He took the John Jamison down from the dresser. Presently he went down the hall to the bathroom to get a glass.
Carl walked very slowly along, his manuscript under his arm, feeling his way through the darkness. For a little while he thought about the things Verne had said. But after a bit all thoughts seemed to leave his mind.
He gazed up at the sky. Ahead of him the dim outline of a building moved, swinging to one side as he walked toward it. His mind was empty. He clutched his manuscript tightly. How strange! He tried to think of what Verne had been saying, but nothing came. He was relaxed. His mind lay in sleep. The violet sky, the ground under him, the vast dim outlines, all were exciting and full of mystery. They made it hard to concentrate.
He halted, catching his breath. Then he went on, increasing his pace more and more.
His shoe touched something. He was there, at the foot of the steps. Above him, the great wood building cut off the sky, blotting out a section of the violet dusk.
Carl stood for a time. The air was thin and cool. It blew around him, stirring some trees along the side of the dormitory. He could hear the branches of the trees, rubbing together in the darkness. There was no other sound. Only the wind and the trees.
Carl started up the steps. He climbed one at a time, holding onto the railing, going very slowly and quietly. Almost solemnly. As if he were part of some procession. The first person in a religious line, slow-moving, solemn and serious. With his manuscript gripped tightly under his arm like an offering.
On the porch he stopped. He rested. Why should it all seem so solemn to him? Why was he making such an important thing of it? He was only doing what he had done before, carrying his manuscript over to read to Barbara.
But the feeling remained. Perhaps it was what Verne had said. He had made everything seem so important and grim. But this was not grimness that he felt, not now. Not hardness, not that at all. It was awe, the hushed awe of the church. As if he were entering the temple.
The temple. Carl gazed up at the building. And he, carrying his offering. A procession winding its way slowly to the temple, with solemn steps. The offering held tightly, a sacred thing.
But that made him smile. His brown-paper and string bundle, a sacred thing? There was nothing holy about his treatise. It was much too calm, too intellectual, to be a religious object. It was not enough alive.
But there was life, somewhere around him, in the night. The stars, coming out above him. They were alive. The wind and the trees. And dimly, half way up the steep side of the building, a thin line of yellow light. The outline of Barbara’s window. And, of course, he, too, was alive. At least, in some sense or other.
Carl entered the building. He made his way up the stairs to the second floor. Yes, he was alive. Especially of late. Since he had stood that moment, in the hot sun, gazing across the water at the girl. Since then especially, he had been alive. But why that had mattered he did not know. It was a mystery, in part.
He came to Barbara’s door and rapped.
The door opened. “Come in,” Barbara said.
Carl hesitated. “All right.”
“Come on!”
He went inside slowly. Barbara closed the door after him. Carl stood shyly in the center of the room, looking around him. “Your room looks wonderful.”
“Thanks.” Barbara rustled past him. Her face and hair shone, reflecting the light from the lamp in the corner. As if she had been carefully brushed. She had on a flower-print blouse and dark slacks. And sandals. Carl glanced at her again and again as she moved about the room, fixing things here and there.
“Yes, it looks wonderful.”
“Put your book down.”
“All right.” He set his manuscript down on the table by the bed. Barbara had fixed the room up with many colors and fabrics. The room was rich and warm. Carl sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed. “I can’t get over how it looks. The drapes. The prints. All the flowers.”
Barbara was at the window. She ran her finger over the glass. “It’s cold outside, isn’t it?” The glass was wet with collected moisture. She pulled the shades down.
“Yes. It’s cold.” Carl unwrapped his manuscript. He laid the brown paper and string on the floor. Barbara seemed very quiet and withdrawn. She was not saying much. “I won’t leave these wrappings around. I’ll take them with me when I leave. I don’t want to spoil your room.”
“It’s not so wonderful.” Barbara sat down across from him, in a chair.
“I think it looks fine.”
“Thank you.” She nodded curtly.
Carl leaned back on the bed, arranging his papers. The bedsprings squeaked under him. He made a face.
“Don’t mind that. They always do that.”
“All right.” He made himself comfortable. “Shall I begin?”
“Already?”
He blinked. “Well, I—”
Suddenly Barbara leaped up. She swept two small glasses from the dresser and set them on the table by the bed. From the corner of the room she brought out a bottle of wine and uncorked it.
“What’s that?” Carl asked.
“Burgundy.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t you like burgundy?”
“I—” Carl hesitated.
Barbara lowered the bottle. “What’s wrong?”
Carl did not know. He searched his mind, but he found everything confused, unclear. “I’m sorry. I guess I would like a little. Thank you very much.”
Barbara poured the two glasses full and recorked the bottle. She gave Carl his glass.
Carl sipped. “It’s good.”
“Yes. It’s good wine.” Barbara sat down again. The two of them sat silently, sipping from their glasses, neither of them speaking. At last Carl stirred.
“Well, I guess I’ll go ahead.”
“Fine.”
“You—you don’t mind listening, do you? I don’t want to impose. There isn’t very much left.”
“Of course I want you to read. I asked you to bring it. You’re funny, Carl.”
Carl picked up his papers. The room was partly in shadow. Only the small lamp was on. It made the colors and textures of the drapes and prints seem deep and full. The room was lovely, but it was hard for him to see his pages. Barbara was sitting almost in darkness. Her eyes were large and dark. She was lovely, too.
Carl smiled at her. “Here goes.”
Barbara leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs. She rested her hands in her lap. Carl felt his heart begin to beat a little faster. And to his surprise he found his voice low and husky, as he began to read the first page of the remaining sections of the treatise.
After he had read a while he noticed that Barbara seemed restless. He lowered the pages.
“What is it?”
Barbara stood up. “I can hardly hear you. Wait.” She crossed the room and sat down beside him on the bed. The bedsprings creaked. Carl felt the bed sag.
“Not very strong, is it?” he muttered in confusion. He edged away from her. “I’m sorry my voice is so dry.”
“It’s all right. Go on.” Barbara stretched out on the bed, resting her shoulders against the wall. Carl glanced at her. Then he went on with the treatise.
Barbara, listening to the sound of Carl’s voice, felt herself slowly passing into sleep. She rested her body against the wall, hearing the low, intense murmur coming out of him as he sat bent over his manuscript, the pages on his lap. His words were losing their meaning, blending and fading together. But it did not matter.
She watched him sleepily as he read. Carl’s face was serious, absorbed, his lips moving. His pages meant so much to him. He had worked on them so hard. His hands were clasped tightly around the page he was reading, as if he were afraid something would happen to it, as if it might blow away and become lost any moment.