red, red rose That's newly sprung in June."
"Oh," said Janet, stopping short under one of the remaining elm trees. "It's inside out, that's what it is." Those weren't characters at all, they were attributes of the heroine; the rosebud was, not her sled, but her love, or maybe something a little more specific than that. It would be interesting to see how Evans dealt with that, given a
classroom full of adolescents whose instinctive dimwitted responses to the mention of sex did not seem to have been altered in the least by the sexual revolution, their own intelligence, or anything else.
Janet started walking again, more slowly. The entire elegant intent of the poem unfolded itself in her mind like—well, like a flower. It wasn't what she would call fiction at all; it wasn't what she would call poetry, either, exhibiting, even in the lively Medeous translation, a dampening inclination to get on with the story—which wasn't a story, really, but the inside occurrences for which, in most love stories, you would see only the outside manifestations. Was that what they meant by allegory? It was going to be a long time until Evans's lecture on this poem, she could see that already.
She wondered how much of it Nick might make pass quickly.
There was a little clump of students loitering outside the main doors to Chester Hall, including Robin Armin and the young man from behind the Reserve Desk. An ethereal blonde who might have been the one Janet had discussed squirrels with was hanging around Robin's neck. Janet marched up to them anyway.
Mercifully, Robin grinned and said, "Nick let you in on it, too, did he?"
"Foolish boy," said Janet, rather put out. "Doesn't he know how news spreads around here? He's probably got at least two Benfield adherents in with his loyalists."
"Well, and where would be the fun if he hadn't?" said the girl.
"Oh," said Robin. "Janet Carter, this is Anne Beauvais. Freshman undecided, junior Classics."
The tall girl unwound her arms from around Robin and said to Janet, "What are you hesitating among?"
"English, English, and English," said Janet. Anne Beauvais raised an eyebrow.
"Well," said Janet, "I did vaguely consider a special major with a lot of different languages in it, but it takes four terms before you get to the interesting literature, and I haven't read most of what's been written in my own language, so I'll probably just stick to that."
"Not in Classics," said Anne, coming around Robin. She was wearing a short green dress in crinkle gauze that, most unlike that material's usual behavior, clung to her and revealed that, without much doubt, she was very muscular and had no use for underwear. Janet feared for Molly's chances.
"In Classics," said Anne, fixing Janet with a stern, pale eye, "you read Xenophon in Greek I and Herodotus in Greek II, and you read Cicero in Latin I and Virgil in Latin II. It's the immersion method they used to try with the modern languages, except the students rebelled."
"And Classics students don't?"
"Have you met Medeous yet?"
"Not in person," said Janet, considerably startled. "I've read her translation of
The Romance of the Rose. "
Anne and Robin looked at each other. There was a moment of sudden and curious tension; then, as if he were offering a theory for examination, Robin said, "That must have been her grandmother."
"Yes, of course, how stupid of me," said Janet, laughing. "The date on that book was 1887."
"You don't rebel against Medeous," said Anne, grimly, "you suffer her, or you flee into exile."
"Melinda Wolfe didn't tell me about her," said Janet.
"She tried to sell you on Greek Lit in Translation, right?" Janet nodded; Anne went on, "That's the usual strategy. Soften the students up with Ferris, who's a perfect doll, and then smack them with Medeous when they're not looking."
The young man from the Reserve Desk loomed over Robin's shoulder and said,
"That's not fair, Beau. She's a brilliant scholar."
"She's a bitch," said Anne,
"Oh," said Janet, stopping short under one of the remaining elm trees. "It's inside out, that's what it is." Those weren't characters at all, they were attributes of the heroine; the rosebud was, not her sled, but her love, or maybe something a little more specific than that. It would be interesting to see how Evans dealt with that, given a
classroom full of adolescents whose instinctive dimwitted responses to the mention of sex did not seem to have been altered in the least by the sexual revolution, their own intelligence, or anything else.
Janet started walking again, more slowly. The entire elegant intent of the poem unfolded itself in her mind like—well, like a flower. It wasn't what she would call fiction at all; it wasn't what she would call poetry, either, exhibiting, even in the lively Medeous translation, a dampening inclination to get on with the story—which wasn't a story, really, but the inside occurrences for which, in most love stories, you would see only the outside manifestations. Was that what they meant by allegory? It was going to be a long time until Evans's lecture on this poem, she could see that already.
She wondered how much of it Nick might make pass quickly.
There was a little clump of students loitering outside the main doors to Chester Hall, including Robin Armin and the young man from behind the Reserve Desk. An ethereal blonde who might have been the one Janet had discussed squirrels with was hanging around Robin's neck. Janet marched up to them anyway.
Mercifully, Robin grinned and said, "Nick let you in on it, too, did he?"
"Foolish boy," said Janet, rather put out. "Doesn't he know how news spreads around here? He's probably got at least two Benfield adherents in with his loyalists."
"Well, and where would be the fun if he hadn't?" said the girl.
"Oh," said Robin. "Janet Carter, this is Anne Beauvais. Freshman undecided, junior Classics."
The tall girl unwound her arms from around Robin and said to Janet, "What are you hesitating among?"
"English, English, and English," said Janet. Anne Beauvais raised an eyebrow.
"Well," said Janet, "I did vaguely consider a special major with a lot of different languages in it, but it takes four terms before you get to the interesting literature, and I haven't read most of what's been written in my own language, so I'll probably just stick to that."
"Not in Classics," said Anne, coming around Robin. She was wearing a short green dress in crinkle gauze that, most unlike that material's usual behavior, clung to her and revealed that, without much doubt, she was very muscular and had no use for underwear. Janet feared for Molly's chances.
"In Classics," said Anne, fixing Janet with a stern, pale eye, "you read Xenophon in Greek I and Herodotus in Greek II, and you read Cicero in Latin I and Virgil in Latin II. It's the immersion method they used to try with the modern languages, except the students rebelled."
"And Classics students don't?"
"Have you met Medeous yet?"
"Not in person," said Janet, considerably startled. "I've read her translation of
The Romance of the Rose. "
Anne and Robin looked at each other. There was a moment of sudden and curious tension; then, as if he were offering a theory for examination, Robin said, "That must have been her grandmother."
"Yes, of course, how stupid of me," said Janet, laughing. "The date on that book was 1887."
"You don't rebel against Medeous," said Anne, grimly, "you suffer her, or you flee into exile."
"Melinda Wolfe didn't tell me about her," said Janet.
"She tried to sell you on Greek Lit in Translation, right?" Janet nodded; Anne went on, "That's the usual strategy. Soften the students up with Ferris, who's a perfect doll, and then smack them with Medeous when they're not looking."
The young man from the Reserve Desk loomed over Robin's shoulder and said,
"That's not fair, Beau. She's a brilliant scholar."
"She's a bitch," said Anne,
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