In winter the interior of the university library was hardly warmer than
the outside, and it was terribly drafty. The sole difference between
the interior and exterior, Gretchen often remarked to herself, was that
the latter received an occasional snow. The library at least was dry.
On most days in the unfrequented areas--the closed stacks on the second
and third floors--one could see one's breath in the middle of the
afternoon. Gretchen thought it hardly the sort of climate she would
have chosen for her own books. But the cost of heating such an
enormous building--well, she decided she could hardly imagine so
extravagant a sum. On the coldest days, she often wore two petticoats.
She found the best method of staying warm, though, was to bustle as
quickly as she could. Primarily, she worked in the stacks, extracting
books for the library's patrons and reshelving books that had
returned--and keeping the shelves in good order.
Gretchen's twenty-ninth birthday had arrived--quite too quickly--the
day before, and she bustled with an excess of alacrity to relieve her
mind from the brooding that had occupied her for several days. She had
spent the evening alone, though she knew it did her no good to seek
solitude. To accept being past her prime of life would be simpler
perhaps, and productive of less anguish, than fretting over what could
not be changed. She was nearly thirty, though--and she knew what lay
in store for her a few years hence. She had only to look at the
assistant reference librarian, Miss Sadie, to see how she herself would
be in but a few more years. The thought nearly made her shudder, and
if she allowed herself to think too deeply upon the matter, might have
brought her to tears. Thankfully, Gretchen told herself, she could
grow old among the books, where at least she had the company of great
minds--or their legacy--rather than spend a life straining in a
factory--or under the yoke of an old-fashioned man.
She had been estranged from her family for six years and rarely given
them serious thought since fleeing Connecticut. A simple enough row it
had been to start--what should she do now that she had finished
university? Of course her father recommended marriage and settling
into the domestic life--a pretty girl like her. Him and his antiquated
ideals--a pretty girl in the kitchen, indeed! At twenty-three she had
finally come to her senses and refused to marry the young man to whom
she had been betrothed, no matter how well matched her father thought
they were.
Her mother had frequently confided to Gretchen her views on the varied
pleasures--and trials--inherent in marriage, admitting that as the
years passed she found the pleasures perhaps not worth the other
hardships--the outward subjugation of her own feelings and the constant
deference she was required to display within the confines of that
marriage, as if she had no independent mind. Gretchen had long since
determined that would not be her fate. She had come to believe that no
suitable man could be found, yet she remained unsatisfied. The only
true regret she had about casting off her family ties was that she had
disappointed her mother. It was her mother who had worked so hard,
really, to see that Gretchen had an education; her father only
begrudgingly went along for the sake of domestic tranquility when all
efforts to dissuade her had failed.
At university Gretchen had imbibed the rarefied intellectual atmosphere
with increasing eagerness and found herself drawn irresistibly up the
slopes of Parnassus. She had always intended to work after completing
university--and work she did, though she had difficulty making due with
what employment she could find. Even a superlative education, she had
learned in six years, did not buy one certain rights or reasonable
wages. She hoped that she would yet see the flowering of an age that
she could call an enlightened one. She might have been bitter had she
higher material aspirations, but she was content with little in the way
of physical comforts. Why the privilege of spending nearly all her
days in the library would have been worth almost any sacrifice--what
need had she of wages!
It was lamentable, she decided, that she should have to forgo marital
companionship if she were to retain her individuality--for the price of
her freedom was a monumental sort of loneliness that only the severest
mental discipline could overcome. She had seen so many of her school
friends smothered in the clutches of bad marriages, worn out beneath
their husbands' heels--almost like doormats. To be truthful there were
those who seemed to prosper in the state of matrimony, but she thought
them few. Yet, she still had an abiding fear that she would grow old
alone--and soon enough become as obdurate as Miss Sadie--a pitiable
spinster with none of the finer sensibilities left to her. Was there
no man, Gretchen wondered, with whom she could share her life and
interests--a man with progressive ideas? Not a man that she, like a
tiny moon, would orbit eternally, but one with whom she could find a
state of mutual orbit. Well, she thought, something of that nature
anyway. Her knowledge of astronomy was not up to the task of finding a
better analogy, and she resolved to remedy that as soon as she was
able. She added another volume--'something concerning the heavens' she
called it--to the list of books she thought she really must read.
Gretchen bustled, thinking these thoughts, dreading her next birthday.
She blew softly on a wisp of auburn hair that had somehow escaped from
the green ribbon with which she tied it back that morning. Several
strands had somehow got into her mouth but her arms were too full of
books--heavy tomes, all--to pull them away with her fingers. She was
on the verge of setting down the burden and tending to her hair for a
moment when, as she turned a corner into the next row, a shadow fell
across the topmost book in her arms. She glanced up in surprise. A
man stood mere inches in front of her--and looked up to find her
bearing down upon him with a full head of steam--even as he stepped
toward her.
"Oh!" she cried, attempting to stop herself. The books slid
irretrievably from her grasp, their pages flying open with a flutter.
The man's arms shot out. "The books!" came his cry of astonishment as
they tumbled about him. He tried to catch a few, left and then right,
but alas they fell--all but one--to the floor with a dull clatter.
"Oh dear," Gretchen whispered, looking down. She feared she had bent a
few pages, and putting a hand to her mouth knelt immediately to gather
them all. "I'm terribly sorry, sir," she continued in a rush as she
piled books one after the other. "My clumsiness..."
"Think nothing of it, Miss," the man replied lightly. "It's my fault.
I do hope _you_ were not harmed by _my_ clumsiness..." He knelt then,
and began to place books upon her stack, starting with the volume he
had saved from falling. The lucky book was one of the late Mr.
Darwin's, and when he glanced momentarily at the spine she blushed
deeply despite herself--for she had that day finished reading it, and
was returning it to its rightful place. She knew that he had seen her
cheeks color.
Gretchen looked around, and seeing there were no more stray books,
prepared to pick up the stack again. She stood up to catch her breath
and smooth her wool skirt, arching back her shoulders. Looking down at
the man, she finally remembered to blow the wisp of hair from her face.
He was looking up at her and positively beaming--clean-shaven and light
complected, she noted--but the smile faded almost instantly to a faint
curling about the corners of his lips.
"Please accept my apologies," he stated, still kneeling upon the floor.
"I will have to be more careful." His hair was dishevelled--great
curly locks of jet black, and he laughed nervously as he brushed it
from his eyes. He peered at her with eyes so black, yet so kindly,
that Gretchen found herself blushing again and put a hand to her chest.
The man stopped for a moment to adjust his shirt and coat, then stood
slowly, and with the hint of a bow, swept past her and away.
Unaccountably, she felt suddenly light-headed and sat down upon the
floor by her books. His eyes! she exclaimed to herself with an outrush
of breath. She felt that in an instant they had devoured her; had
known all about her. She could not recall ever having seen such lively
and intelligent eyes--so deep and black they seemed like windows
opening onto a starlit sky. And his hand! when he placed the last book
upon the stack--the nails so trim. His hands were almost feminine, and
finely wrought. Gretchen gradually composed herself, then picked up
her books and continued about her work.
* * * * *
Several times thereafter in the course of a fortnight Gretchen saw the
same young man about the library, and they developed an acquaintance
that began and ended with nodding pleasantly and wishing each other
"good day". She thought him quite the most interesting patron she had
seen in the library for... she knew not how long--perhaps never in the
two years she had been there. He was flamboyant, certainly, Gretchen
decided, but he had not that rakishness or arrogance that so often
accompanies one who is as smart a dresser as he seemed. Her thoughts
chanced to light upon him sometimes, and within the fortnight, she
decided he must be attached to the university. Perhaps a
professor--well certainly not a full professor, he was far too young
and had not grown into that masculine stuffiness that comes with long
tenure--and his physique was trim. No, she decided, he was probably a
fresh young assistant to an elder professor.
"Gretchen, dear." Miss Sadie's voice crackled behind her in a very
strange manner and Gretchen looked around. "I do fear I'm catching
some contagion, dear," Miss Sadie continued in a whisper, "can you
possibly mind the desk until closing?"
Gretchen hesitated for a moment. She had worked long enough in the
library to feel at ease, and with classes already in recess for the
Christmas holidays, there were few patrons. "Of course, Miss Sadie,"
she answered. "I do hope you're feeling better tomorrow."
"If not, I shan't be in," Miss Sadie replied in a very weak tone.
"I'll--I'll try to send word."
"I'll see to everything, Miss Sadie--just take care of yourself." She
paused. "And I'll inform Mr. Johnson--it's no trouble at all." With a
smile and a pitying wag of her head, she added, "Take good care of
yourself."
Miss Sadie thanked her, and took her leave. Gretchen was alone, at
last, if only for an evening, as temporary queen of the reference desk.
Well, it was about time she was asked to do something besides fetch
books, she thought airily, and took a seat at Miss Sadie's desk. Miss
Sadie was not very neat for a librarian, she thought, wiping a finger
across the desk, so she began to tidy a few things up. She put down a
fresh blotter and arranged the papers in a more orderly manner, then
opened a drawer in search of a cloth. Really, Miss Sadie is the
epitome of disorganization, she muttered, seeing the jumble. It's a
wonder that a woman like her can retain such a position.
Bing-bing! Gretchen looked up suddenly when the bell upon the front
counter sounded. Standing there with his hand poised above the bell
was the young man.
"May I be of assistance?" Gretchen asked, in her most librarian-like
tone.
The young man smiled. "I sincerely hope you can. I wonder if you
might be able to help me find this book?" He held out a small slip of
paper between two fingers. "It doesn't appear to be in the open
stacks."
Gretchen glided to the desk and took the slip of paper from him. A
glance at the number was sufficient. "You're correct," she told him,
handing the paper back. "It's in one of the special collections."
"I wonder, then, Miss..." He paused, drawing out the word into a
silence, until Gretchen felt obliged to fill the audible gap.
"Haviland," she offered in a whisper.
"Miss Haviland. Could you help me locate it?" He smiled with the
slightly curling lips he always wore. Not condescending, she
decided--perhaps amused, or even flirtatious.
Gretchen stood flustered for a moment. Patrons were not allowed into
the special collections--they were under lock and key. Should she
leave the reference desk unattended while she fetched it for him? In
the interim, what if another patron had pressing business? A
preposterous quandary, Gretchen then told herself. "Of course,
Professor," she replied crisply. "Let me bring the key."
The young man laughed then, with a toss of his head so that his black
curls flopped into his eyes. He suddenly sighed, with an exaggerated
look of defeat, brushing back his hair. "Do I appear so like a
professor, Miss Haviland? How did you know?"
It was Gretchen's turn to be amused, and she smiled as she went to Miss
Sadie's desk drawer to bring the key. "You have not the air of a
student, Professor..." she drew out the word in a manner imitative of
his previous query, until he had to break into a wondrous smile.
"Bridwell!" he exclaimed, and rapped four fingernails once upon the
desk. "Employed only this year--in the English department."
"Professor Bridwell," she continued, imparting a certain air of
coquetry to her words, "your dress is frankly too punctilious for a
student; and if I might be so tactless, you seem... more evolved, shall
we say."
Having drawn out the key, she beckoned him to follow. They ascended
the back staircase--likewise taboo for patrons. All the while Gretchen
thought how to exonerate herself should she be caught by one of her
superiors while leading a patron--alone--into the inner sanctum. She
decided the best approach would be to plead ignorance--"Oh," she could
say, "I had no idea that professors were considered ordinary patrons."
Would that be sufficient excuse?
The book was easy to find, and Gretchen put herself to no particular
difficulty--but nevertheless, Professor Bridwell's thanks were profuse.
He consulted the book--which could not leave the library--for an hour
or more. On departing he returned the book to the counter. He
inclined his head, with the now-familiar flop of his curly hair, and
said, "I do hope to have the pleasure again, Miss Haviland."
Gretchen watched from Miss Sadie's desk as he departed through the
foyer and down the steps leading out. She closed her eyes for a moment
and sat quietly after he had left--simply savoring the moment. A faint
scent lingered behind him: a distinctive cologne that left quite a
favorable impression on her.
* * * * *
Gretchen attended a short afternoon concert on campus. It was the last
student recital of the season, and she had heard tell of the program:
the afternoon was to open with mazurkas by Chopin and a selection of
those divine "Transcendental Etudes" by Liszt--she could not stay away.
Chopin was an aperitif, followed by a few mildly diverting piano works
by students. Then, she sat breathless and transported--utterly
transported, halfway to tears upon a bed of clouds--through the etudes
of Liszt. In particular she had never heard the "Harmonies du Soir"
more beautifully rendered.
After an intermission, which she spent simply sitting quietly,
pondering the exquisite delicacies of Liszt's piano writing, the second
part of the concert opened with Vivaldi's "The Four Seasons", performed
by an intimate ensemble rather than with the full complement of
strings. The performers were students, to be sure, but she found it
delightful nonetheless. When the "Autumn" season opened, she even felt
a sudden chill in the air--the performance was so wonderfully
effective--and she pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.
She chanced then to look across the audience, and thought that several
rows down, in front of her, she saw Professor Bridwell. She had no
idea he liked concerts; in fact, she realized that she knew nothing
whatever about him. She was positive it was the professor--even from
the back, there was no mistaking his curly hair. At once she realized
that he rather resembled portraits of Hector Berlioz. He sat upright,
almost leaning forward in a posture that seemed ready to rise in an
instant. She fancied that could she but see his handsome face, his
eyes would be closed, as he was carried away by the music, blown upon
Vivaldi's autumn wind. Why she was looking at the audience rather than
at the orchestra she really did not know--she forced her gaze away from
the professor's back and tried to concentrate again upon the music.
But her effort was unsuccessful.
When the concert was ended, Gretchen fairly ran to the exit, and stood
there at the door, looking back across the auditorium. Yes, it was he,
she saw finally. He was coming up the aisle and she glimpsed his face
among the swarm of bodies. He appeared to be alone; he spoke to
nobody. She stepped out of the way and kept looking across the
audience, as if seeking someone else. He soon arrived, and when he
walked past, she turned and looked at him, as if suddenly noticing him
for the first time.
His smile was as delightful as always. "Good evening, Miss Haviland,"
he said, with a tone of warmth.
"Good evening, Professor." Gretchen thought that he slowed for a
second or two, but she felt acutely embarrassed to be observing him too
closely, and looked away toward the crowd again. He continued walking.
When the professor had passed, Gretchen let out her breath slowly.
Into the thick of the crowd she plunged, and went out through the
lobby. Evening had come on and it was dark outside. Vast hordes were
dispersing across the plaza, pouring from the auditorium. As she
stepped into the bitterly chill air and started down the stairs, a
voice hailed her from behind.
"Are you alone, then, Miss Haviland?"
Gretchen whirled around at the sound of the professor's voice, in time
to see him laugh briefly. He was standing just outside the doors,
facing outward, his greatcoat pulled tightly around himself.
Gretchen went to stand on the step below. "Actually, yes," she
replied, looking up. "I am alone. I came by myself on a whim."
"It's quite chilly this evening," he said, stepping down once. They
started down the stairs beside each other. "Would you fancy a cup of
coffee, by chance, before making your way home?"
Gretchen smiled. He certainly had a forward manner; but she found it
refreshing, and--after all, she had really been seeking him, had she
not? "Why, that sounds like a delightful diversion, Professor. I
believe I shall."
With that, they set off together across the plaza. Gretchen started
immediately upon a likely topic of conversation: the concert they had
just attended. It was instantly evident that Professor Bridwell had
found the Liszt etudes as breathtaking as she had. And during the
Vivaldi, as well, he agreed that he had felt a sudden chill at
precisely the same time as she.
"The ensemble did well," she concluded. "I suppose that is the way
Vivaldi would have heard the work too--none of these large, modern
orchestras quite out of proportion to the delicacy of the music."
"The modern orchestra," stated the professor, "is well enough suited
for modern works, but really, the intimacy required for performing
earlier works--as Vivaldi for instance--is really lost in the great
crowd of strings."
"Agreed."
Presently they came to the campus gates and found their way to a small
café. Seated at a tiny marble table, they had a delightful
tête-à-tête, and found much to agree upon regarding both the
performance, and the subject of music in general. Though he had not
quite her madness for Liszt, he agreed with Gretchen's assessment of
the "Transcendental Etudes"--divinely inspired, and, like much of
Liszt's work, nearly beyond the reach of mortals.
Gretchen was on her second coffee and feeling rather giddy. She could
hardly hold her cup steady, and she finally set it down with a laugh.
"Do you play an instrument, Professor?" she asked, pushing her cup away
with one hand.
"Well, I would not so much call it playing the instrument," he
answered, "as playing _at_ the instrument."
"I see," she laughed. "Rather the way I play _at_ the viola--though I
daresay you speak of Liszt's writing as if you have some experience
with it."
The professor seemed rather at a loss for an instant. He glanced away
over Gretchen's shoulder, but recalled himself quickly and lifted his
cup to his lips, meeting her eyes again. "I do admit I have _tried_."
He set his cup down while reaching into his vest pocket, as if
searching for something. "But really," he continued, "I haven't the
technique. How about yourself, Miss Haviland? I take it you do rather
well yourself, upon the viola."
Gretchen blushed, realizing that she must have sounded boastful just
then. The professor seemed not to have taken it in stride--she
realized that this must have accounted for his momentary loss for
words. "Well," she said then, settling herself forward upon her chair.
"At one time--when I was quite young, you understand--I fancied I would
perform upon the instrument. But..."
"Ah." Professor Bridwell smiled. "Then, other interests swept you
away, no doubt. But still you play?" He had pulled a silver cigarette
case from his vest pocket, and he turned it over in his fingers.
"Oh, indeed." Gretchen sighed deeply. "I suppose, with all modesty
set aside, I was adequate on the instrument--but adequacy in a
performer is hardly to be tolerated..." Before he could reply, she
rushed onward, feeling her face flush. "I certainly do not practice
with any regularity of late!"
Professor Bridwell laughed. "I daresay--at our time of life--leisure
hours seem so unobtainable..." He looked at his cigarette case,
polishing it with a thumb. Seeming to think better of smoking just
then, however, he returned the case to his vest pocket.
Gretchen's smile was thin. She inclined her head, acknowledging the
truth of what he said--they were indeed probably of an age. Certainly,
she thought he could be no more than thirty-three or thereabouts.
"Then, too, music, while an engaging diversion, and the source of much
happiness, is better shared, wouldn't you say Professor?" He nodded
slightly, and Gretchen clarified her statement. "That is to
say--practicing is all very well, but...the joy of music is in sharing
it with one's friends--musical soirées and evenings in the parlor with
a roaring fire. Old friends gathered around the piano--and
champagne!--"
Professor Bridwell warmed to her words, and rubbed his hands together
as if before the very fire she had mentioned. "You have hit it
precisely," he replied with enthusiasm. "Why--it's no wonder that
living, as I do, alone in a house that I fear is far too large for..."
Gretchen thought she detected the professor falter just then, and there
was the slightest of pauses in his speech.
"... For myself alone, you see," he finished. He laughed at himself,
tossing the black mop of hair to one side. "But I needed some place
instantly when I arrived here. I will probably find smaller digs in a
year or so, when I've come to know the city more intimately."
"Indeed," Gretchen answered, returning his smile. "I quite understand
how one needs permanent lodgings--the more quickly one can find them in
a strange city, why, the quicker one is able to settle into life, get
one's bearings in a foreign port."
"So true," he replied with a firm nod.
A few moments later, a juncture seemed to have been reached in their
conversation. Their coffees were at an end, and neither of them had
touched their cups for what seemed ages, so engaged had they become in
their conversation.
"But now," Professor Bridwell exclaimed, with a glance to his pocket
watch, "I should not be keeping you away from your supper or--or your
other duties any longer. Please allow me to escort you home, Miss
Haviland--or where you may be going."
"Thank you, Professor--but really there is no need," she declared. She
thought that sounded too firm, and she smiled easily, to show that she
meant it only literally, not as a rebuff. "My rooms are close by, and
the evening air will do me good, you see. It shan't take me more than
ten minutes at a brisk pace."
"Yes," he agreed. "I believe I shall walk myself. The air is good for
the circulation, as long as one's pace is brisk."
Gretchen rose, and took a curtsey. The Professor held her coat and
stood attentively while she donned her gloves. "I do thank you most
kindly for the enchanting evening, Professor Bridwell. It--it has been
marvelous."
"Likewise, Miss Haviland. I sincerely hope we shall have the pleasure
again soon."
With a few more words of parting, Gretchen stepped into the street,
followed by Professor Bridwell, and they went their separate ways. She
fancied that he stood in the street and gazed at her until she turned
the next corner, but she dared not glance back. The evening was
extremely cold, though not overcast, and her wool coat, even with a
shawl wrapped beneath, did not keep the chill from seeping into her
bones. She rarely wore hats, but that evening she wished she had
one--one of those large fur hats so favored in Russia, she
thought--that would be most appropriate, since she could pull it down
around her ears. By the time she arrived at her rooming house a few
minutes later, she was shivering. She undressed and went straight to
bed beneath layers of feather comforters with a hot water bottle
pressed against her chest. She had no appetite for supper, and
resolved to arise early and eat a hearty breakfast to compensate.
Sleep was elusive in the extreme, but Gretchen found herself strangely
delighted that she could not sleep, for she had the leisure to think
over in detail all that had happened that day. And especially, she had
time to ponder her interlude with Professor Bridwell. He was a most
intriguing man. He was a professor of English Literature--well, that
could mean almost anything, she supposed--yet he did not have that
_way_ about him. Nearly every professor of English she had ever
met--and a good many students of literature as well--were continually
spouting clever quotes gleaned from the works of obscure authors,
living and dead--they were not particular about that. It often seemed
to her that the more obscure the quotation, the more it was admired
amongst their cronies. She had always found such practices revolting.
But Professor Bridwell was not at all like that. Why, the entire
evening--and it had been two hours in fact that they had sat over cups
lukewarm coffee--he had never quoted an author, famous or otherwise.
Yet, his choice of words, his demeanor, the hint of some foreign
influence in his accent--the way he talked of Liszt--all pointed to an
intimacy with the most literate form of the English language. Through
clear thoughts and meticulous expression--rather than through
haphazardly quoting other men--he exuded what she believed was a real
professorial air, built upon a solid foundation without pretense. She
found him refreshingly attractive, both for his own sake and as a
change from the pompous professors she encountered so often in the
library. As she drifted into sleep, the hot water bottle pressed
against herself, she hoped she would have the opportunity for another
such conversation with Professor Bridwell.
* * * * *
Gretchen's cart of books was extraordinarily loaded. Rather than push
it slowly between the stacks as she reshelved books, she stopped the
cart at the end of each row and carried a few books at a time to their
proper places. The library was more quiet than usual, and despite the
overwhelming number of books she had to replace that day she worked
rather slowly. Lost in thought, she hummed to herself, not so loudly
that any patron who happened to be about could hear, but loud enough
for her own amusement. She had just returned to the cart and pushed it
to the next row. She lifted another armful of books, choosing those
whose home was in that particular row, and turned to walk slowly,
watching the numbers. She glanced at each book when she shelved it,
lamenting that she had too little time that day--there could be no
stolen moments of reading, even briefly. She stood on her toes to
reach an upper shelf and stopped humming for a moment. The sound of a
footfall reached her at that instant, and she gave the book a quick
shove.
"Good day, Miss Haviland."
Gretchen looked around to see a fine pair of wool trousers, as she
returned her weight fully to her feet. Following upward with her eyes,
she felt a pleasant blush. "Professor Bridwell, you startled me!" she
exclaimed.
"Careful," he returned, reaching his hand above her head. Gretchen
looked up to see that he pushed the book further onto the shelf; she
had left it precariously tottering on the edge. "You almost lost one,
Miss Haviland."
"Oh dear," she laughed, and grasped the rest of the books more securely
to her chest. She continued to walk easily down the row, with her wool
skirt swinging about her ankles. "Is there a book I can help you
find?" she asked, whirling toward him like a schoolgirl.
"Actually," the professor said, nervously drawing out the word. "I've
not come in a--a professional capacity at all today."
"Oh?" Gretchen turned to look at him, but kept walking. With her free
hand, she extracted a strand of hair from her mouth.
"The other evening--at coffee," he said, taking up the pace beside her.
"Well, really, I found the conversation most delightful and..."
"Yes?" Gretchen stopped, then knelt to shelve another book, lower down.
"And I was wondering," he continued rather quickly, as if he dare not
speak of it, "whether you might consent to dine with me this evening."