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till tomorrow night.
Awake! Arise! my love, and fearless be,
For o’er the southern moors I have a home for thee.”
Angelica giggled. “It would be kind of fun to re-enact the poem tomorrow night. There’s actually going to be a medieval banquet.”
“I know.”
“You could hide in my room and watch me go to bed. Then I might dream of you as my future husband.”
“Suppose you didn’t?”
“That’s a risk you’d have to take. Porphyro found a way to make sure of it, I seem to remember,” Angelica said dreamily, gazing out across the moonlit snowfields.
Persse looked doubtfully at her exquisite profile—the perfectly straight nose, the slight, unmanning droop of the underlip, the firm but gently rounded chin. “Angelica—” he began. But at that moment they heard the sound of the lift approaching the top floor. “If that’s Dempsey again,” Persse exclaimed, “I’ll push him down the Lift shaft.” He hurried back to the landing and adopted a challenging posture, facing the doors of the lift. They opened to reveal the figure of Philip Swallow.
“Oh, hallo McGarrigle,” he said. “I’m looking for Miss Pabst. Robin Dempsey said she might be up here.”
“No, she’s not,” said Persse.
“Oh, I see,” said Philip Swallow. He seemed to be considering whether to push past Persse and investigate for himself, but to decide against it. “Do you want to go down?” he said.
“No, thank you.”
“Oh, well, goodnight then.” Philip Swallow took his finger off the “Hold” button, and the doors closed.
Persse hurried back to the walkway. “That was Philip Swallow,” he said. “What the blazes do all these old men want with you?”
But there was no reply. Only moonlight filled the glassy space. Angelica had gone.
So, by the next morning, had Persse’s inscription of her name upon the landscape. The wind had changed direction during the night, bringing a warm rain which had melted and washed away the snow. Drawing back the curtains of his bedroom window, Persse saw damp green lawns and muddy flowerbeds under low, scudding rainclouds. And there, splashing through the puddles in the carpark, was the surprising figure of Morris Zapp, clad in a bright red track suit and training shoes, a dead cigar clenched between his teeth. Quickly pulling on a sweater, jeans, and the tennis shoes that served him for slippers, Persse ran out into the mild morning air and soon overtook the American, whose pace was in fact rather slower than normal walking.
“Good morning, Professor Zapp!”
“Oh, hi, Percy,” Morris Zapp mumbled. He took the cigar butt from between his teeth, inspected it with faint surprise, and tossed it into a laurel bush. “You jogging too? Look, don’t let me hold you back.”
“I would never have guessed that you were a runner.”
“This is jogging, Percy, not running. Running is sport. Jogging is punishment.”
“You mean you don’t enjoy it?”
“Enjoy it? Are you kidding? I only do this for my health. It makes me feel so terrible, I figure it must be doing me good. Also it’s very fashionable these days in American academic circles. Success is not just a matter of how many articles you published last year, but how many miles you covered this morning.”
“It seems to be catching on over here, too,” said Persse. “I can see another runner in front of us. But surely, Professor Zapp, you don’t have to worry about success? You’re famous already.”
“It’s not just a question of making it, Percy, there’s also keeping it. You have to remember the young men in a hurry.”
“Who are they?”
“Have you never read Cornford’s Microcosmographia Academica? I have whole chunks of it by heart. ‘From far below you will mount the roar of a ruthless multitude of young men in a hurry. You may perhaps grow to be aware of what they are in a hurry to do. They are in a hurry to get you out of the way.’ “
“Who was Cornford?”
“A Cambridge classicist at
Awake! Arise! my love, and fearless be,
For o’er the southern moors I have a home for thee.”
Angelica giggled. “It would be kind of fun to re-enact the poem tomorrow night. There’s actually going to be a medieval banquet.”
“I know.”
“You could hide in my room and watch me go to bed. Then I might dream of you as my future husband.”
“Suppose you didn’t?”
“That’s a risk you’d have to take. Porphyro found a way to make sure of it, I seem to remember,” Angelica said dreamily, gazing out across the moonlit snowfields.
Persse looked doubtfully at her exquisite profile—the perfectly straight nose, the slight, unmanning droop of the underlip, the firm but gently rounded chin. “Angelica—” he began. But at that moment they heard the sound of the lift approaching the top floor. “If that’s Dempsey again,” Persse exclaimed, “I’ll push him down the Lift shaft.” He hurried back to the landing and adopted a challenging posture, facing the doors of the lift. They opened to reveal the figure of Philip Swallow.
“Oh, hallo McGarrigle,” he said. “I’m looking for Miss Pabst. Robin Dempsey said she might be up here.”
“No, she’s not,” said Persse.
“Oh, I see,” said Philip Swallow. He seemed to be considering whether to push past Persse and investigate for himself, but to decide against it. “Do you want to go down?” he said.
“No, thank you.”
“Oh, well, goodnight then.” Philip Swallow took his finger off the “Hold” button, and the doors closed.
Persse hurried back to the walkway. “That was Philip Swallow,” he said. “What the blazes do all these old men want with you?”
But there was no reply. Only moonlight filled the glassy space. Angelica had gone.
So, by the next morning, had Persse’s inscription of her name upon the landscape. The wind had changed direction during the night, bringing a warm rain which had melted and washed away the snow. Drawing back the curtains of his bedroom window, Persse saw damp green lawns and muddy flowerbeds under low, scudding rainclouds. And there, splashing through the puddles in the carpark, was the surprising figure of Morris Zapp, clad in a bright red track suit and training shoes, a dead cigar clenched between his teeth. Quickly pulling on a sweater, jeans, and the tennis shoes that served him for slippers, Persse ran out into the mild morning air and soon overtook the American, whose pace was in fact rather slower than normal walking.
“Good morning, Professor Zapp!”
“Oh, hi, Percy,” Morris Zapp mumbled. He took the cigar butt from between his teeth, inspected it with faint surprise, and tossed it into a laurel bush. “You jogging too? Look, don’t let me hold you back.”
“I would never have guessed that you were a runner.”
“This is jogging, Percy, not running. Running is sport. Jogging is punishment.”
“You mean you don’t enjoy it?”
“Enjoy it? Are you kidding? I only do this for my health. It makes me feel so terrible, I figure it must be doing me good. Also it’s very fashionable these days in American academic circles. Success is not just a matter of how many articles you published last year, but how many miles you covered this morning.”
“It seems to be catching on over here, too,” said Persse. “I can see another runner in front of us. But surely, Professor Zapp, you don’t have to worry about success? You’re famous already.”
“It’s not just a question of making it, Percy, there’s also keeping it. You have to remember the young men in a hurry.”
“Who are they?”
“Have you never read Cornford’s Microcosmographia Academica? I have whole chunks of it by heart. ‘From far below you will mount the roar of a ruthless multitude of young men in a hurry. You may perhaps grow to be aware of what they are in a hurry to do. They are in a hurry to get you out of the way.’ “
“Who was Cornford?”
“A Cambridge classicist at
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