High Spirits - A Collection Of Ghost Stories Part 5

The cat was suddenly a picture of desolation, of rejection, of love denied. Its vocabulary moved back into high gear. aThus I relieve thee, my creator. Thus I take from thee a sight which you abhor. Farewell!a And with one gigantic bound it leapt through the window into the quadrangle, and I heard the thundrous sound as the College gate was torn from its hinges.

I know where it went, and I felt deeply sorry for Trinity.

The Ugly Spectre of s.e.xism

At the College dance last week a young man, a former member of this College, approached me and screameda"in order to be heard above the musica"aAre you going to have a Ghost Story for us this year?a I screamed back, aI really donat know.a aOh yes you do,a he shrieked; aIall bet youave got it tucked away in a drawer right this minute.a Then he went to the bar to take something for his throat. Because, as those of you who attend modern dances understand, a conversation of that length, conducted while the band is giving its all, is a considerable strain on the vocal cords.

He had put his finger on a sore spot in my mind. I had no Ghost Story, and my dilemma was an ugly one: on the one hand I didnat want to disappoint you, and on the other I shrank from meeting any more College ghosts, because it is always an exhausting, and sometimes a humiliating experience.

After all, this College is well advanced in its eleventh year, and we have had a ghost story every Christmas. Ten ghosts, surely, is enough for any college? In a modern building, such a superfluity of ghosts is almost a reflection on the contractors. Or could it, on the other hand, be some metaphysical emanation from the spirit of the Founders who were, to a man, connoisseurs of bizarrerie? Ora"and this, I a.s.sure you, is where the canker gnawsa"is there something about me that attracts such manifestations? There are men who attract dogs. There are men of a very different kind who attract women. Can it be that I attract ghosts?

Pondering thus, I wandered out into the quad, where the music was somewhat less oppressive. Yet, even in the chill air I felt myself a prey to melancholy apprehension. What was it about that music that made it so disturbing? It seemed as if it were the spirit of our time, made manifest in sound. Loud, compelling, insistent yet turbulent; rhythmic, but always threatening to break the bounds of rhythm and rage into some new and fiercely evocative mode. This was music that seemed to be imploring the G.o.ds to answer in all the primal, untrammelled majesty of a storm.

The noise mounted to a climax and I heard cheers from within. The moment had come for which modern dancers wait in worshipping expectation; the percussion man was going to perform a solo. The banging, crashing and rattling he produced was sheer sound, unhampered by any suggestion of a tune or a tone. It was heaven-storming music, and I felt myself yielding to it. My nerves were fiercely alert.

As I walked toward the College gate my glance rose, and at once I knew that something was amiss. Or, rather, was missing. Where was the great bullas head which normally presides over the exit from the Quad? Not in its place? Impossible. It must be a delusion caused by the excellent supper at the dance. Buta"where was the Bull? aBah! Humbug!a I said to myself as I stood looking out into Devonshire Place. The December wind that had been sweeping through it grew, in a matter of seconds, into a whirlwind. Dust, twigs, debris of all sorts was whirling in this tempest; some of it swept toward me and I became aware that a ma.s.s of newspaper was dashing itself against the gate, and might well blow through it. I like the quad to be tidy, and I pushed it away with my foot. To my amazement, it resisted, with a power that wind alone could not explain. I kicked at it anda"how am I to tell you?a"it seemed to give a cry, in an almost human voice. The sound of the percussion solo from the Hall became more demanding in its intensity, and I lost my self-possession. I kicked and pushed at the ma.s.s of newspaper with hands and feet, and the more I fought the fiercer it became, until at last it forced itself through the bars of the gate, and stooda"yes, stood!a"before me.

aThing of evil,a I crieda"and even as I spoke I knew that I had once again slipped into the rhetorical manner of speech which these spectres always impose upon mea"aThing of evil, what would you here? Whence, and what are you?a The ma.s.s of newspaper appeared to be winded by our struggle, and its reply, though audible, was incomprehensible to me. But the tone was unmistakably that of a womanas voice.

aSpeak up!a I demanded.

The ma.s.s of newspaper raised one of its outlying rags of newsprint and pointed toward what would have been, in a human figure, its head.

I leaned down for a closer look, because the figure was considerably shorter than I. At its top, which was twirled up into a sort of point, I was able to make out Toronto Star, February 1, 1972.

aYou are the Toronto Star?a said I, half in fear, half in derision, as academics usually speak when they are dealing with newspapers.

The figure nodded its head, then pointed with what seemed to be its Homemakersa Section toward a headline which was at the place where, if it had indeed been a woman, its bosom would have been found. I put on my reading spectacles and peeped delicately at its bosom. The words there were familiar and made me recoil. They read: The Ugly Spectre of s.e.xism Lurks at Ma.s.sey College.

I remembered that headline. It was on February 1, 1972, that the Toronto Star had printed a letter from a young woman who was aggrieved by what she considered the indefensible discrimination of this College against her s.e.x. Not only was this place manifestly elitist, she said, but it was s.e.xist as well, and in the modern world, this was not to be endured. I looked at the bundle of newspaper again; there was something feminine about its general outline, certainly, but what was it, and what did it mean?

aFrankly, you donat look like The Stara"a I began. But the creature had found its voice and burst out in an excited squeak.

aNone of that!a it said. aI know you s.e.xists. Next thing youall be telling me Iam too pretty to be a great national daily. Iave come to do a colour story on the Ugly Spectre of s.e.xism that lurks at Ma.s.sey College. Where do your spectres usually lurk? Point the way and then leave me alone, you old s.e.xist.a aI resent being called a s.e.xist,a I said, with dignity. aBut you are a guest here, and I shall treat you with courtesy regardless of your rudeness to me. We have no spectres but I shall gladly offer you some spirits. I could do with a double Scotch, myself.a aThatall be fine,a said the strange visitor, in a somewhat mollified tone. I was about to go to the bar for drinks, but something happened that made it clear that however ragged and rubbishy its appearance, I was in the presence of a supernatural being, and that the atmosphere was strangely fraught. Suddenly, from nowhere, two double Scotches were hovering in the air before us, and I gestured to my companion to accept one. She immediately proved that, ghost or not, she belonged to the newspaper world by taking that which my practised eye told me was slightly the bigger. After a hearty swig had disappeared into the folds of newspaper my strange companion spoke again, in a tone that betrayed a little self-doubt.

aThis is Ma.s.sey College?a it squeaked.

aYou mean youare not sure?a said I.

aThe editor wouldnat give me money for a taxi,a it said, aso I came on the wind and Iave had a rough journey. Thatas why Iam late.a aLate for what?a I said.

aFor striking terror and dismay into your black heart,a said the creature. aBecause you discriminate against women. Because you are a barnacle on the Ship of Progress. Because you are a miserable Neo-Piscean who is trying to halt the approach of the Age of Aquarius. Because you are a fascist-recidivist-elitist-chauvinist-pig. I am here to expose you. Then your nerve will break and the Junior Fellows will throw open the gates to women and hail a new dawn.a aYou are even later than you think,a said I. aThe new dawn of which you speak was hailed on May 11 of this year when it was decided by our senior fascist-recidivist-elitist-chauvinist-pigs, meeting in solemn council, and with the full concurrence of those of our Founders who are still living, that women should be admitted to this College under the same conditions as men, beginning next September.a aAha! So we drove you to it,a said the figure.

aNot in the least,a said I. aThis college follows a star, but not the Toronto Star. You are too late.a The figure seemed to lose height. aYou mean thereas no Ugly Spectre of s.e.xism,a it said, in a wistful, papery voice. I felt sorry for the frail little creature.

aWhy donat you just take a quick look around, and then go back and say you didnat find anything and it isnat worth bothering about?a I said.

Once again the figure became shrill. aNone of your helpful suggestions,a it squeaked; anone of your masculine gallantry toward the defeated female. Iam onto your game; you want to disarm me with kindness, but you wonat do it!a aI must say youare very hard to please,a said I. aAnd I canat go on arguing with you unless I can call you something. Whatas your name?a aYouad better call me Ms.a said the figure.

aTo me Ms. has always meant Ma.n.u.script,a I said, aand youare not Ma.n.u.script, or even Typescript. Youare that most dismal form of letterpress, an out-of-date newspaper. I think Iall call you Sc.r.a.p, because youare sc.r.a.p paper and because youare so sc.r.a.ppy.a To my surprise Sc.r.a.p giggled. aNow youare talking like a fellow-creature,a she said.

aHow about another Scotch?a Hardly had I formed the thought than two gla.s.ses were in the air between us, and again Sc.r.a.p grAbbed the larger. I thought I saw a rude twinkle where her eye should have been. aHereas my hand up your gown, Master,a Sc.r.a.p said.

I am not to be outdone in colloquialism. aHereas thumbing through your Index,a said I. We drank. It was very good whisky, which is not perhaps surprising, as it obviously came from the spirit world. After her second drink Sc.r.a.p was quite friendly.

aI think Iall take you up on that offer of a look around,a said she. I shall refer to her henceforward as ashea because the more Sc.r.a.p drank the more feminine she became. aWant to come?a I nodded. But I was concerned. Where was our Bull?

aMind you, it has to be understood that youare following,a said Sc.r.a.p. aThereas to be none of this chauvinist-pig nonsense of showing the little lady over the place. I donat need a guide.a So off we went. We started with the carrel area, and Sc.r.a.p was in a perfect ecstasy, dodging in and out among the part.i.tions, disguising herself as the contents of a waste-paper basket, and popping out at me from what she hoped were unexpected places, with cheerful squeaks of aBoo!a It was rather like going for a walk with a mischievous dog. But as she dashed ahead of me I noticed that for all her Womenas Lib principles she was uncommonly feminine, and now and then, when she was out of sight, I heard that sound which had such a stimulating effect on our Victorian forefathersa"the delicate rustle of skirts. It was clear that Sc.r.a.p was not wanting in feminine arts, and if I had been younger, and not a philosopher, I suppose I would have ended up chasing her.

She was delighted with the Chapel, and twitched aside the curtains behind the altar, as a likely place for the Ugly Spectre of s.e.xism to be lurking. She took a long look at our altar-piece, and said: aWhoas this woman, painted inside a star?a aThat is a depiction of Divine Wisdom, always represented as a woman,a said I.

aRight on!a said Sc.r.a.p, approvingly.

Then we climbed the stairs, and came to the door of the Round Room. This will stop her, I thought; a spectre might lurk in a place that is full of corners, but to lurk within a circle is an impossibility. And that shows how much I knew about it. Pride came before my fall.

As we entered the Round Room the sense of being haunted descended upon me like a mist. The room was lit by an eerie, flickering blue light, which moved and stirred so restlessly that for a few seconds I could see nothing clearly. Therefore I was startled when a deep, authoritative voice, which was certainly not that of Sc.r.a.p, said: aYouare late. Just like a woman. Iave been expecting you. Sit down.a The speaker was a figure so astonishing and alarming that for a moment I thought that I might swoon. Hea"certainly it was a hea"was tall of figure, huge of chest, slim of flank, and wore elegant evening dress. Not a dinner jacket, which is often seen here; a white tie, and a tail coat of the most distinguished tailoring. But it was his head that struck awe and terror into my heart. It was huge, and it was the head of a bull. And no common bull either, but the Bull from over our gate, and from its left ear hung a ma.s.sive ornament of jet, within which a fleur-de-lis was outlined in diamonds.

aThe Ma.s.sey Bull,a I shrieked.

aObviously,a said the creature.

Sc.r.a.p was dancing so wildly that she seemed to blow about the room on a breeze. aYou said I wouldnat find him, and I have! Itas the Ugly Spectre of s.e.xism that lurks at Ma.s.sey College!a An expression pa.s.sed over the face of the creature which I shall not attempt to describe, but it was enough to cause Sc.r.a.p to crumple away in alarm. aI am the heraldic bull of Ma.s.sey College,a it said, with great dignity. aI am, in a special and exalted sense, the totem-animal of this academic, all-male community. I stand, very properly, at the top of its coat-of-arms, and over its entrance. I am, as you may see, unmistakably masculine. I scorn to lurk. I pervade. And I demand to know what you, Master, and presumably this bundle of waste-paper here, mean by proposing to admit women under what I regard, with unchallenged right, as my roof?a What was I to say? Fortunately I didnat have to say anything, because Sc.r.a.p began to whirl in the air around the creature, squeaking: aAdmit women, did you say? Just you try to keep them out! Youall have me to reckon with. Iam Ms. let me tell you, and here I stay till this place is full of women. Iam going to make you all miserable till you acknowledge that the day of masculine supremacy is over, and youad better get that through your big hairy head. Masculine indeed! You earring-wearer! The day of barnyard rule and barnyard ethics is done, and the glorious pennon of Unis.e.x is being unfurled over every bastion of masculine privilege in the civilized world!a The bull lowered his great head and fixed Ms. with red eyes. He blew a snorting breath from his nostrils that could only mean trouble. I felt that I should say something, and as I didnat know what to say of course I said something foolish.

aSurely you young people can find some grounds of compromise,a said I. They both turned on me with such anger that I feared they would attack me. To be manhandled is unpleasant, but it is a far more dreadful thing to be ghost-handled; oneas metabolism is never the same afterward.

aYou sit down,a said the Bull; awe are going to debate this matter, Ms. and I, of the admission of women to Ma.s.sey College. You shall be referee,a he said, and with a sharp side-wise hook of his dexter horn he tossed me into the red chair in which it is humorously supposed I preside in that room. There was nothing for it but to obey.

aLadies first,a said I, nodding toward Sc.r.a.p.

She was furious. aThere you go,a she squeaked, ahoping to disarm me with old-world courtesy. I wonat go first. You wonat get a word out of me.a But then she rushed onward with an extraordinary torrent of speech in which I could only catch a few phrases like aminority group antagonism,a ainsensitive to cultural mood,a aoppression as an inst.i.tutionalized social function,a adynamics of victimization,a and the like. Coming from one who was supposed not to be speaking at all it took rather a long time, and the Bull grew impatient, pawed the ground and tossed his great head. At last he was so angry that flamea"yes, flamea"burst from his nostrils. Sc.r.a.p, so highly inflammable, was in serious danger.

Seemingly, she knew no fear. If I had not seen it with my own eyes I would not have believed what happened next. Sc.r.a.p, with a furious gesture, tore from the area of her bosom a strip of newsprint, and held it in the flame, in which it was immediately consumed. But not before I saw what was printed on it. It was a lingerie advertis.e.m.e.nt, and it bore a nicely drawn depiction of a bra.s.siere.

aDefiance!a she shrieked. aThat is the ultimate act of feminine defiance! Match it, if you can!a The Bull laughed a deep taurine laugh. aTypical feminine argument,a said he; ayou refuse to be considered as a s.e.xual object, and yet you underline your refusal with a flagrantly s.e.xual gesture. Is that your muddle-headed way of saying that you place no value on your s.e.x?a aIall tell you what the value of my s.e.x is,a snarled Sc.r.a.p. aIts value has been established by Xaviera Hollander, the Happy Hooker herself, and itas five hundred dollars a shot.a I was dismayed by this indelicacy, and the ease with which she had fallen into the trap. The Bull sneered. He drew a paper from his breast pocket and laid it on the desk in front of me. aI offer this as evidence in contradiction,a said he; athis is the present male rate.a I looked at the card and blenched. It contained some intimate information about the erotic tariff of the celebrated racehorse Secretariat. I must say it made Xaviera Hollander look like cheap goods. But my sense of propriety was outraged.

aI refuse to listen to argument on this coa.r.s.e level,a said I. aWhatever arrangements you two wish to make in privacy, as Consenting Spectres, is n.o.bodyas business but your own, but I will have no part in it. This argument must continue, if at all, on a level of decency.a aVery well,a said the Bull. aAllow me to remind everyone present that only a month ago a Princess of the Realm, surely an example to all young women, took a public vow to OBEY the man who became her husband. And several young men in this College got up at five oaclock in the morning to hear her do it.a This time it was Sc.r.a.p who laughed, and it was immediately clear that laughter was something the Bull had not expected. He glared angrily, but he was confused, and Sc.r.a.p took shrewd advantage of his confusion.

aAre you so besotted with male vanity you donat know what the Princess had in mind?a said she. aMust I show you what feminine obedience means?a From the ma.s.s of paper of which she was composed, Sc.r.a.p produced a sheet printed entirely in red, and she began to trail it, slowly and provocatively in front of the Bull. I could hardly believe what followed. As if hypnotised, its great head began to roll to left and right, as it followed this transfixing red cloak, which gave out the characteristic feminine rustle that I had noticed before.

aLetas see who does the obeying now,a whispered Sc.r.a.p.

O for the pen of an Ernest Hemingway, that I might adequately describe for you the spectacle of art and brutality that followed! Sc.r.a.p was all femininity as she glided, not rapidly but with splendid grace, around the ring of our Round Room. As she moved she murmured in a low, compelling, unbearably taunting voice, aAh, toro, toro! Herea"here to me, toro! Aha! Toro! Toro!a And the Bull, unable to help himself, responded to every word and gesture.

Do you know our Round Room? There are twenty-two tall black chairs in it, and on the back of every chair is stamped, in gold, the head of a bull. As Sc.r.a.p led her victim in his fated dance, I saw that the forty-four eyes of those bulls followed every move: their forty-four nostrils stirred with growing apprehension, and I thought I saw the frothy spittle of fear dripping from their twenty-two tongues.

What was I to do? Where did my sympathies lie? I was, if you will pardon the bluntness of my speech, a quivering ganglion of irreconcilable emotions. I ought to stop the fight. I ought to help the Bull, who was as surely doomed as any bull I have ever seen in a ring. But the skill shown by Sc.r.a.p thrilled me. Without knowing how it happened, I found myself standing on my desk cheering. I even s.n.a.t.c.hed the rose from my b.u.t.tonhole and threw it into the ring.

The fight did not last long, but it was splendid while it lasted. More and more furiously the Bull responded to the taunts of Sc.r.a.p, whose elegance as a matador was beautiful to behold. Her veronicas, her amontillados, her tournedos bonne femme were as fine as anything I have ever seen, in the great corridas of Madrid. But all the time I wondered: How is she going to finish him off? She has no weapon, except that which she had pretended to hold in contempta"her feminine fascination, her charm.

As I have said, the light was ghost-light, and I have but mortal eyes. Suddenly there was a crash and the Bull was down; he had stepped on the rose I had thrown, slipped, and cracked his great head on the corner of one of our curved tables. I was cheering wildly.

But to my astonishment, Sc.r.a.p was weeping. She stumbled blindly about the Round Room, looking for a corner in which to hide her head; on the floor lay the Bull, apparently dead. I thought he looked rather n.o.ble in deatha"until he winked at me. I had no time for reflection, because Sc.r.a.p was pulling at my sleeve.

aCall me a trash-bin,a she sobbed, aand let me get away from here.a aBut youave won,a said I. aI presume you mean to take over the College. Isnat that what all this was about?a aI didnat mean to kill him,a sobbed Sc.r.a.p. aI only meant to teach him a lesson. What shall I do without him?a There are certain advantages in being no longer young. One sees a little more clearly, even without oneas gla.s.ses. aLeave everything to me,a said I. aAnd you really mustnat go away. I think youall like it here. And I think weare going to like you. Now let me put you in a nice restful place to think it all over until next September.a And, with gallantry which Sc.r.a.p did not now refuse, I gave her my arm and led her through the labyrinths of the lower part of the College, and there I put her in a very comfortable part of the Library to rest. I took care that she did not see what was printed on the door behind which I locked her, but I donat mind telling you. It said Printed Ephemera.

Then I hastened back to the Round Room to render first aid to the Bull. I knew that he had simply knocked his head against a reality but I thought his self-esteem might need some delicate attention.

He had gone. The Ugly Spectre of s.e.xism was lurking at Ma.s.sey College no longer. And as I walked out into the quad I saw that he was back in his accustomed place over the gate, and I noticed, as you may notice if you choose, that, n.o.ble as he looks, and invincible as he looks, he has an undoubted black eye. But with his right eye he winked again. And I observed that he was wearing his huge single earring with a new jauntiness as though he had discovered, in his brief encounter with Sc.r.a.p, the truth that in the most redoubtably masculine creature there lurks some strain of the feminine.

All seemed peace in the College as I walked again in the quad. Even the music from the dance was peaceful, for the band was playing a Golden Oldie, Youare the Cream in my Coffee You will always be

My necessity

Canat get along without youa"

I hummed, and winked back at the Bull.

The great clock of Hart House struck a single resonant note. Everybody in the University knows what that sound means. aGreat Heaven,a I cried, ait must be two oaclock.a And I hurried back to the dance.

The Pit Whence Ye are Digged

On alternate Fridays during the university term, the Senior Fellows of this College entertain guests at dinner; some of our guests are Junior Fellows of the College, some are people who do interesting things in the world outside, some are visiting academics to whom we offer the hospitality of the College during their stay in the university. At our last dinner for the present yeara"that is to say, about a fortnight agoa"we had two visitors of this latter cla.s.s. One, an eminent Arabic scholar, was Dr. Abu Ben Adhem, from the University of Alexandria; the other was a Swiss, a Dr. Theophrastus von Hohenheim from, I think he said, the University of Basel. He seemed rather a queer customer; there is always a good deal of laughter at our High Table, but he never laughed; instead he smiled in a disquieting way, as if he saw a joke hidden from the rest of us. Also, he kept looking at his watch, and it was a watch that caught the eye.

aThatas a handsome watch you have,a I said to him, because one must make conversation and his special subject, which I believe was some sort of physics, was unknown country to me.

aHandsome indeed,a said he. aVery old; very precious.a He held it up for me to see. It was much larger than a modern pocket-watch, and beautifully cased in engraved gold; on the enamelled face were many dials; the figures on some of the dials were Greek letters, and others were signs which I knewa"because I dabble a little in such thingsa"to be cabbalistic. As he held it toward me he touched a spring, and the watch chimed prettily. Chiming watches are great rarities, and I have never heard one finer than his; I put out my hand to examine it, but he drew it back to himself. aNot to play with,a he said, smiling disagreeably. I felt a little snubbed, and turned to talk to another guest.

After we have dined in Hall, the High Table group goes to the Upper Library, where we sit around a big table and divert ourselves with port and Madeira and general conversation. Abu Ben Adhem and von Hohenheim sat across the table from me, on either side of our Visitor; he is used to queer customersa"they are his stock-in-tradea"and I knew he would give them a good time.

Sitting on my right was one of the young women who are now included among our Junior Fellows. I know it is considered inexcusably s.e.xist in our time to say that any girl is charming, but it is hard to break the habit of a lifetime: she was charming. She was a lively talker, and I like a girl who has lots to say for herself; quiet girls, whom some men admire so much, always make me think of clocks that have run down. She was well wound up; she seemed to regard the College port as a pleasing light thirst-quencher, instead of the mover of mountains that it is, and after a gla.s.s or two she was almost over-wound.

The talk on these occasions is often general. We fling remarks and sometimes whole paragraphs up and down the board in good, well-rounded voices. The people who say we shout donat understand academic courtesy; we are simply considerate of those who may be a little hard of hearing.

The loudest outcry on this particular night came from Professor Swinton and Professor Wilson. aWhat are you two roaring about?a cried our Visitor, who has himself a voice that dominates courtrooms and makes the boldest felons tremble. aAbout Scotland and the year 1974,a shouted Professor Wilson; a1974, the year that has seen the Scottish Nationalists on the march. And what better year for that? Is it not seven hundred years precisely since the birth of Scotlandas mighty king and liberator, Robert the Bruce?a aYeare daft,a cried Professor Swinton; aRobert the Bruce was well enough in his small way, but this year is a far greater anniversary in the history of Scots culture and imperialism, for was it not in 1774 that the great Henry Duncan was born.a aAnd who might Henry Duncan be?a asked our Visitor.

Professor Swinton looked aghast. aMan, I despair of ye,a said he; awas not Henry Duncan the founder and deviser of the savings bank? And has not Scotland ever since dominated the earth through the gentle, ameliorating, civilizing influence of the savings bank?a aHoot, awa!a shouted our Librarian, from down the table. aScotlandas poets are her glory, and let me remind you that Gavin Douglas was born five centuries ago, to the year.a When Scotsmen are in full cry, they must be resisted. Professor LePan threw himself into the breach. aIam not ashamed to say Iave never heard of Gavin Douglas,a said he, abut I remind you that a very respectable, if not positively a great, poet was born in 1774, and that was Robert Southey.a aSouthey!a shouted the Librarian, with Caledoniannay, Nova Scotian-contempt; aSouthey! Can ye not do better than Southey?a aYes,a said Professor LePan; aOliver Goldsmith died in 1774; he popped out just as Southey popped in. And Robert Herrick died in 1674. So there!a The Librarian uttered a wordless jeer; it was a Scottish sound rather like a power-saw striking a knot. aYouave had to take refuge in deaths,a he triumphed; adeaths will avail you nothing.a The rest of us rallied as well as we could to LePanas defence. Our expert on Canadian literature is Dr. Claude Bissell. aWhat about Robert William Service, the bard of the Canadian north, born in 1874,a he cried, and launched at once intoa"

aA bunch of the boys were whooping it up

In the Malemute Saloon;

The kid who tickles the ivories

Was. .h.i.tting a jagtime tunea"a

But he was overcrowed by a roar from Professor Stacey. aIf you talk of Canada, tie this, if you can; who was born on the 17th of December, 1874? You donat know? Of course you donat know. But I know. It was William Lyon Mackenzie King; thatas who was born on December 17, 1874.a aMackenzie King didnat write any poetry,a said Dr. Bissell, who wanted to get on with The Shooting of Dan McGrew.

aOh, yes he did,a shouted Professor Stacey. aItas not widely known, but I know it. And Iam bringing out a fully annotated edition of the Collected Poems of William Lyon Mackenzie Kinga"including his five act blank verse drama The Happy Conscripta"within the next twenty years, so all the rest of you keep your paws off it.a aYouare welcome to your Mackenzie King,a shouted Professor Careless, who was late to get into the sc.r.a.p, but the more valiant because of it. aKing wasnat the only Canadian poet to be born in 1874. In twenty years Iam bringing out the Collected Poems of Arthur Meighen, including his mighty Ode to Coalition Government; then weall see who was the better man.a It was a moment for the voice of reason, of taste, of moderation and civilization, and of course it came from Professor Finch. aAllow me to remind you,a said he, athat apart from the lesser figures you mention, this year marks the fourth centenary of the birth of Prosper Jolyot de Crbillon, an ornament of a great civilization.a The Librarian began a mocking chant: aDirty books, dirty books, Finch only thinks about dirty books!a aPardon me,a said Professor Finch, with that perfection of high-bred scorn and unruffled temper which is peculiarly his own; aI presume you, Mr. Librarian, are thinking of the son, Claude Prosper Jolyot de Crbillon, whose witty novel Le Sopha, might seem risqu to a Calvinist mind, coa.r.s.ened by the lewd rhymes of the exciseman Burns. But that was Crbillon fils; I was speaking of the dramatist, Crbillon pre.a It seemed to me that the conversation was growing rather too warm. I sought to cool it. Now, one of my disabilities as Master of this College is that I really donat know much about anything. But I am paid part of my salary because of a pretence that I know a little about the theatre. I fished in the dank tarn of my memory for a cooling fact, and came up with a beauty. aIf you donat mind another pair of deaths,a I said, athe world of popular entertainment lost two of its brightest luminaries just a hundred years ago.a But I was not to have things all my own way. I never am. aOf course one of them was William Henry Betty, the Young Roscius, who died on August 24, 1874,a said Professor Jacques Berger, with an unconvincing affectation of carelessness. I was directing a look of scholarly rigour toward him when Professor Hume struck in: aI donat know why you worry about theatrical deaths when 1874 was the birth-year of both Harry Houdini and Lilian Baylis,a said he. I was furious, but I smiled as sweetly as any Finch. aI only wished to draw attention to the death, in 1874, of the original Siamese Twins, Eng and Chang. I supposed its biological interest might appeal to you.a But irony is lost on scientists who have just speared a humanist and beaten him at his own game.

While this was going on my young companion on my right had been getting rather heavily into the port, and the academic world was undulating before her in its brightest colours.

aItas all so romantic,a she cried; aI just love Olden Times. Oh, how I wish I could make a journey backward in time; I know Iad be somebody fascinating. Iave sometimes thought that Iam a reincarnation of one of those marvellous women of an earlier daya"one of those mistresses, they called them then.a We all turned to her with looks in which pity and dismay were mingled. She was a clever girl; I wonat tell you what she was studying, but it was one of the really clever subjects. She had a blazing array of marks and prizes, but it is precisely these clever people who reveal a very soft core when the port engulfs them.

It was Dr. von Hohenheim who pounced. aYou really wish to journey back into Time?a said he.

aOh, yes I do. You see I have this very, very, very strong conviction that Iam a reincarnation,a said our young guest.

Dr. Abu Ben Adhem struck in. aDo be very careful, I entreat you,a said he. aWe are all reincarnations, but of course we are simply reincarnations of our own forbears. Travel backward in time and you will only find yourself your own great-great-great-grandmother, or somebody of that order.a aOh, but Iam sure she must have been somebody wonderful,a shouted the girl; aMarie Antoinette or somebody like that. Iave always understood there was French blood in the family.a aThat might very well be,a said Dr. Swinton, unexpectedly. aThough as our friend here says, itas a wise child that knows its own father. How wise does a child have to be to know its own great-great-grandfather?a aIad love to know,a cried the girl, who was now in a high state of excitement. aIad love to go backa"back to 1774, for instancea"and see who I was.a She saw the doubt on my face, and shook me by the arm. aThink how it would bea"all that graciousness and politesse and lovely clothes and lots of servants and things.a I was about to suggest that one of the other ladies present take her out for a brisk walk around the quad in the cold air. But to my dismay Dr. Theophrastus von Hohenheim rose to his feet, dominating the table.

aIt can be managed,a said he calmly, and took out his beautiful watch, which he held aloft. aBe as thou wast wont to be; See as thou wast wont to see,a he intoned, solemnly. Then he pressed the spring and the watch chimed so sweetly, so melodiously that Ia"I have always been sensitive to musica"thought I lost consciouseness for a moment, and when I opened my eyes, what a scene confronted me!

Oh for the pen of my great master, Ernst Theodor Amadeus Hoffman, to describe what I saw! It was our Upper Library still, and our table was the same. Our company was the same too, but we were all in the dress of 1774, and we were alla"I knew it with sickening convictiona"our great-great-great-great-great-great grandfathers or grandmothers of that time, though which of the one hundred and twenty-eight possibilities I could not, of course, tell. aThat is where chance comes in,a I thought to myself. And what a crew we were!

It was pleasant enough for some. There, at one end of the table, Professors Swinton and Wilson were still disputing, but now they were the great Swinton of Swinton, arrayed in the height of Edinburgh elegance, and, in the splendid panoply of a Highland chieftan, Wilson of Gunn. (I had occasionally heard Jock Wilson spoken of by his envious colleagues as a son-of-a-gun, but I never felt the truth of it till that moment). They were still deep in a haggle about Scottish Nationalism, for time had made little difference to them. They looked like portraits by Raeburn, and gave a l.u.s.tre to the room far warmer even than the candle-light. The Librarian, too, was still obviously a librarian, though he had no beard, and wore a wig that had seen better days; on his left arm was a black band, and I heard him explaining to his neighbour that it was mourning for the Scots poet Robert Fergusson, who had died a few weeks ago, on the 16th of October, 1774. aThe name of Fergusson will never die,a he declared, and Dr. von Hohenheim, who was in an ominous suit of unrelieved black, murmured, aNo, never so long as it is linked with the name of Ma.s.sey.a My eyes roamed round the table. A stunning figure was Professor Baines; always the most fashionably dressed of our Senior Fellows, he was now, obviously, Beau Baines, the darling of Bath society. But our Bursar, what was he? Bearded to his waist, and swathed from head to foot in heavy, uncouth garments, with huge felt boots upon his feet, a Russian moujik in every detail, he was gazing across the table with extreme bitterness at George Ignatieff, the Provost of Trinity, who was our guest that evening; Ignatieff, like Friesen, was heavily dressed, but with what a difference! The sables and velvets of a Russian Boyar enwrapped him, and upon his head was a fur hat so immense that it might have broken the neck of a lesser man; he was drinking port straight from the decanter, and when it was empty he flung it with aristocratic nonchalance against the wall. But he was not silent; I gathered that he was attempting to secure a vast loan from a figure at his side whom I recognized as a forbear of Professor Abraham Rotstein, who was looking at his superb neighbour with the subtlety and amus.e.m.e.nt of an economist who knows financial innocence when he meets it.

Who were those unhappy creatures at the other end of the table? That Scotsmana"for he could be nothing elsea"almost naked except for a much-worn plaid, and bearing every mark of crushing povertya"could it be Walter Gordon? Yes, it was, and he was discussing the prospect of emigration to the New World with a figure who was so swathed in bandages that for some time I did not recognize him as Dean Safarian; he was explaining the intricacies of a recent difference of religious opinion his people had been having with the Turks; he said that as soon as he was fit to travel he, too, was going to America. These two were agreeing that to live in subjection to a master-race was h.e.l.l indeed.

Nor were they the only ones who were talking of oppression. There was Robert Finch, even more elegant in the eighteenth century than in thisa"you never saw such a wig!a"a.s.suring Professors Stacey and Careless that any talk they had heard about imminent revolution in France was utterly without foundation. It was propaganda, he said, put about by people who did not understand the rock-like unshakeability of the French throne. But Stacey and Careless were not wholly convinced. Stacey, obviously a Tory of the darkest blue, was becoming very angry with Careless, whose less formal dress suggested some revolutionary sympathies. He insisted that revolution in the American colonies was no more than a few months away, but Professor Stacey would have none of it. aSir,a he roareda"and I could tell by his form of speech that during some recent visit to London he had fallen much under the influence of Dr. Samuel Johnsona"aSir, I perceive that you are a vile Whig! The terms in which you speak of the man Jefferson must stand among the rankest effusions of encomiastic adulation.a aSir,a countered Professor Careless, ayour praise of King George is hyperbolical cant, but as it springs from ignorance rather than malignance I forgive you, and Iall trouble you for the port, if that Russian hasnat drunk it all.a a aLibert, Egalit, Fraternitaa"quel blague!a said Professor Fincha"perhaps I had better say the Abb Fincha"and laughed musically while getting the port first. Professor LePan, I saw, was chasing a squirrel out of the plate of nutsa"a squirrel that Jacques Berger, a zoologist even in the eighteenth century, carried about in his pocket.

The noise of conversation was high. Two notable divines. The Reverend John Evans and the Reverend Northrop Frye, were hard at it; Dr. Evans defending the doctrine of salvation through worksa"the works one could grind out of othersa"while Dr. Frye was urging salvation through the refineras fire of an exacting criticism of Holy Writ. A conversation on the fine points of agriculture was in progress between two obviously successful farmers across the table. Farmer Wells, who looked and dressed so much like John Bull that he might have stepped out of a drawing by Rowlandson, was arguing intently with Farmer Bissella"Capability Bissell he was called, because of his proven power of making two blades of gra.s.s grow where only one had grown before. Farmer Hume was fast asleep, his napkin covering his face. From beneath the table appeared a pair of glittering top boots, the property of Beau Baines who seemed to be resting there. Everybody was talking, except von Hohenheim, who glanced in every direction in an ecstasy of malicious pleasure, and Abu Ben Adhem, who was wrapped in his Mussulmanas robes and, being debarred by the Koran from drinking any port, was doing his best to eat all the dates on the table.

Everybody was talking, and everybody was behaving in a manner which I felt certain was characteristic of the eighteenth century. It wasnat bad, except that several people scratched themselves more often than is usual in modern society, and those who wore wigs were apt to remove them from time to time in order to mop the perspiration from their close-cropped heads. There were quite a few gouty feet, and one or two wore spectacles of the Ben Franklin sort. Finch, needless to say, had a quizzing-gla.s.s. And of course there was the spitting.

Everybody spat, more or less, and now and then some of thema"those from the Eastern parts of Europea"blew their noses in a fashion rarely seen nowadays except in lumber-camps. They had handkerchiefs, but their purpose appeared to be ornamental. It was the spitting which took my eye, figuratively and once or twice in actuality. The two American gentlemen, Stacey and Careless, were the great proficients in this art, and they spat, as was the polite custom of the day, over their left shoulders, rapidly and with a truly American force and efficiency.

It is hard to see someone spit without wishing to spit oneself. So I spat. And that was when my own great revelation struck me.