The Journey Abandoned_The Unfinished Novel by Lionel Trilling

Author:Lionel Trilling [Trilling, Lionel]
Format: epub
Publisher: Columbia University Press
Published: 2008-05-19T04:00:00+00:00

him as a writer or a painter. Perhaps if he had been wanted he would have

been better. He knew he was good, but not really of the first rank, and I

suppose that that helped him make up his mind. But don’t think he made

his decision in a fit of pique. It was an act of free will, or as nearly an act

of free will as we can imagine. At any rate, it was an act of self-understand-

ing. He knew he had simply outgrown the arts. Outgrown them. Can you

understand that? He never had to worry about money—when he was still

a young man he came into a sizeable legacy. And at forty he felt that he

had grown up. Do you know what he did?—evidently you don’t. He be-

came a physicist. He engaged a tutor and in a year he had learned every-

thing that a brilliant student learns in four years of college. I asked him

once if he had found it difficult and he shook his head and said that every-

thing he had learned seemed to be there inside him ready to be unfolded.

That is, he was a genius. He went to M.I.T. and his doctoral thesis is still

famous. That was thirty-odd years ago. He took jobs in several of the great

physical laboratories. He went to Europe and studied mathematics. A few

years ago he retired to the country. He’s a neighbor of mine.”

Harold Outram took a cigarette and lighted it slowly. “Do you know

what mathematical physics is?” he said. His voice became suddenly very

quiet as if a large peace had been imposed upon him. “Do you know

that there are men who with paper and pencil construct the plan of the

universe down to its subtlest, most secret aspects, sitting alone, with no

tools but their minds?” Out of the raptness of his voice there came a

note of accusation, as if Vincent had been unconsciously persecuting the

mathematical physicists of the world.

“Buxton is one of the leading mathematical physicists of the country.

Of course you wouldn’t know that, being a literary man. You’re surprised

to know he’s alive. And I didn’t know it myself until a year ago because

I’m a kind of literary man myself, a vulgar cheapjack journalist. Or was.

Did you know that?—I mean Buxton’s position as a scientist?”

“No,” said Vincent, consenting to admit again the admitted fact. “I

didn’t know it. It’s a fine story.”

“Fine story. It’s the story of our time.” And again there was accusa-

tion in the voice.

“I’ve recently come to know him. He lives near me at Essex where I

have my place. Naturally I don’t talk much to him—what would I have

to say to a man like that? But whenever I speak to him—well, nothing in

my life has ever meant so much to me. Can you understand that?”

“Yes, I think I can understand it,” Vincent said in a neutral voice.

But his heart was beating with presentiment. Something in Outram’s

0

the unfinished novel

manner suggested that something was still to come for which all that

had been said, with its passion and confusion, was but a preparation.

Outram took a long breath and put out his cigarette with delicate care.

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