of electricity.
Just at present, Anstey-Ward was attempting to concentrate on something small and specialised. He was interested in theories of the transmutation of species, and it was his aim to discover a fossil which would be hard evidence in favour of an idea which he had found deeply intriguing, but only a shade less unlikely than that of a multitude of separate creations in each succeeding geological period. But so far, he had searched in vain for an obviously transitional form of life, and he was beginning to consider making a study of the mating habits of snails.
As he worked at his labelling, Anstey-Ward found himself thinking about Christian, of whom he considered himself to be very fond, yet with whom he could never have a thoroughly comfortable conversation. In his mind there was a picture of the boy he hoped to see in a year’s time, after Oxford had begun to do its work: a boy curedof shyness, of weak lungs, of eccentricity, and of vagueness about his future. He did not doubt that Christian would be happier at Oxford than he had been at Charton, and he believed that happiness could work wonders. The boy might even develop an interest in science, and be able to argue with his father in a friendly way – Anstey-Ward, though moderately reclusive, loved to argue with both friends and enemies, and he rarely had the chance to do either.
And, thought Anstey-Ward, fingering an ammonite, Christian’s odd friendship with the little bookseller’s assistant would certainly come to an end.
11
In the summer of 1859, Christian sat with Jemmy Baker under a willow-tree, sheltered from the sun’s glare by the layered curtain of its leaves. The river Avon flowed by like moving glass, and all else around them was still in the heat-haze – only a few crickets cheeped in the grass. The two young men sprawled with their coats off, their collars loosened, and their boots discarded, but they were still distressingly hot.
A year at Oxford had strengthened Christian, and given him both new friends and intellectual food, but it had not altered his feelings for Jemmy as his father hoped. Jemmy’s beauty, like Charton’s moral and physical squalor, remained constantly in his mind – as much at Oxford as in the vacations, when he had little to do. He wanted never to forget Jemmy, but he wished he could rid himself of all memories of Charton. It amazed him that in what ought to have been his present contentment, he could not stop thinking about the corruption he had seen there, and wondering precisely what it was Onslow and Bright had done together. Sometimes it crossed his mind that perhaps there had been nothing but a few kisses between them, but the words of Onslow’s note, hot as the day, seemed to make that unlikely. Christian still kept the three pieces of paper he had received nearly eighteen months ago: Bright’s note in chapel, Bright’s letter, Onslow’s extract.
Jemmy was, in his own fashion, as disturbing as memories of Charton. Even after a year’s friendship, he was wholly passive; he initiated nothing. He wrote short letters to Christian at Oxford only when Christian begged him,and never seemed really to understand the nature of the love which Christian explained. But he said that he liked to receive Christian’s letters, and he was still prepared to give up the greater part of his Sundays to him during the vacations. He admired Christian greatly, and was anxious to get on in the world: to this end Christian was teaching him a little Latin, at his own request.
This was the first Sunday of the Long Vacation, and Christian had not seen Jemmy for over two months.
‘I am so glad to have been able to see you before I leave for Switzerland,’ he said.
‘Oh, yes. You’ll be away a long time, shan’t you?’ said Jemmy.
‘A month. Yes, quite a long time – I wish you might come too.’ Christian was to join a combined walking and reading party in the Swiss Alps, headed by two Fellows of his college, one
Just at present, Anstey-Ward was attempting to concentrate on something small and specialised. He was interested in theories of the transmutation of species, and it was his aim to discover a fossil which would be hard evidence in favour of an idea which he had found deeply intriguing, but only a shade less unlikely than that of a multitude of separate creations in each succeeding geological period. But so far, he had searched in vain for an obviously transitional form of life, and he was beginning to consider making a study of the mating habits of snails.
As he worked at his labelling, Anstey-Ward found himself thinking about Christian, of whom he considered himself to be very fond, yet with whom he could never have a thoroughly comfortable conversation. In his mind there was a picture of the boy he hoped to see in a year’s time, after Oxford had begun to do its work: a boy curedof shyness, of weak lungs, of eccentricity, and of vagueness about his future. He did not doubt that Christian would be happier at Oxford than he had been at Charton, and he believed that happiness could work wonders. The boy might even develop an interest in science, and be able to argue with his father in a friendly way – Anstey-Ward, though moderately reclusive, loved to argue with both friends and enemies, and he rarely had the chance to do either.
And, thought Anstey-Ward, fingering an ammonite, Christian’s odd friendship with the little bookseller’s assistant would certainly come to an end.
11
In the summer of 1859, Christian sat with Jemmy Baker under a willow-tree, sheltered from the sun’s glare by the layered curtain of its leaves. The river Avon flowed by like moving glass, and all else around them was still in the heat-haze – only a few crickets cheeped in the grass. The two young men sprawled with their coats off, their collars loosened, and their boots discarded, but they were still distressingly hot.
A year at Oxford had strengthened Christian, and given him both new friends and intellectual food, but it had not altered his feelings for Jemmy as his father hoped. Jemmy’s beauty, like Charton’s moral and physical squalor, remained constantly in his mind – as much at Oxford as in the vacations, when he had little to do. He wanted never to forget Jemmy, but he wished he could rid himself of all memories of Charton. It amazed him that in what ought to have been his present contentment, he could not stop thinking about the corruption he had seen there, and wondering precisely what it was Onslow and Bright had done together. Sometimes it crossed his mind that perhaps there had been nothing but a few kisses between them, but the words of Onslow’s note, hot as the day, seemed to make that unlikely. Christian still kept the three pieces of paper he had received nearly eighteen months ago: Bright’s note in chapel, Bright’s letter, Onslow’s extract.
Jemmy was, in his own fashion, as disturbing as memories of Charton. Even after a year’s friendship, he was wholly passive; he initiated nothing. He wrote short letters to Christian at Oxford only when Christian begged him,and never seemed really to understand the nature of the love which Christian explained. But he said that he liked to receive Christian’s letters, and he was still prepared to give up the greater part of his Sundays to him during the vacations. He admired Christian greatly, and was anxious to get on in the world: to this end Christian was teaching him a little Latin, at his own request.
This was the first Sunday of the Long Vacation, and Christian had not seen Jemmy for over two months.
‘I am so glad to have been able to see you before I leave for Switzerland,’ he said.
‘Oh, yes. You’ll be away a long time, shan’t you?’ said Jemmy.
‘A month. Yes, quite a long time – I wish you might come too.’ Christian was to join a combined walking and reading party in the Swiss Alps, headed by two Fellows of his college, one
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