To Say Nothing of the Dog (14 page)
Read To Say Nothing of the Dog Online
Authors: Connie Willis
Tags: #General, #Science Fiction, #Fiction
“So you were fishing on the riverbank,” Terence said, spreading the professor’s robe out to dry over the luggage. “And Professor Overforce came along and pitched you in?”
“Yes,” Professor Peddick said, pulling off his boots. “I was standing under a willow, hooking a worm to my line—gudgeons prefer blood-worms but
Pseudococcidae
will do—when that imbecile Darwin flung himself out of the branches and plummeted toward me like one of Satan’s angels ‘hurled headlong flaming from th’ ethereal sky, With hideous ruin and combustion down,’ and landed with a great splash that made me drop my line.’ He looked darkly at Cyril. “Dogs!”
A dog, I thought gratefully. Darwin is Professor Overforce’s dog. Which still didn’t explain what it was doing jumping out of trees.
“He’ll end by killing someone.” Professor Peddick took off his socks, wrung them out, and put them back on again. “Leaped out of a tree on the Broad last Tuesday and knocked Trinity’s bursar flat. The man’s completely unbalanced. He fancies himself another Buckland,” professor Peddick said, “but Buckland, for all his faults, never trained his bear to jump out of trees. Tiglath Pileser was always extremely well-behaved, and so were the jackals, though one wouldn’t want to dine at his house. Liable to be served crocodile. I remember one dinner party at which the meat course was vole. But he had two excellent Crucian carp.”
“Darwin made you drop your line . . .” Terence prompted, trying to get the professor back on track.
“Yes, and when I turned round, there was Overforce, laughing like one of Buckland’s hyenas. ‘Out fishing?’ he said. ‘Tch, tch. You will never attain the Haviland Chair idling your time away like that.’ ‘I am pondering the effects of Themistocles’s deception of the Persians at Salamis,’ I said, and he replied, ‘An even more idle pursuit than fishing. History is no longer a chronicle of mere events. It is a science.’
“ ‘Mere events!’ I said. ‘Do you consider the Greeks’ defeat of the Persian fleet a mere event? It shaped the course of history for hundreds of years!’ Overforce waved his hand as if to dismiss them. ‘Events are irrelevant to the theory of history.’ ‘Do you consider the Battle of Agincourt irrelevant?’ I said. ‘Or the Crimean War? Or the execution of Mary Queen of Scots?’ ‘Details!’ he said. ‘Did details matter to Darwin or Newton?’ ”
As a matter of fact, they had. As Lady Schrapnell is so fond of saying, “God is in the details.”
“ ‘Darwin! Newton!’ I said,” Professor Peddick went on. “ ‘You disprove your own argument by your examples. It is the individual that matters in history, not the population. And it is forces other than natural ones that shape history. What of courage and honor and faith? What of villainy and cowardice and ambition?’ ”
“And love,” Terence said.
“Exactly,” Professor Peddick said. “ ‘What of Antony and Cleopatra’s love? Was that irrelevant to history?’ I asked him that while he was in the water. ‘What of Richard the Third’s villainy?’ I said. ‘What of Joan of Arc’s fervor? It is character, not populations, that affect history!’ ”
“In the water?” I said blankly.
Terence echoed, “You pushed Professor Overforce in the water?”
“A push is an event, an incident, a fact,” Professor Peddick said, “and therefore irrelevant to Overforce’s theory. I said that to him when he shouted at me to pull him out. ‘Natural forces acting upon populations,’ I said.”
“Good Lord,” Terence said. “Turn the boat around, Ned. We’ve got to go back. I do hope he isn’t drowned by now.”
“Drowned? Impossible! A drowning is unimportant in his theory of history, though it be the drowning of the Duke of Clarence in a vat of malmsey! ‘What of murders?’ I said to him while he was splashing about, waving his arms and calling for help. ‘And what of help? They are irrelevant, for both require intention and morality, of both of which you have denied the existence. Where in your theory are purpose and plan and design?’ ‘I
knew
it!’Overforce said, thrashing wildly. ‘Your theory of history is nothing but an argument for a Grand Design!’ ‘And is there not evidence for a Grand Design?’ I said, offering my hand to him to pull him out. ‘Is there only chance in your theory of history? Is there no free will? Are there no acts of kindness?’ I said, and pulled Overforce up onto the bank. ‘Surely you must admit now that the individual and the event are not irrelevant to history,’ I said, quite reasonably. And the villain pushed me in!”
“But he is all right?” Terence said anxiously.
“All right?” Professor Peddick said. “He is wrongheaded, ignorant, prideful, opinionated, puerile, and violent! All right?”
“I mean, he’s not in danger of drowning.”
“Of course not,” Professor Peddick said. “He has no doubt gone off to expound his misguided theories to the Haviland Committee! And left me to drown! If you two had not come along when you did, I should have shared the Duke of Clarence’s fate. And Overforce, that villain, would have had the Haviland Chair!”
“Well, at least no one’s
killed
anyone,” Terence said. He looked anxiously at his pocket watch. “Ned, take the lines. We must hurry if we are to take the professor home and be back to Iffley before the afternoon’s gone.”
Good, I thought. When we get back to Folly Bridge I can make some excuse for not going on to Iffley with Terence—seasickness or a relapse or something—andgo back to the railway station. And hope my contact was still there.
“Iffley!” Professor Peddick said. “Just the place! Splendid dace fishing there. Tuttle Minor said he saw a split-tailed rainbow half a mile above Iffley Lock.”
“But shouldn’t you go back?” Terence said unhappily. “You should get out of those wet clothes.”
“Nonsense. Nearly dry. And this is too good an opportunity to miss. You’ve fishing lines, I presume, and bait?”
“But what about Professor Overforce?” I said. “Won’t he be worried about you?”
“Ha! He’s gone off to write about populations and teach his dog to ride a bicycle! Populations! History is made by individuals, not populations! Lord Nelson, Catherine de Medici, Galileo!”
Terence looked longingly at his pocket watch. “If you’re certain you won’t catch cold,” he said. “The thing is, I’ve an appointment at Iffley at two o’clock.”
“Then ‘Press on! while yet ye may!’ ” Professor Peddick said.
“ ‘Vestigia nulla retrorsum,’ ”
and Terence took up the oars with determination.
The willows dwindled to bushes and then to grass, and ahead around a long curve of the river I could see a gray church tower. Iffley.
I pulled out my pocket watch and counted out the Roman time. Five minutes till II. Terence would be on time for his appointment at least. And hopefully mine would wait for me.
“Stop!” the professor said and stood up in the boat.
“Don’t—” Terence said and dropped the oars with a clatter. I grabbed for him and caught the rug as it fell around his feet. The boat swayed dangerously, and water slopped over the gunwales. Cyril blinked, bleary-eyed, and wobbled to his feet, and that was all we needed.
“Sit,” I commanded, and Professor Peddick looked around bewilderedly and sat down.
“St. Trewes, we must take the boat to shore immediately,” he said, pointing at the bank. “Look.”
We all, even Cyril, looked at a grassy meadow covered in Queen Anne’s lace and buttercups.
“It is the very image of the field of Blenheim,” Professor Peddick said. “Look, yonder the village of Sonderheim and beyond it Nebel Brook. It proves my point exactly. Blind forces! It was the Duke of Marlborough who won the day! Have you an exercise book? And a fishing line?”
“Wouldn’t it be better to do this later? This afternoon, after we’ve been to Iffley.”
“The attack against Tallard happened in early afternoon in just this light,” Professor Peddick said, pulling on his boots. “What sort of bait did you bring?”
“ ‘Omnia aliena sunt, tempus tantum nostrum est,’ ”
Professor Peddick quoted. “ ‘Nothing is ours except time.’ ”
I leaned forward and whispered to Terence, “You could leave us here and come back for us after your appointment.”
He nodded, looking happier, and began bringing the boat in toward the bank. “But I need you to go with me,” he said, “to work the tiller. Professor Peddick, I’m going to put you ashore to study the battle, and we’ll go on to Iffley and then come back and collect you.” He began to look for a place to land.
It took an eternity to find a spot where the bank sloped enough for the professor to be able to climb it, and even longer to locate the fishing equipment. Terence rummaged through the Gladstone bag between frantic looks at his pocket watch, and I dug into the tin box, looking for the fishing line and a box of flies.
“Here it is!” Terence said. He thrust the flies into the professor’s pocket, reached for an oar, and pushed us up flat against the bank.
“Land ho,” Terence said, popping up and standing with one foot on the muddy bank. “Here you go, Professor.”
Professor Peddick looked vaguely around, picked up his mortarboard, and started to put it on.
“Wait!” I said, rescuing it. “Have you got a bowl or something, Terence? For the white gudgeon.”
We rummaged again, Terence through one of the bandboxes, I in my satchel. Two starched collars, a pair of black patent shoes three sizes too small for me, a toothbrush.
The covered basket Cyril had been sniffing at. It had the food in it, and presumably, a pot to cook it in. I dug through the jumble in the stern and then under the seat. There it was, perched on the prow. I reached for it.
“A kettle!” Terence said, holding one up by the handle. He handed it to me.
I emptied the fish and the water into it and handed the mortarboard to professor Peddick. “Don’t put it on just yet,” I said. “Wait till the water’s evaporated.”
“An apt pupil,” the professor said, beaming.
“ ‘Beneficiorum gratia sempiterna est.’
”
“All ashore that’s going ashore,” Terence said, and had him out of the boat and up the bank before I could set the kettle down.
“We’ll be an hour,” he said, clambering back into the boat and grabbing the oars. “Perhaps two.”
“I shall be here,” Professor Peddick said, standing on the very edge of the bank.
“ ‘Fidelis ad urnum.’ ”
“He won’t fall in again?” I said.
“No,” Terence said, not very convincingly, and went at the oars as if it were Eights Week.
We pulled rapidly away from Professor Peddick, who had stooped to peer at something on the ground through his pince-nez. The box of flies fell out of his pocket and skittered halfway down the bank. He bent farther and reached for it.
“Perhaps we should . . .” I said, and Terence gave a mighty pull around a bend, and there was the church and an arched stone bridge.
“She said she’d be waiting on the bridge,” Terence panted. “Can you see her?”
I shaded my eyes and looked at the bridge. There was someone standing near the north end of it. We pulled rapidly closer to the bridge. A young woman holding a white parasol. In a white dress.
“Is she there?” Terence said, yanking on the oars.
She was wearing a white hat with blue flowers on it, and under it her auburn hair shone in the sunlight.
“Am I too late?” Terence said.
“No,” I said. But I am, I thought.
She was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen.
Non semper ea sunt quae videntur.
(Things are not always what they seem.)
Phaedrus
C H A P T E R S I X
An English Rose—Ruffles—Cyril Guards the Boat—A Message from the Other Side—Seeing the Sights—A Butler—Signs and Portents—In a Country Churchyard—A Revelation—An Alias—Explanations—A Water-Logged Diary—Jack the Ripper—A Problem—Moses in the Bulrushes—More Aliases—An Even More Unexpected Development
I know, I had said the naiad was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen, but she had been wet and dirty, and, even though she looked like she’d risen out of a Pre-Raphaelite pond, unmistakably Twenty-First Century.
Just as the creature on the bridge was unmistakably Nineteenth. No historian, no matter how casually she caught up her trailing white skirts with a kid-gloved hand, no matter how erect she held her head on her aristocratic neck, could hope to capture the quality of stillness, of clear-eyed innocence of the girl on the bridge. She was like a delicate blossom, capable of growing only in a single time, adapted only to the select hothouse environment of the late Victorian era: the untouched flower, the blooming English rose, the angel in the house. She would be extinct in only a handful of years, replaced by the bicycling bloomer girl, the cigarette-smoking flapper and the suffragette.
A terrible melancholy swept over me. I could never have her. Standing there with her white parasol and her clear greenish-brown-eyed gaze, the image of youth and beauty, she was long since married to Terence, long since dead and buried in a churchyard like the one at the top of the hill.
“To port,” Terence said. “No, to port!” He rowed rapidly toward the side of the bridge, where there were several stakes, presumably for tying the boat up.
I grabbed the rope, jumped out into squishy mud, and looped the rope.
Terence and Cyril were already out of the boat and climbing the steep bank up to the bridge.
I tied a very lumpish-looking knot, wishing Finch had included a subliminal tape on half-hitches and sheepshanks, and that there were some way to lock the boat.
This is the Victorian era, I reminded myself, when people could trust each other and the earnest young man gets the girl and is probably already kissing her on the bridge.
He wasn’t. He was standing on the muddy bank, looking vaguely round. “I don’t see her,” he said, looking directly at the vision, “but her cousin’s here, and there’s the landau,” he pointed at an open carriage standing on the hill next to the church, “so she must still be here. What time is it?” He pulled out his pocket watch to look at it. “You don’t suppose they’ve sent her cousin to tell me she’s not to see me. If she—” he said, and broke into a wide smile.
