The rain had driven most of St Anselm's Fellows indoors, where a small fire had encouraged the usual migration towards the Senior Common Room. Cups of tea were in evidence, along with a plate of biscuits that everyone regarded as communal until only one remained, whereupon it mysteriously acquired an owner.
Miss Stray was arranging a handful of books on the table.
"They're for the village library," she said. "Several students donated them."
Blottisham looked puzzled.
"Donated? Why not sell them?"
"Because they wanted the library to have them."
"But the library could simply have bought them."
"It could," said Miss Stray.
"Then why all this business about giving?"
Professor Quillibrace looked up from his newspaper.
"A remarkably good question."
Blottisham brightened.
"I thought so."
"You have accidentally wandered into one of civilisation's more mysterious inventions."
"The library?"
"No. Gifts."
Blottisham frowned.
"I don't see the mystery."
"You don't?"
"Certainly not. Someone owns something. Someone else ends up owning it instead."
Quillibrace folded the newspaper with the air of a man putting away an inadequate explanation.
"If that were all that happened, birthdays would consist largely of bank transfers."
Miss Stray smiled.
"My grandmother once gave me a battered copy of Treasure Island. It wasn't valuable."
"But you still have it?"
"Of course."
"Why?"
"Because it was hers."
Blottisham considered this.
"So the value is sentimental."
"What," asked Quillibrace gently, "is sentiment?"
Blottisham looked suspicious.
"You always ask that when you think I've said something without understanding it."
"I often find the coincidence remarkable."
Miss Stray picked up one of the donated books.
"If I buy this from a bookshop, the transaction ends when I leave."
Blottisham nodded.
"Exactly."
"If someone gives me this very same book because they know I'll love it..."
"Yes?"
"...the book continues saying something long after I open it."
Blottisham blinked.
"Books don't usually talk."
"No," said Quillibrace. "People do. The book merely continues the conversation."
Blottisham was unconvinced.
"So gifts are messages?"
"In part."
"I could write a note."
"You could."
"And keep the book."
"You could also attend a wedding by postcard."
Miss Stray laughed.
"It wouldn't have quite the same effect."
Quillibrace leaned back.
"Money is wonderfully efficient."
"It certainly is."
"It concludes exchanges."
"Exactly."
"Gifts, by contrast, rarely conclude anything."
Blottisham frowned.
"What do they conclude?"
"Nothing."
"That seems inefficient."
"They begin relationships."
Blottisham pointed triumphantly.
"Ah! Except when Aunt Margaret sends socks."
Miss Stray smiled.
"You still remember Aunt Margaret?"
"Unfortunately."
"And the socks?"
"I still wear them."
"So her gift is still participating in your life."
Blottisham looked horrified.
"I hadn't thought of it like that."
"Most invisible machines," said Quillibrace, "prefer not to be thought about."
A comfortable silence settled over the room.
Finally Blottisham spoke again.
"What about expensive gifts?"
"What about them?"
"Surely the more expensive the gift, the greater the generosity."
"Not necessarily."
Miss Stray nodded.
"I've treasured handwritten letters far more than costly presents."
"Because of the words?"
"Because of the attention."
Quillibrace added quietly,
"Objects are surprisingly poor at measuring affection."
Blottisham looked thoughtful.
"I suppose that's why children make presents."
"Yes."
"They're often rather dreadful."
"They frequently are."
"But no sensible parent compares the drawing with its market value."
"Quite."
"Because the drawing isn't really the gift."
Quillibrace smiled.
"Now you're getting somewhere."
Blottisham frowned again.
"Although..."
"Yes?"
"I once knew someone who gave presents simply to make everyone feel indebted."
Miss Stray sighed.
"That happens."
"So was it still a gift?"
Quillibrace paused before answering.
"The object was."
"And the gift?"
"The invisible machine had been altered."
Miss Stray looked towards the rain against the windows.
"I've sometimes wondered why the smallest gifts stay with us longest."
"The smallest?"
"A flower picked during a walk."
"A postcard."
"A favourite book."
"A friend bringing soup when you're ill."
Blottisham nodded slowly.
"My neighbour once mowed my lawn while I was away."
"There you are."
"I've never forgotten it."
Quillibrace poured himself another cup of tea.
"That is because gifts do something money cannot."
"They transfer ownership?"
"No."
"They transfer... gratitude?"
"Closer."
Miss Stray answered first.
"They make another person's attention visible."
Quillibrace smiled.
"Precisely."
Blottisham sat quietly for a moment.
"You know..."
"Yes?"
"I've always assumed generosity meant giving people things."
Quillibrace waited.
"But perhaps generosity is really enlarging someone else's world."
The Professor smiled.
"Mr Blottisham... I believe someone has just given us a rather good thought."
For a moment nobody spoke.
Outside, the rain continued its patient work upon the college roofs.
Inside, the last biscuit remained untouched.
Somehow, it no longer seemed to belong to anyone.
No comments:
Post a Comment