Free Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers Page B

great fathers, and his children were not an unqualified success. Dear me! Being a great father is either a very difficult or a very sadly unrewarded profession. Wherever you find a great man, you will find a great mother or a great wife standing behind him—or so they used to say. It would be interesting to know how many great women have had great fathers and husbands behind them. An interesting thesis for research. Elizabeth Barrett? Well, she had a great husband, but he was great in his own right so to speak—and Mr. Barrett was not exactly—The Brontës? Well, hardly. Queen Elizabeth? She had a remarkable father, but devoted helpfulness towards his daughters was scarcely his leading characteristic. And she was so wrong-headed as to have no husband—Queen Victoria? You might make a good deal out of poor Albert, but you couldn’t do much with the Duke of Kent.”
    Somebody passed through the Hall behind her; it was Miss Hillyard. With mischievous determination to get some response out of this antagonistic personality, Harriet laid before her the new idea for a historical thesis.
    “You have forgotten physical achievements,” said Miss Hillyard. “I believe many female singers, dancers, Channel swimmers and tennis stars owe everything to their devoted fathers.”
    “But the fathers are not famous.”
    “No. Self-effacing men are not popular with either sex. I doubt whether even your literary skill would gain recognition for their virtues. Particularly if you select your women for their intellectual qualities. It will be a short thesis in that case.”
    “Gravelled for lack of matter?”
    “I’m afraid so. Do you know any man who sincerely admires a woman for her brains?”
    “Well,” said Harriet, “certainly not many.”
    “You may think you know one, ” said Miss Hillyard with a bitter emphasis. “Most of us think at some time or other that we know one. But the man usually has some other little axe to grind.”
    “Very likely,” said Harriet. “You don’t seem to have a very high opinion of men—of the male character, I mean, as such.”
    “No,” said Miss Hillyard, “not very high. But they have an admirable talent for imposing their point of view on society in general. All women are sensitive to male criticism. Men are not sensitive to female criticism. They despise the critics.”
    “Do you, personally, despise male criticism?”
    “Heartily, said Miss Hillyard. “But it does damage. Look at this University. All the men have been amazingly kind and sympathetic about the Women’s Colleges. Certainly. But you won’t find them appointing women to big University posts. That would never do. The women might perform their work in a way beyond criticism. But they are quite pleased to see us playing with our little toys.”
    “Excellent fathers and family men,” murmured Harriet.
    “In that sense—yes,” said Miss Hillyard, and laughed rather unpleasantly.
    Something funny there, thought Harriet. A personal history, probably. How difficult it was not to be embittered by personal experience. She went down to the J.C.R. and examined herself in the mirror. There had been a look in the History Tutor’s eyes that she did not wish to discover in her own.
     
    Sunday evening prayers. The College was undenominational, but some form of Christian worship was held to be essential to community life. The chapel, with its stained glass windows, plain oak panelling and unadorned Communion Table was a kind of Lowest Common Multiple of all sects and weeds. Harriet, making her way towards it, remembered that she had not seen her gown since the previous afternoon, when the Dean had taken it to the S.C.R. Not liking to penetrate uninvited into that Holy of Holies, she went in search of Miss Martin, who had, it appeared, taken both gowns together to her own room. Harriet wriggled into the gown, one fluttering sleeve of which struck an adjacent table with a loud bang.
    “Mercy!” said the Dean, “what’s