ngus,thoughthebodygluttonize,andasforarms,bees,oreventheplough,CowantakeshistripsabroadwithaFrenchnovelinhispocket,arugabouthisknees,andisthankfultobehomeagaininhisplace,inhisline,holdingupinhissnuglittlemirrortheimageofVirgil,allrayedroundwithgoodstoriesofthedonsofTrinityandredbeamsofport.Butlanguageiswineuponhislips.NowhereelsewouldVirgilhearthelike.Andthough,asshegoessaunteringalongtheBacks,oldMissUmphelbysingshimmelodiouslyenough,accuratelytoo,sheisalwaysbroughtupbythisquestionasshereachesClareBridge:"ButifImethim,whatshouldIwear?"—andthen,takingherwayuptheavenuetowardsNewnham,sheletsherfancyplayuponotherdetailsofmen'smeetingwithwomenwhichhavenevergotintoprint.Herlectures,therefore,arenothalfsowellattendedasthoseofCowan,andthethingshemighthavesaidinelucidationofthetextforeverleftout.Inshort,faceateacherwiththeimageofthetaughtandthemirrorbreaks.ButCowansippedhisport,hisexaltationover,nolongertherepresentativeofVirgil.No,thebuilder,assessor,surveyor,ratherrulinglinesbetweennames,hanginglistsabovedoors.Suchisthefabricthroughwhichthelightmustshine,ifshineitcan—thelightofalltheselanguages,ChineseandRussian,PersianandArabic,ofsymbolsandfigures,ofhistory,ofthingsthatareknownandthingsthatareabouttobeknown.Sothatifatnight,faroutatseaoverthetumblingwaves,onesawahazeonthewaters,acityilluminated,awhitenesseveninthesky,suchasthatnowovertheHallofTrinitywherethey'restilldining,orwashingupplates,thatwouldbethelightburningthere—thelightofCambridge.
"Let'sgoroundtoSimeon'sroom,"saidJacob,andtheyrolledupthemap,havinggotthewholethingsettled.
Allthelightswerecomingoutroundthecourt,andfallingonthecobbles,pickingoutdarkpatchesofgrassandsingledaisies.Theyoungmenwerenowbackintheirrooms.Heavenknowswhattheyweredoing.WhatwasitthatcouldDROPlikethat?Andleaningdownoverafoamingwindow-box,onestoppedanotherhurryingpast,andupstairstheywentanddowntheywent,untilasortoffulnesssettledonthecourt,thehivefullofbees,thebeeshomethickwithgold,drowsy,humming,suddenlyvocaltheMoonlightSonataansweredbyawaltz.
TheMoonlightSonatatinkledawaythewaltzcrashed.Althoughyoungmenstillwentinandout,theywalkedasifkeepingengagements.Nowandthentherewasathud,asifsomeheavypieceoffurniturehadfallen,unexpectedly,ofitsownaccord,notinthegeneralstiroflifeafterdinner.Onesupposedthatyoungmenraisedtheireyesfromtheirbooksasthefurniturefell.Weretheyreading?Certainlytherewasasenseofconcentrationintheair.Behindthegreywallssatsomanyyoungmen,someundoubtedlyreading,magazines,shillingshockers,nodoubtlegs,perhaps,overthearmsofchairssmokingsprawlingovertables,andwritingwhiletheirheadswentroundinacircleasthepenmoved—simpleyoungmen,these,whowould—butthereisnoneedtothinkofthemgrownoldotherseatingsweetsheretheyboxedand,well,Mr.Hawkinsmusthavebeenmadsuddenlytothrowuphiswindowandbawl:"Jo—