1I NDEHGRADUATE .•
Old Acquaintance
llY C. B. RICKS (Balliol College, Oxford) IN order to shave, I have to go either up or down a flight Of stairs. I always go down, since that is easier first thing in the morning. It is a disadvantage that I pass the Junior ,..nnnon Room, where earnest young men, determined not to Waste their parents' or their country's money, are reading the ions newspapers (to keep their solutions to world problems temporary) while clutching an impressive number of ks. I rarely get up very late (which would anyway be e.pted by my morning watchers as both bohemian and icative of study after midnight), but often just miss break- t, a laziness which somehow seems more culpable. The antage of the journey is that it makes getting up quite vocable. After all that traipsing, there is no question of g back to bed, even for a recuperative ten minutes. knew I had a visitor when I saw that my door was ajar, I came back along the corridor. Whoever it was, he showed ertain insensitivity in calling at five past nine. But I was sed to see him, when I saw that it was Harvill, whom I known for a few months in the army. He had been obbed in time to come up to the university a year before . and I remembered our exchanging promises of a meeting, ,ht.t left the unit. I had been slightly envious. It was very d of him to look me up, and. rather unexpected, though -had got on very well together. He dfan't seem to have nged much. He had never looked a very commanding re in uniform, but he now looked even worse in crumpled users and a bright polo-necked sweater which was altogether athletic for his shambling person. lie had had a stock witticism, which I luid- once liked, and 1,°1-tch I found was still in use; when any work of art or enter- ,tainment was being discussed, he would ask, "But has it any caring on the class struggle ? " and leave odd doubts for.the listeners. . , Fortunately this morning he knew better than to offer the 'reshman yet more advice, though on one occasion he did wonder whether 1 realised the importance of a really precise I,';ogramme of work. It seemed that his life was an odd mixture. went to a great many lectures (and didn't count the time ;'e thus spent as part of the working hours he had set himself); !'e didn't go out for coffee in the morning; and he subscribed 1° both the undergraduate weeklies. I gave him some news of army acquaintances, but I could ,soe it was very distant from him. He wanted to tell me about "xford. He did so. Then, presumably inspired by my uncontrollable glances at his sweater, he asked if I would like ,gante of squash some time. I could imagine how he would PlaY—with joyless and unsuspected strength. He was pulling NI his diary when I found that fortunately I had a blister on II1Y thumb. It appeared he had toyed with the idea of having ,a, reunion of those at Oxford from the Battalion; what did I think of it ? I thought it a disastrous idea, and tried not to so. Of course, it is a different and enjoyable thing to meet triends from the army who would still be friends when its coercions and common causes were removed. I suggested that We might walk back to his college, so that I could see his and know where ro find it another time. Before we left, ,e said that incidentally he was college representative for the ociological Club—would I like to buy a card for the term's Ineetings ? As a matter of fact, someone had told him he 1:it.°0d a good chance of being president next year. He was ,IsaPnointed when I explained that unfortunately the meetings would clash with those of the English Club. ing rate, and we were soon bankrupt of anything to say. Going into his room was like that particularly horrible form of night- mare in which one knows exactly what is going to happen.
The prints, a reasonable sized El Greco and a tiny Van Gogh; the cards for the various but equally dull university societies, standing on the mantelpiece like 4irab and unseasonable Christmas cards; the rows of Penguin and Pelican books— there was nothing really wrong with anything, except that the whole room made us both uneasy. It could have been saved from being utterly boring by a few touches of even fake bohemianism, but no, it was sadly tidy.
We stood for a few minutes, and I looked with counterfeited interest at the ornaments of his room, as a break from uncomfortable conversation. It was difficult to understand how I could ever really have liked him, dull and well-meaning.
I suppose in the army Harvill tutht have acquired some extrinsic agreeableness from association with Oxford, roman- tically feminine, keeping us waiting for two years. Then it had been pleasant to meet someone who had heard of Louis MacNeice, and who read a serious weekly, even if it was the New Statesman. But now it was delightful to talk occasionally about snooker or Marilyn Monroe, and Harvill's company was no longer refreshing, but infuriating. Any minute now he would be asking me to look at his poems. He did. His lips conventionally demanded my just opinion, while his eyes pleaded for a merciful one.
This first civilian encounter seemed to be equally distressing to us both. But Harvilh couldn't see that it would be. best quietly to drop our acquaintanceship. He was always leaving notes in my pigeon-hole, inviting me to tea or dinner or a game of squash. I felt churlish when I refused, and when I felt bound to accept one, I had great difficulty afterwards in making a convincing invitation in return. It was quite impossible to explain the situation to him; he would have agreed, and not understood at all, but would have thought it was some obscure spite or misunderstanding of mine. I had to represent myself as for ever at my books. I'm sure he gets a faint feeling of pride at his own unselfish realisation that Friendship must yield place to Duty. (I'm equally sure he thinks in such abstractions.) We always greet each other with wide smiles, when we meet by chance. But we did have some most amusing days together in the army. I really haven't time just at the moment, but I think I must make an effort and look him up next term.
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