If he hadn’t been pathetic, Peter Appleton would have been ludicrous. In fact, most undergraduates laughed at him — that is, when they weren’t disgusted. He was a sophomore and a poet. The year before he had been an artist. An oil painting hung over his desk: three whiskey bottles, and in the background a crucifix at a crazy angle. It was done in blue and gray. He laughed at it now, but he kept it there.
There is no such person as a typical Harvard student; no more than there is a typical doctor or a typical gangster. But there are types of Harvard students; unfortunately, that cannot be avoided. There is the high-school type which learns, about the end of its freshman year, to take off its blue serge suit and black shoes and put on a tweed coat, gray flannels, and dirty white shoes. After this metamorphosis the type is still recognizable at fifty yards. There are the scholar and the athlete. They are not peculiar to Harvard. There is the clubman. If all that was ever written or said about the snobbishness at Harvard were put in one volume, it would be an understatement. And the personification of this is the clubman. He, too, is recognizable at fifty yards, and not only by the identifying necktie he happens to be wearing. The club system at Harvard is unbelievable, and it is interesting only because everyone, whether he will admit it or not, is a snob at heart. You are elected to a “final” club on the basis of your social standing, your school, and your friends, your money, and your ability to drink without breaking furniture. If your father or your uncle or your second cousin was a member of the club, you are that much farther ahead. Your intelligence counts a little more than two per cent. The Hasty Pudding Club is merely a stepping-stone to the other clubs. It elects about seventy-five sophomores every year and your chances of getting in are worthless unless you have some club behind you. Despite periodic uplift movements, it remains as politically rife as any ward machine. The Pudding’s outstanding benefit to its members is the right to wear a black and white striped tie. Which, around Boston, is like having a sign on your back reading, “Look at me. I am a member of the Élite.”
Peter Appleton was not a member of the Hasty Pudding Club, but he was a type. He would be outraged if you told him so. He thought of himself as a genius. He wiped his hands, went back to his room, and sat down at his desk. In front of him was a poem written in flowing longhand and purple ink. It read: —
MILLENNIUM
(Dedicated to Albert Singer)
I stand on the bank not thinking—
I am a bird, a bright shining bird
With a breast like a thousand tiny gems glistening
Under water
In my heart is a song that I cannot sing
A sad song not sweet
But bitter
Bitter like a cold wind on a mountain
Like marsh grass
Like a shopgirl’s laughter
And lonely too perhaps
As lonely as lonely
Like a child’s good-bye
i am forlorn
immitigable, hopeless
and queerly happy
for i know as i know a door
or a tree or a word
i know that i am
you . . .
When the extras came out at ten-thirty, Peter Appleton read about the murder.
Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild were playing backgammon. They rolled the dice and moved the checkers conventionally, hardly bothering to double. Backgammon is a remarkable mask for thought. The radio was tuned to a symphony programme.
Mrs. Arthur Fairchild, as Illinois had pointed out, was “the Society one.” She headed committees, attended luncheons and smart lectures, and entertained. Her Thursday evening buffet suppers and musicales were famous; they were The Thing. If she wasn’t mentioned three times a week in the Society columns, it was safe to say she was out of town. She wore tweeds and skied at Peckett’s. In time she would wear a “choker” and look down her nose at unsteady freshmen at the Brattle Hall dances. The Fairchilds had a son at Milton, a daughter at Winsor, and a house at Gloucester. Once a year they went to Bermuda.
Arthur Fairchild had three subjects of conversation: the Roosevelt Administration, club life at Harvard, and yachting; but he had acquired sufficient wealth and looked very impressive in evening clothes.
A voice interrupted the music on the radio: “. . . bring you a special announcement. Professor Albert Singer of Harvard was found murdered in his room in Hallowell House at eight o’clock this evening, by Edmund Jones, an undergraduate. He was noted as an authority on Italian Art and had written several books on the subject. The police are at work on the case. For further details see your local newspaper.”
Mrs. Fairchild went completely limp and slipped sideways in her chair. She was on the floor before her husband could reach her.
It was the first time she had ever fainted.
Adam Rosen wrote: “Using his own design, Bramante began work on St. Peter’s in Rome in 1506. The plan called for a Greek cross with apsidal arms, the four angles occupied by domical chapels and loggias within a square outline. Owing to faulty construction, two arches supporting the dome collapsed and—”
“Hey, Rosey! Singer’s been murdered!” It was someone at the door.
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I say. That crazy fool Jones found him about eight, stabbed with a paper cutter or something. Come on over — it’s lousy with cops.”
Rosen was skeptical. “Are you kidding?”
“No, dammit, it’s all over college. Come on!”
“Murdered? God! he had a fine brain. Wait a minute!” He finished his sentence on the typewriter. . . work was delayed for a long period.”
Coming down from the Square, Betty Mahan overheard two undergraduates talking about the murder. She stopped them and asked for details. They were gladly given.
When Miss Mahan became an assistant librarian at the Fogg Museum, the
