careful children's drawings of goddesses with waving multiple arms, would be erased. Avery, swaggering toward
him with his paper sword, would be erased. And so for this moment only can he take pleasure in imagining Ramanujan, dressed
rather as Avery was dressed, writing out his infinite series amidst Oriental splendors, even though he suspects that in fact
the young man wastes his days sorting and stamping documents, probably in a windowless room in a building the English gloom
of which not even the brilliant sun of the east can melt away.
There is nothing else to do. He must consult Littlewood. And not, this time, by postcard. No, he will go and see Littlewood.
Carrying the envelope, he will make the walk—all forty paces of it—to D staircase, Nevile's Court, and knock on Littlewood's
door.
3
E VERY CORNER OF Trinity has a story to tell. D staircase of Nevile's Court is where Lord Byron once resided, and kept his pet
bear, Bruin, whom he walked on a lead in protest of the college rule against keeping dogs.
Now Littlewood lives here—perhaps (Hardy isn't sure) in the very rooms where Bruin once romped. First floor. It is nine o'clock
in the evening—after dinner, after soup and Dover sole and pheasant and cheese and port—and Hardy is sitting on a stiff settee
before a guttering fire, watching as Littlewood pushes his wheeled wooden chair from his desk and rolls himself across the
floor, without once averting his eyes from the Indian's manuscript. Will he crash into a wall? No: he comes to a halt at a
spot near the front door and crosses his legs at the ankles. Socks, no shoes. His glasses are tipped low on his nose, from
which little snorts of breath escape, stirring the hairs of a mustache that, in Hardy's view, does little for his face. (Little for Littlewood.) But he would never say so, even if asked, which he never would be. Although they have been collaborating for several years
now, this is only the third time that Hardy has ever visited Littlewood in his rooms.
" I have found a function which exactly represents the number of prime numbers less than x, ' " Littlewood reads aloud. "Too
bad he doesn't give it."
"I rather think he's hoping that by not giving it, he'll be able to entice me to write back to him. Dangling the carrot."
"And will you?"
"I'm inclined to, yes."
"I would." Littlewood puts down the letter. "Look, what's he asking for? Help in publishing his stuff. Well, if it turns out
there's something there, we can—and should—help him. Providing he gives us more details."
"And some proofs."
"What do you think of the infinite series, by the way?"
"Either they came to him in a dream or he's keeping some much more general theorem up his sleeve."
With his stockinged foot, Littlewood rolls himself back to his desk. Outside the window, elm branches rustle. It's the hour
when, even on a comparatively mild day like this, winter reasserts itself, sending little incursions of wind round the corners,
up through the cracks in the floorboards, under the doors. Hardy wishes that Littlewood would get up and stoke the fire. Instead
he keeps reading. He is twenty-seven years old, and though he is not tall, he gives an impression of bulk, of breadth—evidence
of the years he spent doing gymnastics. Hardy, by contrast, is fine-boned and thin, his athleticism more the wiry cricketer's
than the agile gymnast's. Though many people, men as well as women, have told him that he is handsome, he considers himself
hideous, which is why, in his rooms, there is not a single mirror. When he stays in hotels, he tells people, he covers the
mirrors with cloth.
Littlewood is in his way a Byronic figure, Hardy thinks, or at least as Byronic as it is possible for a mathematician to be.
For instance, every warm morning he strolls through New Court with only a towel wrapped around his waist to bathe in the Cam.
This habit caused something of a scandal back in 1905, when he was
him with his paper sword, would be erased. And so for this moment only can he take pleasure in imagining Ramanujan, dressed
rather as Avery was dressed, writing out his infinite series amidst Oriental splendors, even though he suspects that in fact
the young man wastes his days sorting and stamping documents, probably in a windowless room in a building the English gloom
of which not even the brilliant sun of the east can melt away.
There is nothing else to do. He must consult Littlewood. And not, this time, by postcard. No, he will go and see Littlewood.
Carrying the envelope, he will make the walk—all forty paces of it—to D staircase, Nevile's Court, and knock on Littlewood's
door.
3
E VERY CORNER OF Trinity has a story to tell. D staircase of Nevile's Court is where Lord Byron once resided, and kept his pet
bear, Bruin, whom he walked on a lead in protest of the college rule against keeping dogs.
Now Littlewood lives here—perhaps (Hardy isn't sure) in the very rooms where Bruin once romped. First floor. It is nine o'clock
in the evening—after dinner, after soup and Dover sole and pheasant and cheese and port—and Hardy is sitting on a stiff settee
before a guttering fire, watching as Littlewood pushes his wheeled wooden chair from his desk and rolls himself across the
floor, without once averting his eyes from the Indian's manuscript. Will he crash into a wall? No: he comes to a halt at a
spot near the front door and crosses his legs at the ankles. Socks, no shoes. His glasses are tipped low on his nose, from
which little snorts of breath escape, stirring the hairs of a mustache that, in Hardy's view, does little for his face. (Little for Littlewood.) But he would never say so, even if asked, which he never would be. Although they have been collaborating for several years
now, this is only the third time that Hardy has ever visited Littlewood in his rooms.
" I have found a function which exactly represents the number of prime numbers less than x, ' " Littlewood reads aloud. "Too
bad he doesn't give it."
"I rather think he's hoping that by not giving it, he'll be able to entice me to write back to him. Dangling the carrot."
"And will you?"
"I'm inclined to, yes."
"I would." Littlewood puts down the letter. "Look, what's he asking for? Help in publishing his stuff. Well, if it turns out
there's something there, we can—and should—help him. Providing he gives us more details."
"And some proofs."
"What do you think of the infinite series, by the way?"
"Either they came to him in a dream or he's keeping some much more general theorem up his sleeve."
With his stockinged foot, Littlewood rolls himself back to his desk. Outside the window, elm branches rustle. It's the hour
when, even on a comparatively mild day like this, winter reasserts itself, sending little incursions of wind round the corners,
up through the cracks in the floorboards, under the doors. Hardy wishes that Littlewood would get up and stoke the fire. Instead
he keeps reading. He is twenty-seven years old, and though he is not tall, he gives an impression of bulk, of breadth—evidence
of the years he spent doing gymnastics. Hardy, by contrast, is fine-boned and thin, his athleticism more the wiry cricketer's
than the agile gymnast's. Though many people, men as well as women, have told him that he is handsome, he considers himself
hideous, which is why, in his rooms, there is not a single mirror. When he stays in hotels, he tells people, he covers the
mirrors with cloth.
Littlewood is in his way a Byronic figure, Hardy thinks, or at least as Byronic as it is possible for a mathematician to be.
For instance, every warm morning he strolls through New Court with only a towel wrapped around his waist to bathe in the Cam.
This habit caused something of a scandal back in 1905, when he was
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