Harvey Cushing
06-25-2013, 06:42 PM
Be it through new growth or by scar formation all wounds heal with time. Conversely, be it by fuel exhaustion or by downpour all flames are eventually extinguished. But occasionally something bumps against the site of the old injury causing it to twinge unexpectedly and sometimes a new breeze would disturb the ashes to reveal dimly glowing embers. The funeral was full of these bumps and breezes, full of familiar characters transformed by time. The sinewy physique of the athlete had now turned rotund, the dishevelled long hair of the musician now grey and receding, and the bohemian air of the artist now turned responsible and fatherly. And yet images and shadows of youth would occasionally surface in the form of a familiar gesture or turn of phrase. The gift of youth seems to be its illusions. Back in the days when we sprinted down the cobbled lanes in our academic gowns and dinner-jackets we thought we were immortal. When we floated down the river in punts laden with champagne and strawberries we were certain summer would never end. This funeral was proof of our mortality and the fallen leaves a reminder that it was no longer summer.
The American university where I am currently employed has a multitude of charms, but its staircases have no ghosts and its archways do not whisper. Here I have searched in vain for the enchanting indifference and the cruel tranquillity that characterised the Oxford of my undergraduate days. I suppose I mustn’t be too harsh on the Americans since most Oxford colleges are older than America itself, but nevertheless I do occasionally feel pangs of homesickness.
To quote John le Carre: ‘There are old men who go back to Oxford and find their youth beckoning to them from the stones.’ I had not considered myself an old man till I heard the news of her suicide. Then all of a sudden, my internal self (who had stubbornly remained 22 years old for the past 3 decades) lept across the years to become congruous with its physical vessel. The wrinkles and grey hair that I had consistently dismissed as mirages suddenly solidified before me in the mirror that day.
The Dean’s email ran thus: ‘Dear class of 1980: It is with great sadness that I announce the passing of Emily James (nee Flite), undergraduate 1980-1983. She tragically took her own life on the 17th of this month. It was her wish that her funeral be held in the college chapel…’ etc etc… (Why keep that surname when she had already divorced? Why choose the college chapel when she was a catholic? Why turn her back on life when she was full of love for it?)
The name ‘Emily’ seemed so unfamiliar. We had always called her ‘Em’, which I later shortened to ‘M’ in the notes that I used to slide under her door. And it was simply ‘M’ that I had engraved on the back of the brooch I gave to her on graduation some thirty years ago – the last time I ever saw her. I cringe somewhat at the thought of that brooch. I spent fifty pounds on it, a lot of money in those days. I bought it on a whim thinking that it would be seen as a unique and thoughtful gesture of selfless love that none of her other admirers had thought of. Moreover it was the same colour as her eyes – I even pointed this out to her - surely that should have impressed her? To her credit she accepted it graciously. She even pinned it on her blouse there and then as a gesture of her gratitude and delight and then for a few awkward moments she seemed lost, her smiling blue emerald eyes looking left and right. But then she seemed to reach a resolution and threw her arms round me. I had prepared so many questions in my mind but that hug answered them all. It was the hug of a sprightly little sister given to her indulgent older brother – full of energy, warmth and joy – rather devastating really.
The reminiscences about ‘M’ amongst her old friends before the ceremony have no relevance to those who did not know her. The ceremony itself is not worth describing – no religious ceremony is. Her face in the portrait on the altar was hardly recognizable. Her English-rose complexion had faded and become weathered. Her golden hair had turned dry and grey. She had changed a lot. Only those pair of blue emeralds shone as brightly as they did on that day thirty years ago.
My memories of the funeral are now deliberately hazy, but for some reason I vividly remember afterwards, standing alone in east quadrangle I was roused from my trance by a familiar sound – the sound of youthful voices, the sound of students returning from their lectures. It was there and then that my youth began beckoning to me from the stones.
The American university where I am currently employed has a multitude of charms, but its staircases have no ghosts and its archways do not whisper. Here I have searched in vain for the enchanting indifference and the cruel tranquillity that characterised the Oxford of my undergraduate days. I suppose I mustn’t be too harsh on the Americans since most Oxford colleges are older than America itself, but nevertheless I do occasionally feel pangs of homesickness.
To quote John le Carre: ‘There are old men who go back to Oxford and find their youth beckoning to them from the stones.’ I had not considered myself an old man till I heard the news of her suicide. Then all of a sudden, my internal self (who had stubbornly remained 22 years old for the past 3 decades) lept across the years to become congruous with its physical vessel. The wrinkles and grey hair that I had consistently dismissed as mirages suddenly solidified before me in the mirror that day.
The Dean’s email ran thus: ‘Dear class of 1980: It is with great sadness that I announce the passing of Emily James (nee Flite), undergraduate 1980-1983. She tragically took her own life on the 17th of this month. It was her wish that her funeral be held in the college chapel…’ etc etc… (Why keep that surname when she had already divorced? Why choose the college chapel when she was a catholic? Why turn her back on life when she was full of love for it?)
The name ‘Emily’ seemed so unfamiliar. We had always called her ‘Em’, which I later shortened to ‘M’ in the notes that I used to slide under her door. And it was simply ‘M’ that I had engraved on the back of the brooch I gave to her on graduation some thirty years ago – the last time I ever saw her. I cringe somewhat at the thought of that brooch. I spent fifty pounds on it, a lot of money in those days. I bought it on a whim thinking that it would be seen as a unique and thoughtful gesture of selfless love that none of her other admirers had thought of. Moreover it was the same colour as her eyes – I even pointed this out to her - surely that should have impressed her? To her credit she accepted it graciously. She even pinned it on her blouse there and then as a gesture of her gratitude and delight and then for a few awkward moments she seemed lost, her smiling blue emerald eyes looking left and right. But then she seemed to reach a resolution and threw her arms round me. I had prepared so many questions in my mind but that hug answered them all. It was the hug of a sprightly little sister given to her indulgent older brother – full of energy, warmth and joy – rather devastating really.
The reminiscences about ‘M’ amongst her old friends before the ceremony have no relevance to those who did not know her. The ceremony itself is not worth describing – no religious ceremony is. Her face in the portrait on the altar was hardly recognizable. Her English-rose complexion had faded and become weathered. Her golden hair had turned dry and grey. She had changed a lot. Only those pair of blue emeralds shone as brightly as they did on that day thirty years ago.
My memories of the funeral are now deliberately hazy, but for some reason I vividly remember afterwards, standing alone in east quadrangle I was roused from my trance by a familiar sound – the sound of youthful voices, the sound of students returning from their lectures. It was there and then that my youth began beckoning to me from the stones.