Too Much Happiness

and whipped cream, with bits of cake in it, and raspberries. He ate only a few bites of his. But after failing to settle down enough to enjoy the first course, I was determined not to miss out on anything rich and sweet, and I fixed my appetite and attention on every spoonful.
    He poured coffee into small cups and said that we would drink it in the library.
    My buttocks made a slapping noise, as I loosened myself from the sleek upholstery of the dining room chair. But this was almost covered up by the clatter of the delicate coffee cups on the tray in his shaky old grasp.
    Libraries in a house were known to me only from books. This one was entered through a panel in the dining room wall. The panel swung open without a sound, at a touch of his raised foot. He apologized for going ahead of me, as he had to do since he carried the coffee. To me it was a relief. I thought that our backsides-not just mine but everybody’s-were the most beastly part of the body.
    When I was seated in the chair he indicated, he gave me my coffee. It was not so easy to sit here, out in the open, as it had been at the dining room table. That chair had been covered with smooth striped silk, but this one was upholstered in some dark plush material, which prickled me. An intimate agitation was set up.
    The light in this room was brighter than it had been in the dining room, and the books lining the walls had an expression more disturbing and reproving than the look of the dim dining room with its landscape pictures and light-absorbing panels.
    For a moment, as we left one room for the other, I had had some notion of a story-the sort of story I had heard of but that few people then got the chance to read-in which the room referred to as a library would turn out to be a bedroom, with soft lights and puffy cushions and all manner of downy coverings. I did not have time to figure out what I would do in such circumstances, because the room we were in was plainly nothing but a library. The reading lights, the books on the shelves, the invigorating smell of coffee. Mr. Purvis pulling out a book, riffling through its leaves, finding what he wanted.
    “It would be very kind if you would read to me. My eyes are tired in the evenings. You know this book?”
    A Shropshire Lad
.
    I knew it. In fact I knew many of the poems by heart.
    I said that I would read.
    “And may I ask you please-may I ask you please-not to cross your legs?”
    My hands were trembling when I took the book from him.
    “Yes,” he said. “Yes.”
    He chose a chair in front of the bookcase, facing me.
    “Now-”
    “On Wenlock Edge the wood’s in trouble-”
    Familiar words and rhythms calmed me down. They took me over. Gradually I began to feel more at peace.
    The gale, it plies the saplings double
,
    It blows so hard, ’twill soon be gone:
    To-day the Roman and his trouble
    Are ashes under Uricon
.
    Where is Uricon? Who knows?
    It wasn’t really that I forgot where I was or who I was with or in what condition I sat there. But I had come to feel somewhat remote and philosophical. The notion came to me that everybody in the world was naked, in a way. Mr. Purvis was naked, though he wore clothes. We were all sad, bare, forked creatures. Shame receded. I just kept turning the pages, reading one poem and then another, then another. Liking the sound of my voice. Until to my surprise and almost to my disappointment-there were still famous lines to come-Mr. Purvis interrupted me. He stood up, he sighed.
    “Enough, enough,” he said. “That was very nice. Thank you. Your country accent is quite suitable. Now it’s my bedtime.”
    I let the book go. He replaced it on the shelves and closed the glass doors. The country accent was news to me.
    “And I’m afraid it’s time to send you home.”
    He opened another door, into the hall I had seen so long ago, at the beginning of the evening, and I passed in front of him and the door was closed behind me. I may have said good night. It is even possible that I thanked him for dinner, and that he spoke to me in a few dry words (not at all, thank you for your company, it was very kind of you, thank you for reading Housman) in a suddenly tired, old, crumpled, and indifferent voice. He did not lay a hand on me.
    The same dimly lit cloakroom. My same clothes. The turquoise dress, my stockings, my slip. Mrs. Winner appeared while I was fastening my stockings. She said only one thing to me, as I was ready to leave.
    “You forgot your