face with his hands. “I don’t want to talk about it. Busby deserves to be taken out and shot. Or hung in chains from the walls of Martineau Hall—that would be more appropriate.”
“I could have told you it would be awful,” said Hilary. “Why didn’t you, then?” said Philip irritably.
“I didn’t want to interfere. It’s your conference.”
“Was my conference. Thank God it’s over. It’s been a total disaster from start to finish.”
“Don’t say that, Philip,” said Morris. “After all, there was my paper.”
“It’s all very well for you, Morris. You’ve had a nice quiet evening at home. I’ve been listening to two degenerate oafs shrieking obscene songs into a microphone for the last two hours, and trying to look as if I was enjoying myself. Then they put me in some stocks and encouraged the others to throw bread rolls at me, and I had to look as if I was enjoying that too.”
Hilary crowed with laughter, and clapped her hands. “Oh, now I wish I’d gone,” she said. “Did they really throw rolls at you?”
“Yes, and I thought one or two of them did it in a distinctly vindictive fashion,” said Philip sulkily. “But I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Let’s have a drink.”
He produced a bottle of whisky and three glasses, but Hilary yawned and announced her intention of retiring. Morris said he would have to leave early the next morning to catch his plane to London, and perhaps he had better say goodbye to her now.
“Where are you off to, then?” Hilary asked.
“The Rockefeller villa at Bellagio,” he said. “It’s a kind of scholar’s retreat. But I also have a number of conferences lined up for the summer: Zurich, Vienna, maybe Amsterdam. Jerusalem.”
“Goodness,” said Hilary. “I see what you mean about errant knights.”
“Some are more errant than others,” said Morris.
“I know,” said Hilary meaningfully.
They shook hands and Morris pecked her awkwardly on the cheek. “Take care,” he said.
“Why should I?” she said. “I’m not doing anything adventurous. Incidentally, I thought you were against foreign travel, Morris. You used to say that travel narrows the mind.”
“There comes a moment when the individual has to yield to the Zeitgeist or drop out of the ball game,” said Morris. “For me it came in ‘75, when I kept getting invitations to Jane Austen centenary conferences in the most improbable places—Poznan, Delhi, Lagos, Honolulu—and half the speakers turned out to be guys I knew in graduate school. The world is a global campus, Hilary, you’d better believe it. The American Express card has replaced the library pass.”
“I expect Philip would agree with you,” said Hilary; but Philip, pouring out the whisky, ignored the cue. “Goodnight, then,” she said.
“Goodnight, dear,” said Philip, without looking up from the glasses. “We’ll just have a nightcap.” When Hilary had closed the door behind her, Philip handed Morris his drink. “What are all these conferences you’re going to this summer?” he asked, with a lain covetousness.
“Zurich is Joyce. Amsterdam is Semiotics. Vienna is Narrative. Or is it Narrative in Amsterdam and Semiotics in Vienna…? Anyway. Jerusalem I do know is about the Future of Criticism, because I’m one of the organizers. It’s sponsored by a journal called Metucriticism , I’m on the editorial board.”
“Why Jerusalem?”
“Why not? It’s a draw, a novelty. It’s a place people want to see, but it’s not on the regular tourist circuit. Also the Jerusalem Hilton offers very competitive rates in the summer because it’s so goddam hot.”
“The Hilton, eh? A bit different from Lucas Hall and Martineau Hall,” Philip mused ruefully.
“Right. Look, Philip, I know you were disappointed by the turnout for your conference, but frankly, what can you expect if you’re asking people to live in those tacky dormitories and eat canteen meals? Food and accommodation are
“I could have told you it would be awful,” said Hilary. “Why didn’t you, then?” said Philip irritably.
“I didn’t want to interfere. It’s your conference.”
“Was my conference. Thank God it’s over. It’s been a total disaster from start to finish.”
“Don’t say that, Philip,” said Morris. “After all, there was my paper.”
“It’s all very well for you, Morris. You’ve had a nice quiet evening at home. I’ve been listening to two degenerate oafs shrieking obscene songs into a microphone for the last two hours, and trying to look as if I was enjoying myself. Then they put me in some stocks and encouraged the others to throw bread rolls at me, and I had to look as if I was enjoying that too.”
Hilary crowed with laughter, and clapped her hands. “Oh, now I wish I’d gone,” she said. “Did they really throw rolls at you?”
“Yes, and I thought one or two of them did it in a distinctly vindictive fashion,” said Philip sulkily. “But I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Let’s have a drink.”
He produced a bottle of whisky and three glasses, but Hilary yawned and announced her intention of retiring. Morris said he would have to leave early the next morning to catch his plane to London, and perhaps he had better say goodbye to her now.
“Where are you off to, then?” Hilary asked.
“The Rockefeller villa at Bellagio,” he said. “It’s a kind of scholar’s retreat. But I also have a number of conferences lined up for the summer: Zurich, Vienna, maybe Amsterdam. Jerusalem.”
“Goodness,” said Hilary. “I see what you mean about errant knights.”
“Some are more errant than others,” said Morris.
“I know,” said Hilary meaningfully.
They shook hands and Morris pecked her awkwardly on the cheek. “Take care,” he said.
“Why should I?” she said. “I’m not doing anything adventurous. Incidentally, I thought you were against foreign travel, Morris. You used to say that travel narrows the mind.”
“There comes a moment when the individual has to yield to the Zeitgeist or drop out of the ball game,” said Morris. “For me it came in ‘75, when I kept getting invitations to Jane Austen centenary conferences in the most improbable places—Poznan, Delhi, Lagos, Honolulu—and half the speakers turned out to be guys I knew in graduate school. The world is a global campus, Hilary, you’d better believe it. The American Express card has replaced the library pass.”
“I expect Philip would agree with you,” said Hilary; but Philip, pouring out the whisky, ignored the cue. “Goodnight, then,” she said.
“Goodnight, dear,” said Philip, without looking up from the glasses. “We’ll just have a nightcap.” When Hilary had closed the door behind her, Philip handed Morris his drink. “What are all these conferences you’re going to this summer?” he asked, with a lain covetousness.
“Zurich is Joyce. Amsterdam is Semiotics. Vienna is Narrative. Or is it Narrative in Amsterdam and Semiotics in Vienna…? Anyway. Jerusalem I do know is about the Future of Criticism, because I’m one of the organizers. It’s sponsored by a journal called Metucriticism , I’m on the editorial board.”
“Why Jerusalem?”
“Why not? It’s a draw, a novelty. It’s a place people want to see, but it’s not on the regular tourist circuit. Also the Jerusalem Hilton offers very competitive rates in the summer because it’s so goddam hot.”
“The Hilton, eh? A bit different from Lucas Hall and Martineau Hall,” Philip mused ruefully.
“Right. Look, Philip, I know you were disappointed by the turnout for your conference, but frankly, what can you expect if you’re asking people to live in those tacky dormitories and eat canteen meals? Food and accommodation are
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