continued, "am inclined to compare her to an electric light. Click! she's on. Click! she's off. No waste. No flicker.""I wish she'd fuse."
"She'll never fuse--unless anything was to happen at the main.""What do you mean by the main?" said Ansell, who always pursued a metaphor relentlessly.
Widdrington did not know what he meant, and suggested that Ansell should visit Sawston to see whether one could know.
"It is no good me going. I should not find Mrs. Elliot: she has no real existence.""Rickie has."
"I very much doubt it. I had two letters from Ilfracombe last April, and I very much doubt that the man who wrote them can exist." Bending downwards he began to adorn the manuscript of his dissertation with a square, and inside that a circle, and inside that another square. It was his second dissertation: the first had failed.
"I think he exists: he is so unhappy."
Ansell nodded. "How did you know he was unhappy?""Because he was always talking." After a pause he added, "What clever young men we are!""Aren't we? I expect we shall get asked in marriage soon. I say, Widdrington, shall we--?""Accept? Of course. It is not young manly to say no.""I meant shall we ever do a more tremendous thing,--fuse Mrs.
Elliot."
"No," said Widdrington promptly. "We shall never do that in all our lives." He added, "I think you might go down to Sawston, though.""I have already refused or ignored three invitations.""So I gathered."
"What's the good of it?" said Ansell through his teeth. "1 will not put up with little things. I would rather be rude than to listen to twaddle from a man I've known.
