We no sooner get into the second Chamber, which I shall call the Chamber of Maiden-Thought, than we become intoxicated with the light and the atmosphere; we see nothing but pleasant wonders, and think of delaying there for ever in delight. However … this Chamber of Maiden-Thought becomes gradually darkened, and at the same time, on all sides of it, many doors are set open—but all dark—all leading to dark passages. We see not the balance of good and evil—we are in a mist—we feel the "burden of the Mystery" … —KEATS: Letters, May, 1818.
I asked for Truth—
My doubts came in
And with their din
They wearied all my youth.
D. M. DOLBEN: Requests.
His Name will flee, the while thou mouldest thy lips for speech.—JELLALUDIN.
(1)
"Yes, sir; this is the gentleman's keepin' room, sir. A bit small, but cosy and 'omelike, as I allus told pore Mr. Bruce wot was haccidental shot in Scotland last Haugust. I keeps my bit o' brooms and cleanin' things in that cupboard, sir—bedder's room they calls it, though it ain't much of a room. Through that there door is the bedroom, and that might be bigger, that's sartin sure. But I don't know as 'ow it much matters to the young gentlemen, sir. If so be they can lay down in it, and 'as room for a chest o' drawers and a bath on the floor, that's about all has they want. But you'll need to take a bit o' care in the bath, sir, if I may make bold to say so. Mr. Bruce, 'e fair soak 'is blankets now an' agin. Ah, that couch now, sir! Springs be broken, I will say. But then, lor, sir, how the young gentlemen bangs on 'em! They will 'ave their bit o' fun, sir, same as what you did in your day, I daresay. Still it's a bin like that for years, an' p'rhaps a new one would be a good thing. Expensive? Ah yes, sir. Things his dear. Let it stand over a bit, so to say. P'rhaps in 'is second year, with 'is friends an' all a-coming hup, it might be done. That all, sir? Thank you, sir, thank you kindly. Mr. Mavis is 'is gyp, sir, an' 'e'll be about soon I daresay, though 'e's none too fond of work, is Mavis. 'E'll tell you all you wants to know, sir. Good afternoon, sir."
Mrs. Rover departed, and shut the door behind her. Mr. Kestern smiled. "She's a talker, Paul," he said, "but a good sort, I daresay. The race of bedders doesn't seem to have changed since I was up. Well, what do you think of it?"
Paul glanced round again with shining eyes. The little attic room was practically square. On the left as you entered, two high windows in the thick ancient wall, each allowing you to sit there and gaze through its mediæval aperture, looked out over a narrow college garden to the river. Since this staircase was only the second from the main entrance in the First Court, the room's occupant had a view as well down the narrow old-world street which crossed the river here by a bridge and twisted away past overhanging ancient houses. In the near distance rose the spire of St. Lawrence's Church. Chestnuts, bare now, guarded the river-front, and trailed their lower boughs in the leaf-strewn stream.
Between the windows was a fireplace with a bamboo overmantel. Opposite, the right wall met a sloping roof which just allowed a bookcase to stand beneath it and was pierced by two more windows which, however, looked out on to the inner battlemented wall of the First Court, and permitted no more than a glimpse of St. Mary in her turret over the chapel on the farther side. The little room itself was bare save for a square table in its centre; a couch, quite obviously much the worse for wear, against the wall immediately opposite the door; and a couple of chairs. A faded red paper covered the walls. A still more faded red carpet lay on the floor. Yet Paul saw his own room, the goal of years of work; he saw in imagination his little desk already in a corner, his books on the shelves, himself in an arm-chair before a fire with leisure to read, to write, to think. And he saw something else too, which might immediately materialise.
"It's splendid, dad—just what I wanted. I'm glad to be high up; the view's so good. But I'll do one thing right away, first of all. Sit down for a minute, will you?"
He placed on the table a brown paper parcel he had been carrying beneath his arm, and hurriedly tore off the wrapping. A framed text revealed itself. Then, mounting precariously on the couch, he sought and found a nail from which the last occupant had hung some picture, and there he hung his challenge, right in the centre of the wall, exactly opposite the door, placed in such wise that no one could enter without seeing the words. He stepped off and surveyed the effect. A touch made the frame finally level. Their capital letter entwined with spraying daffodils, the multi-coloured words proclaimed plainly an insistent and dogmatic legend: "One is your Master, even Christ."
"That takes possession, dad, somehow. And everyone will know at once Whose I am and Whom I serve."
The short elderly kindly clergyman nodded proudly, but with a little mist before his eyes. "Ay, ay, Paul laddie," he said, "I'm glad you thought of that. But it's easy to hang a text, Paul; it's harder to live up to it. Let us ask the help of the Master, my son, here and now, at the beginning of your college life."
So the two knelt, with the simplicity of children. Outside, listening at the door, Mrs. Rover heard, and expressed herself strongly thereafter to Mr. Mavis. "Left hattic is one o' the pious sort, Mavis," she said. "Put a text hup, 'e 'as. Ought ter be a soft job for you."
But Mavis was in his own way a philosopher, and an observer of life. "Is 'e?" he queried. "Well, I'm glad to hear it. May 'e stay so. But I dunno; I've seen a few o' them pious ones, and they often turns out more mischievous than the other young devils. Seems ter me we ought'er 'ave put new screws in them winder bars."
Arm in arm, father and son went out to do some shopping. Paul, used to hard economy, was highly pleased with his father's generosity. Crockery marked with the arms of St. Mary's was an unexpected joy; two arm-chairs, and only one of them second-hand; a few groceries, cakes and biscuits; two framed prints of Landseer's dogs, to brighten things up, as his father said; even a toasting-fork, a lamp, a side-table, a tablecloth—all these, and a hearthrug, and the room seemed furnished. He unpacked a box, and graced his mantel-shelf with photographs, a presentation clock from the children of the Mission Hall, and a couple of ancient candlesticks, in the form of metal storks upholding hollowed bulrushes, from his bedroom at home. Then it was time for his father to return, and the boy saw him to the station.
Paul wandered back in the dusk: his hands in his pockets turning a final gift of a new sovereign, his mind on fire. He peered curiously in at the gateways of unknown colleges, examined the gay shops, lingered over the bookcases of the numerous booksellers. A bell was ringing in St. Lawrence's steeple as he passed, and he stepped for a minute into the church. It was a dark gloomy place, but a couple of lighted candles on the altar showed him a crucifix and six more tall lights behind. He came out quickly, conscious of a little flush of anger. People of that sort were betraying the Faith.
He mounted the two flights of wooden stairs light-heartedly however, and entered his own room. Mrs. Rover had kindled a fire, and its ruddy glow welcomed him. Then he saw that there was a man standing by the fireplace. He paused, a little bewildered.
"Oh, I say," said the other breezily, "I'm glad you've come in. I thought I'd wait a few minutes. There's nobody up yet you know, except a few of us freshers. I heard about you from the Dean, and I thought I'd call at once. My name's Donaldson. You're going to be a parson, aren't you? And so am I. How do you do?" He held out his hand.
Paul warmed to the cheery greeting. "Topping of you to call," he said. "My name's Kestern." Then he remembered it was on the door, and he felt a fool.
"Yes. Are you busy? My things haven't all come yet, and your room's a damned sight more cheerful than mine."
"Do sit down," said Paul. "Take the new armchair. You're the first person to sit in it."
"They call 'em pews here," rejoined the other, sinking into the seat. He had a pipe in his hand, which he lit. "You smoke?" he queried.
"No," said Paul.
"Well, I do. Always have. I can't read without it.