Part 2

Gretchen's smile was thin. She inclined her head, acknowledging the truth of what he said--they were indeed probably of an age. Certainly, she thought he could be no more than thirty-three or thereabouts. "Then, too, music, while an engaging diversion, and the source of much happiness, is better shared, wouldn't you say Professor?" He nodded slightly, and Gretchen clarified her statement. "That is to say--practicing is all very well, but...the joy of music is in sharing it with one's friends--musical soirées and evenings in the parlor with a roaring fire. Old friends gathered around the piano--and champagne!--"

Professor Bridwell warmed to her words, and rubbed his hands together as if before the very fire she had mentioned. "You have hit it precisely," he replied with enthusiasm. "Why--it's no wonder that living, as I do, alone in a house that I fear is far too large for..."

Gretchen thought she detected the professor falter just then, and there was the slightest of pauses in his speech.

"... For myself alone, you see," he finished. He laughed at himself, tossing the black mop of hair to one side. "But I needed some place instantly when I arrived here. I will probably find smaller digs in a year or so, when I've come to know the city more intimately."

"Indeed," Gretchen answered, returning his smile. "I quite understand how one needs permanent lodgings--the more quickly one can find them in a strange city, why, the quicker one is able to settle into life, get one's bearings in a foreign port."

"So true," he replied with a firm nod.

A few moments later, a juncture seemed to have been reached in their conversation. Their coffees were at an end, and neither of them had touched their cups for what seemed ages, so engaged had they become in their conversation.

"But now," Professor Bridwell exclaimed, with a glance to his pocket watch, "I should not be keeping you away from your supper or--or your other duties any longer. Please allow me to escort you home, Miss Haviland--or where you may be going."

"Thank you, Professor--but really there is no need," she declared. She thought that sounded too firm, and she smiled easily, to show that she meant it only literally, not as a rebuff. "My rooms are close by, and the evening air will do me good, you see. It shan't take me more than ten minutes at a brisk pace."

"Yes," he agreed. "I believe I shall walk myself. The air is good for the circulation, as long as one's pace is brisk."

Gretchen rose, and took a curtsey. The Professor held her coat and stood attentively while she donned her gloves. "I do thank you most kindly for the enchanting evening, Professor Bridwell. It--it has been marvelous."

"Likewise, Miss Haviland. I sincerely hope we shall have the pleasure again soon."

With a few more words of parting, Gretchen stepped into the street, followed by Professor Bridwell, and they went their separate ways. She fancied that he stood in the street and gazed at her until she turned the next corner, but she dared not glance back. The evening was extremely cold, though not overcast, and her wool coat, even with a shawl wrapped beneath, did not keep the chill from seeping into her bones. She rarely wore hats, but that evening she wished she had one--one of those large fur hats so favored in Russia, she thought--that would be most appropriate, since she could pull it down around her ears. By the time she arrived at her rooming house a few minutes later, she was shivering. She undressed and went straight to bed beneath layers of feather comforters with a hot water bottle pressed against her chest. She had no appetite for supper, and resolved to arise early and eat a hearty breakfast to compensate.

Sleep was elusive in the extreme, but Gretchen found herself strangely delighted that she could not sleep, for she had the leisure to think over in detail all that had happened that day. And especially, she had time to ponder her interlude with Professor Bridwell. He was a most intriguing man. He was a professor of English Literature--well, that could mean almost anything, she supposed--yet he did not have that _way_ about him. Nearly every professor of English she had ever met--and a good many students of literature as well--were continually spouting clever quotes gleaned from the works of obscure authors, living and dead--they were not particular about that. It often seemed to her that the more obscure the quotation, the more it was admired amongst their cronies. She had always found such practices revolting. But Professor Bridwell was not at all like that. Why, the entire evening--and it had been two hours in fact that they had sat over cups lukewarm coffee--he had never quoted an author, famous or otherwise. Yet, his choice of words, his demeanor, the hint of some foreign influence in his accent--the way he talked of Liszt--all pointed to an intimacy with the most literate form of the English language. Through clear thoughts and meticulous expression--rather than through haphazardly quoting other men--he exuded what she believed was a real professorial air, built upon a solid foundation without pretense. She found him refreshingly attractive, both for his own sake and as a change from the pompous professors she encountered so often in the library. As she drifted into sleep, the hot water bottle pressed against herself, she hoped she would have the opportunity for another such conversation with Professor Bridwell.

* * * * *

Gretchen's cart of books was extraordinarily loaded. Rather than push it slowly between the stacks as she reshelved books, she stopped the cart at the end of each row and carried a few books at a time to their proper places. The library was more quiet than usual, and despite the overwhelming number of books she had to replace that day she worked rather slowly. Lost in thought, she hummed to herself, not so loudly that any patron who happened to be about could hear, but loud enough for her own amusement. She had just returned to the cart and pushed it to the next row. She lifted another armful of books, choosing those whose home was in that particular row, and turned to walk slowly, watching the numbers. She glanced at each book when she shelved it, lamenting that she had too little time that day--there could be no stolen moments of reading, even briefly. She stood on her toes to reach an upper shelf and stopped humming for a moment. The sound of a footfall reached her at that instant, and she gave the book a quick shove.

"Good day, Miss Haviland."

Gretchen looked around to see a fine pair of wool trousers, as she returned her weight fully to her feet. Following upward with her eyes, she felt a pleasant blush. "Professor Bridwell, you startled me!" she exclaimed.

"Careful," he returned, reaching his hand above her head. Gretchen looked up to see that he pushed the book further onto the shelf; she had left it precariously tottering on the edge. "You almost lost one, Miss Haviland."

"Oh dear," she laughed, and grasped the rest of the books more securely to her chest. She continued to walk easily down the row, with her wool skirt swinging about her ankles. "Is there a book I can help you find?" she asked, whirling toward him like a schoolgirl.

"Actually," the professor said, nervously drawing out the word. "I've not come in a--a professional capacity at all today."

"Oh?" Gretchen turned to look at him, but kept walking. With her free hand, she extracted a strand of hair from her mouth.

"The other evening--at coffee," he said, taking up the pace beside her. "Well, really, I found the conversation most delightful and..."

"Yes?" Gretchen stopped, then knelt to shelve another book, lower down.

"And I was wondering," he continued rather quickly, as if he dare not speak of it, "whether you might consent to dine with me this evening."

Gretchen stood up, rather slowly. "I--well..."

"Yes," the professor stammered, "of course--such short notice. I understand. It's hardly proper, and I'm sure you're quite busy. Perhaps another time." He stepped backward as if to take his leave.

"Not at all," Gretchen said with a faint smile. She clutched the heavy books more tightly in her arms. "I should be delighted, really." She caught his eye then, and saw it twinkle. The sight of his smile could not but make her return it fully. "The other evening, it did seem there was ever so much more to say." She continued down the row, with Professor Bridwell beside her.

"Is that an acceptance?"

She laughed and stopped to face him squarely, as if astonished. "Why, I believe it is, Professor." She blinked her eyes. The sudden blush in his cheeks was profound, and she composed herself to keep from laughing.

"Would six o'clock be too late? Or too early?"

"Neither, Professor." Gretchen thought he looked as if he had been handed a Christmas goose. "I'll meet you at the main entrance."

"Stupendous! I'll..." He still sounded incredulous, and seemed near to bursting. He pushed his black locks from his eye, and twisted a lock on one finger. "I'll meet you at six then?"

They took their leaves of each other, and Gretchen thought she heard a faint whistling in the main stairwell as the sound of his boots on the stone steps receded. She flew to her cart immediately the sound died away in the distance. Her unflagging concentration would be required if she were to be finished by six--she had seven more cartloads of books, and less than five hours in which to reshelve them all. She did not stop or rest until five forty-five, when she bid Miss Sadie good evening, and made her way to the main entrance. She stood inside the great oak doors, under stone arches where she could see the professor through the glass when he approached. With a few moments to ponder and catch her breath while she waited, a sudden flutter filled her bosom. Good Lord, she thought to herself--it's a wonder he did not think me scandalously forward. She felt a faint tingling in her cheeks as if she had begun to color. What sort of woman would join a stranger for dinner with five hours notice? Part of her dared not even answer her own question, but another part of her replied that he was not a perfect stranger by any means--she had met him any number of times--and had joined him for coffee with no notice at all. It was hardly the time to start worrying about propriety. She pulled the ribbon from her hair and brushed it before retying the ribbon carefully and flinging her hair behind her back. The least I can do, she thought, is to make myself halfway presentable, though it's a pity I haven't time to change my coat. A hat might have been welcome for its warmth--the evening was sure to be cold--and for fashion as well. But then what is the use of seeming fashionable, she thought, if fashionable I am not?

With his arms wrapped closely around him and his ungloved hands tucked beneath his arms, Professor Bridwell trotted up the stairs. Upon seeing him, Gretchen pushed open the doors and stepped outside.

"Why it's cooler than I had thought," she remarked.

The professor's smile fairly warmed her heart. "Let's hurry along then," he said between chattering teeth, "I know just the place this evening. They'll even have a fire, and if we're quick about it, we might find a table close enough to feel its warmth."

Side by side, they walked out through the plaza. The clouds had descended, muffling the sounds of the city beyond. They continued through the campus gates into the nearby streets. The neighborhood was uncrowded, since so many students had left for their holidays, and though there were a few groups of people walking to and fro, dressed warmly against the weather, only the occasional carriage rattled by. Professor Bridwell led the way into a side street, where they were greeted by a brightly lit café.

"I had no idea...," Gretchen began.

"Of a French café so near campus?" the professor finished for her. "It's quite new." He pulled open the door and the sounds of bustling crowds and gay voices greeted them. "I say," he continued, "the place appears to have been discovered." Gretchen followed him in while he held the door, and stood by removing her gloves while he conferred with the head waiter. She glanced up as she folded her gloves in time to see the man wisk a bill into his apron pocket.

"Follow me, monsieur."

The professor took Gretchen's arm and led her along. Their table was in the back and, as Professor Bridwell had hoped, it was close by an open brick fireplace filled with a roaring blaze of crackling oak logs. She sat in silent attendance while their waiter recited, in heavily accented English, a seemingly unending speech upon the specialities of the house.

Gretchen lost the particulars mid-way, and her eyes strayed beyond him to the fire. "I'm quite overwhelmed," she exclaimed when he had finished and stood poised before them. "Please--do what you think best, Professor."

Professor Bridwell surprised her then, by leaning back with the casual air of one who knows what he is about, and held forth in what seemed, to Gretchen's ear, flawless French.

"Bravo, Professor," she chimed when he had finished. "Your French is beautiful."

The professor seemed somewhat embarrassed then, and smoothly turned the conversation to the decor. The room was hardly what Gretchen should have expected of a French café--it was done in stark white, with high rafters of carved wood, but upon the walls hung gorgeously worked Persian carpets which served to bring the ceiling down and lend intimacy to the room; and to muffle the sound of so many conversing guests. Their entrees arrived in due course--a delightful poached white fish in delicate sauce, which they ate practically in silence, but for the occasional comment upon the food. He asked after her health, and heard the small-talk of the day, then listened with interest to an abridged account of her life, interjecting only occasional questions to clarify certain points. She stopped short of revealing the estrangement of her family, but dwelt upon her years at university.

Gretchen at length noticed the emptiness of her plate and declared that the fish positively melted in one's mouth. Professor Bridwell replied that he would send compliments to the chef. His smile grew gradually as he said this, with a hint of something further he wished to add, but he stopped.

"Was there something else?" she asked, setting her silver carefully atop her empty plate.

"No, nothing," he laughed, putting down his own silver.

Presently, their plates were cleared away and the professor ordered a liqueur with coffee. Gretchen declined a liqueur, having drunk enough wine already to raise her color slightly--she settled for coffee and a small gateau.

"You mentioned that you play the viola," he said, taking up his liqueur with one hand. "Have you been playing long?"

"Since I was sixteen," she replied, stirring cream into her coffee. "I began with the violin as a child--I really can't recall at what age. When I was sixteen I went away for a summer, and..." she stopped to look at him for an instant, tapping upon her gateau with her fork. "Well, I met a young man who played the viola, and I was quite--quite taken with his instrument. It seemed to suit me, really."

"I would say it does," the professor agreed. "Unusual, especially for a woman--mildly exotic even...and intriguing..."

They continued conversing about the viola and the piano, telling each other about their favorite pieces, comparing composers. Gretchen had never played the piano seriously herself--she found it frustrating and was amazed that anyone could master such an instrument.

"It requires such independence of the hands," she said. "I've tried, but I could never play anything worth mentioning. Oh, the organ is another one that I simply cannot fathom. Beautiful to hear, it's quite comical to watch--and seems so awkward to play."

"Neither is really any more complicated than the viola, I should think," the professor replied. He had been twirling his glass for some time, but he stopped and removed his hand from the table. "Think of the dexterity required to control your bow, and the simultaneous imparting of vibrato while retaining correct intonation. It's quite as remarkable."

"I see what you mean, certainly. It all seems easy with long practice."

"Do you sing alto as well?"

She laughed. "Very poor alto, Professor."

"But alto nonetheless. I was certain you would sing alto." He sipped his liqueur again and twirled the glass slowly. "What about opera? I despise Wagner myself."

"Really?" Gretchen replied, reaching for her coffee. "I can't say I truly enjoy Wagner's work, the little I have heard. But Verdi--is luscious."

"Yes, Verdi. I quite agree with your assessment. And Mozart, of course, is beyond reproach."

"Positively. But I generally prefer the intimacy of lieder myself."

"German?"

She laughed and pointed her fork at him. "Not only German--chansons as well."

"I'm relieved to hear it." Professor Bridwell then put one hand into his pocket, and withdrew his silver cigarette case. "Would you mind, Miss Haviland, if I smoke?"

"Of course not," she replied.

"Some ladies find it offensive," he said, opening the case slowly, "but I find it the perfect finish to a delightful meal."

"I couldn't agree more." Gretchen pushed away her plate--the gateau though small, was simply too rich--and sat back upon her chair. Cigarettes had always appealed to her, and she indulged on occasion herself--in private. Cigars she could not abide, however, for they reminded her too much of her father's odious acquaintances--men who came to play cards each week throughout her childhood. "If I might ask," she said quietly, folding her hands the table, "how do you feel about women smoking, Professor?"

He paused, with the open case upon the table before him and looked steadily into her eyes. "Miss Haviland," he answered, "we are living in an enlightened age, are we not? Women's suffrage--and frankly, it will happen soon, I'm sure. University educations--such as your own."

She nodded, but let him continue. He studied the top of the cigarette case with some care. From the side, a hovering waiter produced a shallow ashtray of white china and set it near his elbow.

"I have no objection," he continued, "to a woman pursuing whatever takes her fancy, provided she's reached majority. The same as any man." He fingered the cigarette case, closing and then opening it again. "A strong and independent mind is an asset in anyone, male or female." He looked up hesitantly. "You seem to have such a mind. You've read Mr. Darwin, I believe--and I suspect other progressive thinkers as well."

Gretchen smiled at him, but tilted her head with some puzzlement.

"You once called me more evolved," he replied answering her unspoken question. "That's hardly the sort of phrase an unread woman would use. I presumed you have read Mr. Darwin, among others." He curled his lips upon seeing her amusement and continued speaking. "It is the mind, I believe--and the soul, if one is religiously inclined--that really distinguishes man from the lesser animals. Female no less than male--we all possess that most human of traits."

His extensive reply was more favorable and pointed than she would have thought possible. It pleased her, and confirmed a great deal that she had sensed about him. "Then you won't mind at all if I join you?"

"By all means," he returned without hesitation, holding the silver case toward her. She deftly removed a cigarette, and tamping it upon her fingernail twice, held it out for him to light. She bent back her wrist and let it dangle between her long fingers while he lit his own cigarette.

"Now that we've learned all about me," she said, blowing a thin stream of smoke away, "perhaps you'll tell me about yourself, Professor."

"Please," he said, setting the ashtray in the middle of the table, "do call me Antoine. We needn't be so formal, I think."

She laughed quietly. "Antoine."

"My mother was French," he stated quietly.

Gretchen caught his use of the past tense, but did not inquire further. "No doubt she is the source of your excellent French."

"Maman did speak French to me as a child--but my French is quite poor for anything but domestic conversation."

"From what little I speak," she replied, drawing on her cigarette, "you sounded quite fluent." She let the smoke linger on her lips, then blew it away softly.

"Why thank you for the compliment...Miss Haviland."

"Oh, dear," she said, realizing what she had neglected. "My Christian name is Gretchen."

"Gretchen Haviland," he repeated slowly. "That has quite a satisfactory ring to it."

She complimented him on the quality of the tobacco when they were finished smoking. The hour was past nine o'clock, so they left the café and walked into the street. The fog had descended, lower and thicker than before. Occasional carriages appeared, rumbling quietly along. Tatters of mist blew sluggishly past the gaslights.

"I hope you shall allow me the pleasure of escorting you home this evening?" he asked as they walked.

"I should be honored."

He held out his elbow, and she slipped her gloved hand over his forearm. They walked in silence toward her rooming house, both enjoying the quiet of the evening. It seemed much warmer than before, and Gretchen thought a snow was about to fall. The air had the crisp scent of impending snow.

"I am delighted," Professor Bridwell said after a while, "that you were not busy this evening. Surely you must have so many friends. Other engagements."

"No," she answered, "I have very few friends. But surely--Antoine--there must be any number of ladies who would be far better company..."

"I'm too involved with my books, I fear. Studying all the time; preparing lectures--while the ladies run off with younger rakes." He glanced at her with a teasing half-smile. "I'll be thirty-five come February."

Gretchen laughed to hear him say such things. But she was pleased that she had guessed his age so nearly.

"I fear," he continued, "it is my fate to attend concerts alone, and remain unwed all my life."

"Well," Gretchen replied, "there's something sad in that then, is there not? Two studious people nearly of an age, with no other attachments." She looked sidelong at him. "And with Christmas so near..."

"Yes," he agreed, "there is a bit of sadness in that. Have you no family nearby, Gretchen?"

"No, they're ALL in Connecticut--too far to visit this year, and my rooming house would hardly be suitable for inviting them to visit me."

He laughed pleasantly at this. Yet she did not tell him that she was estranged from her parents.

"Besides my family being far away--at twenty-nine, one cannot be forever running home to one's parents, can one?" she asked.

"I do understand that," he said. "Fancy the two of us then, alone for Christmas--it seems rather a shame."

"It does indeed," Gretchen answered looking away. Snow had begun to fall, silently and hesitantly. The flakes, drifting between the empty branches of trees along the avenue, seemed as large as walnuts; as fluffy as eider down.