hefeatherywhitemoonneverlettheskygrowdarkallnightthechestnutblossomswerewhiteinthegreendimwasthecow-parsleyinthemeadows.
ThewaitersatTrinitymusthavebeenshufflingchinaplateslikecards,fromtheclatterthatcouldbeheardintheGreatCourt.Jacob'srooms,however,wereinNeville'sCourtatthetopsothatreachinghisdooronewentinalittleoutofbreathbuthewasn'tthere.DininginHall,presumably.ItwillbequitedarkinNeville'sCourtlongbeforemidnight,onlythepillarsoppositewillalwaysbewhite,andthefountains.Acuriouseffectthegatehas,likelaceuponpalegreen.Eveninthewindowyouheartheplatesahumoftalk,too,fromthedinerstheHalllitup,andtheswing-doorsopeningandshuttingwithasoftthud.Somearelate.
Jacob'sroomhadaroundtableandtwolowchairs.Therewereyellowflagsinajaronthemantelpieceaphotographofhismothercardsfromsocietieswithlittleraisedcrescents,coatsofarms,andinitialsnotesandpipesonthetablelaypaperruledwitharedmargin—anessay,nodoubt—"DoesHistoryconsistoftheBiographiesofGreatMen?"TherewerebooksenoughveryfewFrenchbooksbutthenanyonewho'sworthanythingreadsjustwhathelikes,asthemoodtakeshim,withextravagantenthusiasm.LivesoftheDukeofWellington,forexampleSpinozatheworksofDickenstheFaeryQueenaGreekdictionarywiththepetalsofpoppiespressedtosilkbetweenthepagesalltheElizabethans.Hisslipperswereincrediblyshabby,likeboatsburnttothewater'srim.ThentherewerephotographsfromtheGreeks,andamezzotintfromSirJoshua—allveryEnglish.TheworksofJaneAusten,too,indeference,perhaps,tosomeoneelse'sstandard.Carlylewasaprize.TherewerebooksupontheItalianpaintersoftheRenaissance,aManualoftheDiseasesoftheHorse,andalltheusualtext-books.Listlessistheairinanemptyroom,justswellingthecurtaintheflowersinthejarshift.Onefibreinthewickerarm-chaircreaks,thoughnoonesitsthere.
Comingdownthestepsalittlesideways[Jacobsatonthewindow-seattalkingtoDurranthesmoked,andDurrantlookedatthemap],theoldman,withhishandslockedbehindhim,hisgownfloatingblack,lurched,unsteadily,nearthewallthen,upstairshewentintohisroom.Thenanother,whoraisedhishandandpraisedthecolumns,thegate,theskyanother,trippingandsmug.Eachwentupastaircasethreelightswerelitinthedarkwindows.
IfanylightburnsaboveCambridge,itmustbefromthreesuchroomsGreekburnsheresciencetherephilosophyonthegroundfloor.PooroldHuxtablecan'twalkstraight—Sopwith,too,haspraisedtheskyanynightthesetwentyyearsandCowanstillchucklesatthesamestories.Itisnotsimple,orpure,orwhollysplendid,thelampoflearning,sinceifyouseethemthereunderitslight(whetherRossetti'sonthewall,orVanGoghreproduced,whethertherearelilacsinthebowlorrustypipes),howpriestlytheylook!Howlikeasuburbwhereyougotoseeaviewandeataspecialcake!"Wearethesolepurveyorsofthiscake."BackyougotoLondonforthetreatisover.
OldProfessorHuxtable,performingwiththemethodofaclockhischangeofdress,lethimselfdownintohischairfilledhispipechose