A Descant for Gossips Read Free

overdeveloped female profile in the margin of his book. Peters, right under his nose, had more juvenile tastes and had inked in every ‘o’ in the poem. He sighed, quite audibly, and the class took this as the signal to drop the pretence of concentration. They rustled with relief.
    From farther along the school building the neums of multiplication tables plain-chanted into the morning became part of the heat, the boredom in the room. It is impossible, Moller thought petulantly, utterly impossible to conform happily to the syllabus. And he proceeded moodily to discussion and analysis of the poem, details of technique. Thirty minutes dragged a wounded length round the clock-face. Moller closed his book and asked the class if the poem suggested anything to them about the poet. The twenty faces stared politely but in a hurt fashion at him for half a minute, and then a few tentative hands were raised. Vinny Lalor caught his eye. She had been hoping she would. She was one of the few who listened to and enjoyed her poetry classes. Whenever Mr. Moller read she wanted to cry.
    â€˜Well?’ he asked, interested in her opinion because of the difficulty of the poem and because he had known her school background for three years.
    Vinny stood up with her hands resting on the desk to support her, as her chair was pushed in too far in order to make room for the desk behind. Leaning awkwardly, appearing to topple with her zeal, she shook a piece of hair out of her eyes.
    â€˜He was a very unhappy man,’ she stated definitely. ‘But he enjoyed being unhappy.’
    The class laughed. Paradox appeared plain silly. That was all. Moller could not help smiling himself, but because of her cynicism. Kindred spirits, he thought. It takes one sufferer to understand another.
    â€˜Perhaps not all the time,’ he said. ‘Though it was very clever of you to sense that some people do enjoy their agonies. I think that only people capable of assessing their suffering are capable of writing about it with sensitivity. They stand back from themselves, as it were, and watch their own joy or unhappiness with an interested observer’s eye. In a way it is good to be clinical about your personality, for self-analysis should be honest if it is to have any meaning when it is written down.’
    He did not know whether the girl understood all he said. He felt sure she would understand part of it. Vinny watched him with bright eyes, happy at being the sole receiver of his opinion.
    Moller eased his chair back from the table and walked over to the window. Sid Ewer’s truck with stinking exhaust crashed across the rectangle and vanished into the receding perspective of the trees. As he watched the red dust settle he told them something of Brennan’s life and his unhappy career. There was not much he could tell them, he reflected, for too many of them knew adultery and drunkenness in such a day-to-day fashion in their own homes, its relevance in the life of one of the country’s finest poets would be missed.
    â€˜Before we finish,’ he said, glancing thankfully at his watch, ‘are there any questions?’
    He looked round the room without much hope that his invitation would be accepted. Betty Klee was nodding vigorously and giggling at Pearl Warburton. Pearl rose, smiling but with poise, and said, ‘Please, sir, there’s one thing I didn’t understand. What does “niggard bosom” mean?’
    A convulsion of mirth shook the room, but Moller preserved his calm. He looked at her sadly and smiled back.
    â€˜Howard,’ he said, ‘the essays. There’s half a minute to go. Is there anyone who has not completed it?’
    Three arms waved shyly. He glanced at the owners and noted their names in a pocket diary. ‘No excuses accepted,’ he said. ‘Remain after school.’
    The class shuffled as the period bell rang. Some of them stood in an attitude of respect when he left the