The British Museum is Falling Down

by David Lodge

  ‘How much do you want?’ said Adam.

  ‘I want to call Denver, Colorado.’

  ‘Not that much,’ said Adam. ‘You’d need about sixty shillings. Or a hundred-and-twenty sixpences. Or . . . two hundred and forty threepenny bits. There’s a bank round the corner,’ he concluded.

  ‘You should be president of it, young man,’ said the fat American. ‘Take my accountant’s adding machine away and he wouldn’t know how many fingers he had.’

  ‘Yes, well . . . if you want to use the phone.’ Adam gestured politely to the empty booth. ‘Perhaps you could reverse the charges.’

  ‘Collect? That’s a good idea. You’re a great nation,’ said the fat man, as he squeezed himself into the booth.

  Adam muttered a farewell, and hastened to the Reading Room, brandishing his new ticket in readiness.

  He passed through the narrow vaginal passage, and entered the huge womb of the Reading Room. Across the floor, dispersed along the radiating desks, scholars curled, foetus-like, over their books, little buds of intellectual life thrown off by some gigantic act of generation performed upon that nest of knowledge, those inexhaustible ovaries of learning, the concentric inner rings of the catalogue shelves.

  The circular wall of the Reading Room wrapped the scholars in a protective layer of books, while above them arched the vast, distended belly of the dome. Little daylight entered through the grimy glass at the top. No sounds of traffic or other human business penetrated to that warm, airless space. The dome looked down on the scholars, and the scholars looked down on their books; and the scholars loved their books, stroking the pages with soft pale fingers. The pages responded to the fingers’ touch, and yielded their knowledge gladly to the scholars, who collected it in little boxes of file-cards. When the scholars raised their eyes from their desks they saw nothing to distract them, nothing out of harmony with their books, only the smooth, curved lining of the womb. Wherever the eye travelled, it met no arrest, no angle, no parallel lines receding into infinity, no pointed arch striving towards the unattainable: all was curved, rounded, self-sufficient, complete. And the scholars dropped their eyes to their books again, fortified and consoled. They curled themselves more tightly over their books, for they did not want to leave the warm womb, where they fed upon electric light and inhaled the musty odour of yellowing pages.

  But the women who waited outside felt differently. From their dingy flats in Islington and cramped semis in Bexleyheath, they looked out through the windows at the life of the world, at the motor-cars and the advertisements and the clothes in the shops, and they found them good. And they resented the warm womb of the Museum which made them poor and lonely, which swallowed up their men every day and sapped them of their vital spirits and made them silent and abstracted mates even when they were at home. And the women sighed for the day when their men would be expelled from the womb for the last time, and they looked at their children whimpering at their feet, and they clasped their hands, coarsened with detergent, and vowed that these children would never be scholars.

  Lawrence, thought Adam. It’s time I got on to Lawrence.

  He weaved his way to the row of desks where he and Camel usually worked, and noted the familiar figures at whose sides he had worked for two years, without ever exchanging a word with any of them: earnest, efficient Americans, humming away like dynamos, powered by Guggenheim grants; turbanned Sikhs, all called Mr Singh, and all studying Indian influences on English literature; pimply, bespectacled women smiling cruelly to themselves as they noted an error in somebody’s footnote; and then the Museum characters—the gentleman whose beard reached to his feet, the lady in shorts, the man wearing odd shoes and a yachting-cap reading a Gaelic newspaper with a one-stringed lute propped up on his desk, the woman who sniffed. Adam recognised Camel’s coat and briefcase at one of the desks, but the seat was unoccupied.

  Eventually he discovered Camel in the North Library. They did not usually work there: it was overheated, and its low rectangular shape and green furnishings gave one the sense of being in an aquarium for tropical fish. The North Library was used especially for consulting rare and valuable books, and there were also a number of seats reserved for the exclusive use of eminent scholars, who enjoyed the privilege of leaving their books on their desks for indefinite periods. These desks were rarely occupied except by piles of books and cards bearing distinguished names, and they reminded Adam of a waxworks from which all the exhibits had been withdrawn for renovation.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he whispered to Camel.

  ‘I’m reading an allegedly pornographic book,’ Camel explained. ‘You have to fill out a special application and read it here under the Superintendent’s nose. To make sure you don’t masturbate, I suppose.’

  ‘Good Lord. D’you think they’ll make me do that for Lady Chatterley’s Lover?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so, now you can buy it and masturbate at home.’

  ‘What seat did you save for me in the Reading Room?’

  ‘Next to mine. Number thirteen, I think.’

  ‘You seem to have an attachment to the number thirteen where I’m concerned,’ said Adam, petulantly. ‘I’m not superstitious, but there’s no point in taking chances.’

  ‘What kind of chances?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Adam.

  He returned to the Reading Room and, wielding the huge volumes of the catalogue with practised ease, filled in application slips for The Rainbow and several critical studies of Lawrence. Then he returned to the seat Camel had saved for him, to wait. One of the Museum’s many throwbacks to a more leisured and gracious age was that books were delivered to one’s desk. So vast was the library, however—Adam understood it amounted to six million volumes—and so understaffed, that it was normal for more than an hour to elapse between the lodging of an application and the arrival of a book. He sat down on the large padded seat, ignoring the envious and accusing glances of the readers in his vicinity. For some reason only about one in ten of the Reading Room seats was padded, and there was fierce competition for the possession of them.

  The padded seats were magnificently comfortable. Adam wondered whether they were made by Brownlong and Co. If so, he felt he could address himself to the competition with real enthusiasm.

  I always choose a Brownlong chair

  Because I wrote my thesis there.

  The manufacturer’s name was usually found on the underside of chairs, wasn’t it? Adam wondered whether he might turn his chair upside down for inspection, but decided that it would attract too much attention. He looked round: no one was watching. He deliberately dropped a pencil on the floor, and bent down to recover it, peering under his seat the while. He dimly discerned a small nameplate but could not read the inscription. He put his head right under the seat, lost his balance, and fell heavily to the floor. Startled, annoyed or amused faces were turned upon him from the neighbouring desks. Red with embarrassment and from the blood that had rushed to his head while he hung upside down, Adam recovered his seat and rubbed his head.

  Adam was filled with self-pity. It was the second time that morning that he had fallen down. Then there were the hallucinations. Clearly, something was seriously the matter with him. He was approaching a nervous breakdown. He repeated the words to himself with a certain pleasure. Nervous. Breakdown. They evoked a prospect of peace and passivity, of helpless withdrawal from the world, of a huge burden of worry shifted on to someone else’s shoulders. He saw himself lying mildly in a darkened room while anxious friends and doctors held whispered conferences round his bed. Perhaps they would make a petition to the Pope and get him and Barbara a special dispensation to practise artificial contraception. Or perhaps he would die, his tragic case be brought to the attention of the Vatican Council, and the doctrine of Natural Law revised as a result. A fat lot of good that would do him. Adam decided not to have a nervous breakdown after all.

  To work, to work. He began briskly to unpack his bulging holdalls. Soon the broad, b
lue leather-topped desk was heaped with books, files, folders, index-cards and odd scraps of paper with notes and references scribbled on them. Adam’s energy and determination subsided like the mercury of a thermometer plunged in cold water. How would he ever succeed in organising all this into anything coherent?

  The subject of Adam’s thesis had originally been, ‘Language and Ideology in Modern Fiction’ but had been whittled down by the Board of Studies until it now stood as, ‘The Structure of Long Sentences in Three Modern English Novels.’ The whittling down didn’t seem to have made his task any easier. He still hadn’t decided which three novels he was going to analyse, nor had he decided how long a long sentence was. Lawrence, he thought hopefully, would produce lots of sentences where the issue would not be in doubt.

  Adam listlessly turned over pages of notes on minor novelists who were now excluded from his thesis. There was this great wad, for instance, on Egbert Merrymarsh, the Catholic belletrist, younger contemporary of Chesterton and Belloc. Adam had written a whole chapter, tentatively entitled ‘The Divine Wisecrack ‘on Merrymarsh’s use of paradox and antithesis to prop up his facile Christian apologetics. All wasted labour.

  Adam yawned, and looked at the clock above the entrance to the North Library. There was still a long time to go before his books would arrive. Everyone but himself seemed to be working with quiet concentration: you could almost hear a faint hum of cerebral flywheels and sprockets busily turning. Adam was seized by conflicting emotions of guilt, envy, frustration and revolt. Revolt won: this still repose, this physical restraint, was unnatural.

  He fiddled idly with his pencil, trying to make it stand on end. He failed, and the pencil fell to the floor. He stooped cautiously to recover it, meeting, as he straightened up, the frown of a distracted reader. Adam frowned back. Why shouldn’t he be distracted? Distraction was as necessary to mental health as exercise to physical. It would be a good idea, in fact, if the Reading Room were cleared twice a day, and all the scholars marched out to do physical jerks in the forecourt. No, that wouldn’t do—he hated physical jerks himself. Suppose, instead, the circular floor of the Reading Room were like the revolve on a stage, and that every hour, on the hour, the Superintendent would throw a lever to set the whole thing in motion, sweeping the spokes of the desks round for a few exhilarating revolutions. Yes, and the desks would be mounted so as to go gently up and down like horses on a carousel. It wouldn’t necessarily interrupt work—just give relief to the body cramped in the same position. Tone up the system. Encourage the circulation. Yes, he must remember to mention it to Camel. The British Museum Act. He closed his eyes and indulged in a pleasing vision of the gay scene, as the floor rotated, and the scholars smiled with quiet pleasure at each other as their seats rose above the partitions, and gently sank again. Perhaps there might be tinkling music . . .

  Adam felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Camel.

  ‘Why are you humming “La Ronde”? You’re getting some black looks.’

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Adam, in some confusion. He fled from the Reading Room to avoid the hostile glances directed at him from all sides.

  In the foyer, he decided to ring Barbara again. To his surprise, the booth was still occupied by the fat man. Adam was beginning to make awed calculations of the cost of a thirty-minute call to Colorado, when his attention was caught by various signs of distress the fat man was making. He had somehow managed to close the door of the booth, which folded inwards, but his girth rendered him incapable of opening it again. After some moments of strenuous exertion, Adam was able to extricate him.

  ‘Well,’ said the fat man. ‘You seem to be my private boy scout today.’

  ‘Did you make your phone call all right?’ Adam inquired.

  ‘I experienced some linguistic difficulties.’

  ‘Don’t they speak English in Colorado?’

  ‘Sure they do. But your operator kept saying, “You’re through” before I’d even started . . . do you smoke cigars?’ he suddenly demanded.

  ‘My father-in-law usually gives me one on Christmas Day,’ said Adam.

  ‘Well, save these and astonish him in December,’ said the fat man, thrusting a fistful of huge cigars into Adam’s breast pocket.

  ‘Thank you,’ murmured Adam faintly, as the fat man trundled off.

  ‘Thank you!’

  Adam entered the phone booth, which smelled suspiciously of rich cigar smoke, and made his call. There was a clatter as the receiver was lifted at the other end, and a childish voice intoned:

  ‘Battersea Double Two One—O.’

  ‘Oh hello, Clare darling. What are you doing at the phone?’

  ‘Mummy said I could practise answering.’

  ‘Is Mummy there?’

  ‘She’s just coming down the stairs.’

  ‘And how are you, Clare? Have you been a good girl this morning?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh. Why’s that?’

  ‘I cut a hole in Dominic’s tummy.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Cut a hole in Dominic’s tummy. With the kitchen scissors.’

  ‘But Clare, why?’ Adam wailed.

  ‘We were playing maternity hospitals and I was giving him a Caesarian.’

  ‘But Clare, you mustn’t do that.’

  ‘You mean boys can’t have babies? I know.’

  ‘No, I mean cut people with scissors. Look, is Mummy there?’

  ‘Here she is.’

  ‘Hallo, Adam?’

  ‘Darling, what’s all this about Clare cutting a hole in Dominic’s stomach?’

  ‘It’s only a nick. It didn’t even bleed.’

  ‘Only a nick! But what was she doing with the scissors in the first place?’

  ‘Are you trying to blame me, Adam?’

  ‘No, darling. I’m just trying to get at the facts.’

  ‘As long as you’re not trying to blame me. You’ve no idea what it’s like having to look after Clare all day.’

  ‘I know, I know. But if you could just keep the scissors out of her reach . . .’

  ‘I do. She got the step-ladder out.’

  ‘Did you smack her?’

  ‘You know smacking doesn’t have any effect on Clare. She just says, “I hope this is doing you good, Mummy.” She’s heard us discussing Doctor Spock.’

  ‘God help us when she learns to read,’ sighed Adam. He decided to drop the subject. ‘Have you looked up the 13th in your diary?’

  ‘You’ll wish you hadn’t asked.’

  ‘Why?’ said Adam, his heart sinking.

  ‘According to the chart, ovulation should have taken place about then.’

  Adam groaned.

  ‘. . . And the 13th was a Friday,’ continued Barbara.

  ‘This is no time for joking,’ said Adam, suspiciously.

  ‘Who’s joking?’

  ‘I’m certainly not. Can’t you remember anything about that night?’

  ‘I remember you were a bit . . . you know.’

  ‘A bit what?’

  ‘You know what you’re like when you’ve had a few drinks.’

  ‘You’re just the same,’ said Adam, defensively.

  ‘I’m not blaming you.’

  ‘D’you think we could have . . .?’

  ‘No. But I wish my period would start.’

  ‘How do you feel now?’

  ‘About the same.’

  ‘What was that? I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Never mind. I’m getting bored with the subject. Shouldn’t you be working?’

  ‘I can’t work while I’m trying to think what we did that night.’

  ‘Well, I can’t help you, Adam. Look, I can’t stay any longer. Mary Flynn is bringing her brood round for lunch.’

  ‘How many has she got now?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Well, there’s always someone else worse off than yourself.’

  ‘Goodbye then, darling. And try not to worry.’

  ‘Goodbye, darling.
’

  On his way back to the Reading Room, Adam had a thought. He returned to the phone booth and rang Barbara again.

  ‘Hallo, darling.’

  ‘Adam, for heaven’s sake—’

  ‘Look, I’ve had a thought. About that night. Did you happen to notice the sheets the next day . . .?’

  Barbara rang off. This is denaturing me, he thought.

  He was getting tired with trekking backwards and forwards to the telephone. After the coolness of the foyer, the atmosphere of the Reading Room, when he re-entered it, struck him as oppressively hot. The dome seemed screwed down tightly on the stale air, sealing it in. It hung over the scene like a tropical sky before a storm; and the faint, sour smell of mouldering books and bindings was like the reek of rotting vegetation in some foetid oriental backwater. Appleby cast a gloomy eye on the Indians and Africans working busily in their striped suits and starched collars.

  There comes a moment in the life of even the most unimaginative man—and Appleby was not that—when Destiny confronts him with the unexpected and the inexplicable, when the basis of his universe, like a chair which has so habitually offered its comforting support to his limbs that he no longer troubles to assure himself of its presence before entrusting his weight to it, is silently and swiftly withdrawn, and the victim feels himself falling with dismaying velocity into an infinite space of doubt. This was the sensation of Appleby as, mopping away with a soiled handkerchief the perspiration which beaded his forehead like the drops of moisture on the interior of a ship’s hull that warn the knowledgeable mariner that he is aproaching the equatorial line, he came in sight of the desk where he had left his books and papers. He staggered to a halt.

  That was his desk, surely? Yes, he recognised on the one next to it his comrade’s raincoat and broad-brimmed trilby. His own belongings, however, had vanished: books, papers, index-cards—all had disappeared. But it was not this fact which made Appleby lean against a bookcase for support, and pass his right hand several times across his eyes. Grouped round his desk, and gazing at it with rapt attention, were three Chinese: not the Westernised, Hong Kong Chinese he was familiar with, draped in American-style suits and wielding sophisticated cameras, but authentic Chinese Chinese, dressed in loose, belted uniforms of some drab, coarse-grained material.