I have always believed that the exact moment when the devil entered into
Barrett was four forty-five p.m. on a certain June afternoon, when he
and I were standing at Parker's door in the court at ----s. He says
himself that he was as pure as snow till that instant, and that if the
_entente cordiale_ between himself and that very interesting and
stimulating personality had not been established he is convinced he
would either have died young of excessive virtue, or have become a
missionary. I don't know about that. I only know the consequences of the
_entente_ aged me. But then Barrett says I was born middle-aged like
Maitland himself, the hero of this romance, if so it can be called.
Barrett calls it a romance. I call it--I don't know what to call it, but
it covers me with shame whenever I think of it.
Barrett says that shame is a very wholesome discipline, a great
eye-opener and brain stretcher, and one he has unfortunately never had
the benefit of, so he feels it a duty to act so as to make the
experience probable in the near future.
On this particular afternoon we had both just bicycled back together
from lunching with Parker's aunt at Ely, and she had given me a great
bunch of yellow roses for Parker and a melon, and we were to drop them
at Parker's. And here we were at Parker's, and apparently he was out or
asleep, and not to be waked by Barrett's best cat-call. And as we stood
at his door, Barrett clutching the melon, I found the roses were not in
my hand. Where on earth had I put them down? At Maitland's door,
perhaps, where we had run up expecting to find him, or at Bradley's,
where we had stopped a moment. Neither of us could remember.
I was just going back for them when whom should we see coming sailing
across the court in cap and gown but old Maitland in his best attitude,
chin up, book in hand, signet ring showing.
Parker's aunt used to chaff us for calling him old, and said we thought
everyone of forty-five was tottering on the brink of the tomb. And so
they mostly are, I think, if they are Dons. I have heard other men who
have gone down say that you leave them tottering, and you come back ten
years later and there they are, still tottering.
Barrett said Maitland did everything as if his portrait was being taken
doing it, and that his effect on others was never absent from his mind.
I don't know about that, but certainly in his talk he was always trying
to impress on us his own aspect of himself.
If it was a fine morning and he wished to be thought to be enjoying it,
he would rub his hands and say there was not a happier creature on God's
earth than himself. He pined to be thought unconventional, and after
drawing our attention to some microscopic delinquency, he would regret
that there had been no fairy godmother at hand at his christening to
endow him with a proper deference for social conventions. If he gave a
small donation to any college scheme the success of which was not
absolutely assured, he would shake his head and say: "I know very well
that all you youngsters laugh in your sleeve at the way I lead forlorn
hopes, but it is a matter of temperament. I can't help it."
The personal reminiscences with which his conversation was liberally
strewed were ingeniously calculated to place him in a picturesque light.
Parker's aunt says that stout men are more in need of a picturesque
light than thin ones. Maitland certainly was stout and short, with a
thick face and no neck, and a perfectly round head, set on his shoulders
like an ill-balanced orange, or William Tell's apple. We should never
have noticed what he looked like if it had not been for his illusion
that he was irresistible to the opposite sex; at least, he was always
adroitly letting drop things which showed, if you put two and two
together, and he never made the sum very difficult--what ravages he
inadvertently made in feminine bosoms, how careful he was, how careful
he had _learnt_ to be not to raise expectations. He was always
pathetically anxious to impress on us that he had given a good deal of
pain. But whether it was really an hallucination on his part that he was
hopelessly adored by women, or whether the hallucination consisted in
the belief that he had succeeded in convincing his little college world
of his powers of fascination, I cannot tell you. I don't pretend to know
everything like Barrett.
Parker's aunt told Parker in confidence, who told Barrett and me in
confidence, that she had once, on his own suggestion, asked Maitland to
tea, but had never repeated the invitation, though he told her
repeatedly that he frequently passed her door on the way to the
cathedral, because he had hinted to mutual friends that a devoted
friendship was, alas! all he felt able to give in that quarter, but was
not what was desired by that charming lady.
And now here was Maitland advancing towards us with one of Parker's
aunt's yellow roses in his buttonhole.
We both instantly realised what had happened. I had left the roses at
his door by mistake. How gratified she would be when she heard of it!