Poetic Justice

Though mild clear weatherSmile again on the shire of your esteemAnd its colors come back, the storm has changed you: You will not forget, ever,The darkness blotting out hope, the gale Prophesying your downfall. OneThat classes at the University began, as they were scheduled to, onSeptember 17, was a matter of considerable astonishment to everyone. Therewas not a great deal to be said for revolutions–not, at any rate, inKate's opinion–but they did accustom one to boredom in the face ofextraordinary events, and a pleasant sense of breathless surprise at thecalm occurrence of the expected. Kate said as much to Professor Castlemanas they waited for the elevator in Lowell Hall."Well," he answered, "I might have found myself even more overcome withamazement if they had not managed to put my course in historical methods,which never has less than a hundred and fifty students, into a classroomdesigned to hold ninety only if the students sit two in a chair, which,these days, they probably prefer to do. Though come to think of it," headded as the elevator, empty, went heedlessly past, apparently on somemysterious mission of its own, "I don't know why students should expectseats at lectures, since audiences can no longer expect them at thetheater. We went to a play last night–I use the word 'play,' youunderstand, to describe what we expected to see, not what we saw–and notonly were there no seats, the entertainment principally consisted of themembers of the cast removing their clothes and urging, gently of course,that the audience do likewise. My wife and I, fully clothed, felt ratherlike missionaries to Africa insufficiently indoctrinated into the anticsof the aborigines. Shall we walk down? One thing at least has not changedin this university: the elevators. They have never worked, they do not nowwork, and though an historian should never speak with assurance of thefuture, I am willing to wager that they never will. Where are you off to?Don't tell me, I know. A meeting. What's more, I can tell you what you aregoing to discuss: relevance.""That," said Kate, "would be the expected. As a matter of fact, I have adoctoral examination: the poetry of W. H. Auden. He wrote a good bit ofclever poetry to your muse.""Mine? Gracious, have I got a muse? Just what I've needed all these years.Do you think I could trade her in for a cleaning woman, three days a weekwith only occasional ironing? My wife would be prostrate with gratitude.""Trade Clio in? Impossible. It is she into whose eyes 'we look forrecognition after we have been found out.' ""Did Auden write that? Obviously he's never been married. That's adescription of any wife. I thought you were in the Victorian period.""I am, I am. Auden was born in 1907. He only missed Victoria by six years.And don't be so frivolous about Clio. Auden called her 'Madonna ofsilences, to whom we turn When we have lost control.' ""Well, get hold of her," Professor Castleman said. "I'm ready to turn."The dissertation examination was not, in fact, scheduled for another hour.Kate wandered back toward her office, not hurrying, because no soonerwould she reach Baldwin Hall, in which building dwelt the Graduate EnglishDepartment, than she would be immediately accosted, put on five morecommittees, asked to examine some aspect of the curriculum about which sheknew nothing (like the language requirement for medieval studies) and tosettle the problems of endlessly waiting students concerning, likely asnot, questions not only of poetry and political polarization, but of potand thepill as well. Kate strolled along in the sort of trance to which she hadby now grown accustomed. It was the result of fatigue, mental indigestion,a sense of insecurity which resembled being tossed constantly in a blanketasmuch as it resembled anything, and, strangest of all, a love for theUniversity which was as irrational as it was unrewarded.She would have been hard put to say, she thought looking about her, whatit was she loved. Certainly not the administration (had there been one,which, since they had resigned one by one like the ten little Indians,there wasn't). Not the Board of Governors, a body of tired,ultraconservative businessmen who could not understand why a universityshould not be run like a business or a country club. The students, thefaculty, the place? It was inexplicable. The love one shares with a cityis often a secret love, Camus had said; the love for a university wasapparently no less so."Kate Fansler!" a voice said. "How very, very nice. 'I must telephoneKate,' I have said to Winthrop again and again, 'we must have lunch, wemust have dinner, we must meet.' And now, you see, we have."Kate paused on the steps of Baldwin Hall and smiled at the sight of PollySpence. Talk of the unexpected! Polly Spence belonged to the world ofKate's family–she had actually been, years ago, a protegee of Kate'smother's–and there emanated from her the aura of St. Bernard's–where hersons had gone to school–and Milton Academy, the Knickerbocker dancingclasses and cotillions."I know," Polly Spence said, "my instincts tell me that if I wait herepatiently you will say something, perhaps even something profound, like'Hello.' ""It's good to see you, Polly," Kate said. "I don't know what's become ofme. I feel like the heroine of that Beckett play who is buried up to herneck and spends every waking moment rummaging around in a large,unorganized handbag. Come to see the action, as the young say?""Action? Profanity, more likely. Four-letter-word-bathroom,four-letter-word-sex, and really too tiresome, when I think that my owntwo poor lambs were positively glared at if they said 'damn.' It's not aneasy world to keep up with.""But if I know you, you're keeping up all the same.""Of course I am. I'm taking a doctorate. In fact, I've almost got it. Nowwhat do you think of that? I'm writing a dissertation for the LinguisticsDepartment on the history of Verner's Law. Please look impressed. TheLinguistics Department is overjoyed, because the darlings didn't knowthere was anything new to say about Verner's Law until I told them, andthey've been taking it like perfect angels."Kate smiled. "I always suspected an extraordinary brain operating behindall your committee-woman talents, but whatever made you decide to get aPh.D.?""Grandchildren," Polly said. "Three chuckling little boys, one gurglinglittle girl, all under three. It was either hours and hours ofbaby-sitting, to say nothing of having the little darlings cavalierlydumped upon us at the slightest excuse, or I had to get a job that wouldbe absolutely respected. Winthrop has encouraged me. 'Polly,' he said, 'ifwe are not to find ourselves changing diapers every blessed weekend, youhad better find something demanding to say you're doing.' The children, ofcourse, are furious, but I am now a teachingassistant, very, very busy, thank you, and only condescending to rallyround at Christmas and Easter. Summers I dash off to do research andWinthrop joins me when he can. But you look tired, and here I am chattingaway. Let's have lunch one day at the Cosmopolitan Club.""I'm not a member.""Of course not, dear, though I never understood why. Why are you lookingso tired?""Meetings. Meetings and meetings. We are all trying, as you must haveheard, to restructure the University, another way of saying that we, likethe chap in the animated cartoons, have looked down to discover we are notstanding on anything. Then, of course, we fall.""But everybody's resigned. The President. The Vice-President. We've got anActing President, we're getting a Faculty Senate, surely everything'slooking up.""Perhaps. But the English Department has discovered there is no realreason for most of the things they have been happily doing for years. Andthe teachingassistants–where, by the way, are you being a teaching assistant? Don'ttell me the College has reformed itself sufficiently to be hiring female,no-longer-young ladies, however talented . . .""Not them; not bloody likely. I'm at the University College. Veryexciting. Really, Kate, you have no idea."Kate, looking blank, realized she hadn't."Really," Polly Spence said, "the snobbery of you people in the graduateschool! We're doing splendid work over there . . .""Didn't the University College used to be the extension school? Oddcourses for people at loose ends like members of labor unions who onlywork twenty hours a week and housewives whose children are . . . ?""That was a hundred years ago. There are no more courses inbasket-weaving. We give a degree, we have a chapter of Phi Beta Kappa, andour students are very intelligent people who simply don't want to playfootball or have a posture picture taken."