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Authors: Matthew Pearl
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third circle of seats, where, well, the friendlier sort of actresses and other young swans congregate to make fast acquaintances and a few extra pennies, sometimes selling apples or pencils, sometimes keeping a visitor from a lonely evening.”
“She was one of them?”
“I only knew her to give a greeting by name, but she seemed cheery enough company. Not pretty, really, something far better. Bless her! What kind of fate for a dewy-cheeked girl! What’s happening?”
“What’s wrong?”
Bob lowered the opera glass, then took a breath. “Nothing, Mansfield. I thought … My nerves are out of tune. I don’t know—it was as though everything blurred together for a moment.”
“Let me see that again.” Bob handed Marcus the small binoculars. “There!” The top of one of the lenses had become discolored. “Whatever caused this, there’s residue still in the air.”
When Bob and Marcus had climbed down to the street, they found a change in the spectators. General curiosity and annoyance had been overtaken by quick boiling anger, fast turning the crowd into a mob.
“Stay back,” Marcus said, holding Edwin’s arm so he wouldn’t be trampled. “Edwin, what do you make of this?” He passed him the opera glass.
Edwin studied the lens, bringing it close to his face, then lookingthrough it from the other side. “Nothing, Marcus. I can make nothing of it! Our age has an engine but no engineer,” he said, dropping into a whisper.
“What?”
“Emerson,” explained Edwin, closing his eyes tightly. “In a lecture I heard, he said our age has an engine but no engineer. What if he’s right, Marcus? What if it’s all unraveling around us? The crowd will tear us apart.”
“They don’t want us, Edwin,” Marcus said. “Look.”
The mob was heading for the policemen who blocked the way to the devastation. People began to throw bricks and rocks and to light fires in the middle of the street.
“This is Sergeant Lemuel Carlton speaking,” shouted a flustered man on horseback, who moved out in front with a speaking trumpet. “You must move away immediately, or my men will be forced to make arrests! You needn’t be afraid. Boston is still as safe a place as any the world over!”
IX
The View from Number 18
T HE FOLLOWING DAY , across the river, at Number 18, Stoughton Hall, William Blaikie sipped his tea, puckered his lips, then tapped on the table for the college waiter.
“I changed my mind,” he said, handing off the cup. “I no longer wish any tea.” As the waiter took the cup away, Blaikie glanced wearily around and said, “Ten. Is that all?”
“Many of the fellows are studying for examinations, Will,” answered one of the other collegians present.
“Ten men? Are there so many wretched digs in this school that we cannot manage more at a meeting of the Christian Brethren?”
“Others are frightened about what happened in the city yesterday. Perhaps we should start the meeting for those who are here,” suggested a soft-spoken junior.
Blaikie ignored this. “Ten men. No wonder a weakling from Tech could think he’d get the better of a Harvard man.”
“What do you mean?”
“A Christian university like Harvard should be able to muster better class feeling than this, that’s what. We are declining, I say, in moral and intellectual strength. Some of our own professors teach disgusting and degrading literature, putting alien languages on the tongues of decent young men. The honor of our school is in danger. That is why an ugly duckling like the Institute of Technology—the ugliest duckling ever seen—would have temerity enough to even put up a building in Boston and dare call it a college, when it is nothing more than a resort of weaklings, which should be duly subordinated.”
“Blaikie, pardon me,” said the junior, “but do you not think we should begin the meeting with our scheduled business?”
“Am I made of glass? Is my skin like water?” Blaikie asked
“She was one of them?”
“I only knew her to give a greeting by name, but she seemed cheery enough company. Not pretty, really, something far better. Bless her! What kind of fate for a dewy-cheeked girl! What’s happening?”
“What’s wrong?”
Bob lowered the opera glass, then took a breath. “Nothing, Mansfield. I thought … My nerves are out of tune. I don’t know—it was as though everything blurred together for a moment.”
“Let me see that again.” Bob handed Marcus the small binoculars. “There!” The top of one of the lenses had become discolored. “Whatever caused this, there’s residue still in the air.”
When Bob and Marcus had climbed down to the street, they found a change in the spectators. General curiosity and annoyance had been overtaken by quick boiling anger, fast turning the crowd into a mob.
“Stay back,” Marcus said, holding Edwin’s arm so he wouldn’t be trampled. “Edwin, what do you make of this?” He passed him the opera glass.
Edwin studied the lens, bringing it close to his face, then lookingthrough it from the other side. “Nothing, Marcus. I can make nothing of it! Our age has an engine but no engineer,” he said, dropping into a whisper.
“What?”
“Emerson,” explained Edwin, closing his eyes tightly. “In a lecture I heard, he said our age has an engine but no engineer. What if he’s right, Marcus? What if it’s all unraveling around us? The crowd will tear us apart.”
“They don’t want us, Edwin,” Marcus said. “Look.”
The mob was heading for the policemen who blocked the way to the devastation. People began to throw bricks and rocks and to light fires in the middle of the street.
“This is Sergeant Lemuel Carlton speaking,” shouted a flustered man on horseback, who moved out in front with a speaking trumpet. “You must move away immediately, or my men will be forced to make arrests! You needn’t be afraid. Boston is still as safe a place as any the world over!”
IX
The View from Number 18
T HE FOLLOWING DAY , across the river, at Number 18, Stoughton Hall, William Blaikie sipped his tea, puckered his lips, then tapped on the table for the college waiter.
“I changed my mind,” he said, handing off the cup. “I no longer wish any tea.” As the waiter took the cup away, Blaikie glanced wearily around and said, “Ten. Is that all?”
“Many of the fellows are studying for examinations, Will,” answered one of the other collegians present.
“Ten men? Are there so many wretched digs in this school that we cannot manage more at a meeting of the Christian Brethren?”
“Others are frightened about what happened in the city yesterday. Perhaps we should start the meeting for those who are here,” suggested a soft-spoken junior.
Blaikie ignored this. “Ten men. No wonder a weakling from Tech could think he’d get the better of a Harvard man.”
“What do you mean?”
“A Christian university like Harvard should be able to muster better class feeling than this, that’s what. We are declining, I say, in moral and intellectual strength. Some of our own professors teach disgusting and degrading literature, putting alien languages on the tongues of decent young men. The honor of our school is in danger. That is why an ugly duckling like the Institute of Technology—the ugliest duckling ever seen—would have temerity enough to even put up a building in Boston and dare call it a college, when it is nothing more than a resort of weaklings, which should be duly subordinated.”
“Blaikie, pardon me,” said the junior, “but do you not think we should begin the meeting with our scheduled business?”
“Am I made of glass? Is my skin like water?” Blaikie asked
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