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2nd March, 1905
I am reluctant to speak ill of a fellow scholar without proof. There are two reasons for this: first, that to unfairly malign another academic goes against the principles of scholarly collegiality that are frequently mentioned here at Cambridge (but which, I might add, I have seldom seen demonstrated towards myself); and second, and more importantly, that I will look very, very silly if I am wrong.
But I do not think I am wrong. And therefore: proof.
The purpose of this document, then, is to collect evidence supporting the thesis that Dr. Wendell Bambleby - in addition to exploiting his graduate students and falsifying his research, both of which I disapprove of on principle but have no personal interest in addressing - is attempting to drive me out of Cambridge, and possibly out of the field of dryadology altogether.
I confess I am unsure as to Bambleby’s motivation. I surely present no serious threat to him as a scholar; although my work is unquestionably superior, his is far more celebrated. Nor do I believe I have done anything to induce such antipathy. It would not, however, be the first time that I have unintentionally and unknowingly insulted someone and thereby made an enemy, so I cannot entirely dismiss the possibility. Perhaps it is that Bambleby has noticed that I have noticed that he is almost certainly a faerie himself, and he fears I will expose him, and thus seeks to pre-emptively discredit me. If this is the case, he need not worry. I have no interest in pointing out to others what should be blindingly obvious to anyone with any knowledge of the Folk whatsoever.
In any event, whatever Bambleby’s reasons for targeting me, it is unquestionable that he has of late made a concerted effort to badger and accost me in a manner incompatible with mere collegiality. I can only imagine that his intention in so doing is to render Cambridge unpleasant and inhospitable to me, and thus prompt my departure. If so, the joke is on him: Cambridge is my home, and I have as little intention of leaving it as a naiad would its stream, or a coblyn its mine. Nevertheless, I intend to faithfully document all such occurrences herein, to prove conclusively to myself if no one else that Bambleby’s intentions are as sinister as I suspect.
7th March, 1905
Today Bambleby attempted to distract me from my work for nearly two hours. I say ‘attempted,’ but I fear it is more accurate to say that he succeeded.
I was just typing up some notes from my Apennine field study[1] when Bambleby appeared at my office door, bearing a teacup and a fatuous smile.
“Hard at work, are you, Em?” he asked.
I glanced up only briefly from my typewriter. “As you can see,” I said.
“I thought you might like a cup of tea,” Bambleby continued, indicating the beverage in question with his free hand. “So I brought one over.”
“I’m not thirsty, thank you,” I said.
Bambleby sighed and, despite what I thought was a properly discouraging look on my face, stepped all the way inside my office. He deposited the teacup on my desk and took the opportunity to glance unsubtly at the papers thereon.
“Is this Thornthwaite’s latest?” he asked, picking up the first of a stack of manuscript pages.
“Yes,” I said shortly. “Please put it down. I have to review it by next Tuesday and I do not wish for it to become misplaced.”
Bambleby put the paper down. “Sorry,” he said, in his pleasant, lilting voice. I made the mistake of looking up again to see what appeared to be genuine remorse on his face. I am generally far from skilled at reading others’ emotions from their expressions, but I admit I have no such difficulty with Bambleby. At least - I see, I suspect, what he wants me to see, and understand it.
“I hope it’s better than his last,” I said, out of a doubtless-misplaced sense of guilt at my earlier coldness. “I do not enjoy giving extensive and disparaging notes, no matter what some people might imply.”
Bambleby laughed. “Didn’t you review that paper of mine on the linguistic oddities of South American trooping fae?[2] I seem to remember cursing your name as I went through your comments.”
“Were they wrong?” I asked, noting to myself that Bambleby had just admitted aloud his antipathy towards me.
“They were not,” Bambleby admitted. “And I’m certain Thornthwaite’ll appreciate it just as much as I eventually did.”
I grunted in what I hoped was a dismissive fashion.
Bambleby, of course, either did not understand or refused to accept my desire for him to be gone, and continued on: “By the way, I had a question from a student in my lecture today that I thought you might find interesting. She wanted to know about the history of the academic taxonomical classification of the different species of Folk. I had to confess ignorance myself—” I could not suppress a snort at this “—but I thought you’d appreciate it…” He continued on in this vein for some time, and I admit that I let him. It was an interesting question, after all, and I confess there is something oddly soothing in listening to Bambleby natter on. Before long, I found myself caught up in arguing a point, and it was not until I heard the clock chime the hour that I realised how long we had been talking for.
I will have to be more vigilant in the future. And I will have to put in two more hours of work this evening, to make up for the time lost to Bambleby’s inanities.
15th March, 1905
Bambleby asked me to lunch today, despite the fact that he knows perfectly well that I prefer to keep the meal as quick and efficient as possible. I told him politely but firmly that I had no desire to try the new cafe that has opened near the Classics department.
“Then we can go somewhere else,” he suggested.
“No thank you,” I said. I have a looming deadline for an article I am working on for Dryadological Fieldnotes, and I suspect he was well aware of this fact and intended to keep me at lunch long enough that I might miss it.
Bambleby shook his head and sighed. “Positively reptilian,” he murmured.
I must have looked at him quizzically, because he caught sight of my expression and sighed again and said, “Never mind. Next week, perhaps?”
And I fear he looked so bloody earnest standing there, and the sunlight from my window had caught on his hair just so, illuminating the rich golden colour of it, and after all next week is past my deadline, and I idiotically gave in and said “Perhaps.”
At least I did not firmly commit myself. There should be ample opportunity to find a way out of it.
20th March, 1905
I did not find a way out of it. Oh well, perhaps the joke is on Bambleby after all - I have submitted my article, and he has suffered through a lunch with me without making any progress towards his goal.
Also, the cafe by the Classics department is indeed very good. Damn him.
24th March, 1905
Today Bambleby told me my hair looked nice. I confess I cannot see how this fits into his stratagem to get rid of me, but I include it here because my hair looks exactly the same as it always does, which makes any compliment to it per se suspicious.
3rd April, 1905
Bambleby has asked me to give a guest lecture for one of his classes. Unlike the hair incident - the meaning behind which I have not yet managed to comprehend - it was immediately obvious to me what his true motives were behind this seemingly generous offer. He intends for me to make a fool of myself in front of a large group of students, of course. Perhaps he imagines I will run away and resign immediately in disgrace after such humiliation, or perhaps he simply means to tarnish my reputation by my performance. If he intends the former, he will surely be disappointed; if he intends the latter, I very much hope he will be disappointed there as well, because I mean to give a wholly unimpeachable lecture.
Yes, I have accepted the offer, even though I know it is a trap. I feared it would seem odd to refuse; not only is speaking in front of one of Bambleby’s classes an excellent opportunity, but also it is such an ordinary favour to ask of a colleague that to say no would be tantamount to a declaration of war.
And I have no desire to go to war with Bambleby. He may campaign against me; I bear no ill will towards him, except insofar as he plots my undoing. My dearest wish is that he should simply leave me alone.
So I will speak to his students, and hope for the best.
6th April, 1905
I gave my guest lecture in Bambleby’s class today. It did not go at all as I had anticipated - which is not to say it went badly. Quite the contrary. But I was left feeling wrong-footed nevertheless, as though I had braced myself for a blow that never came.
The topic of the lecture was my recent fieldwork in the Apennine mountains.[3] Bambleby gave me an unexpectedly fulsome introduction. I had not realised that he had such a comprehensive understanding of my career. He even mentioned my work in Croatia, although I was only an assistant on that expedition.[4] I am not ordinarily susceptible to flattery, but I admit a certain warmth of feeling overcame me as I listened to Bambleby describe my discoveries with apparent interest and admiration. (Certainly it was preferable to hearing his encomiums upon my hair.)
His students were a reasonably attentive audience; I noticed only a few of them whispering among themselves as I spoke, and some of the questions they asked were markedly intelligent. One young man even approached me as the class was letting out to offer his services as a research assistant, should I require one on any forthcoming expeditions.
“What did he want?” Bambleby asked, once the lecture hall had cleared. He looked rather more irritated than I should have expected. At first I put this down to his frustration that I had acquitted myself better than he had hoped, but when I told him of the boy’s offer, his face transformed in that quicksilver fashion and he smiled. “Well done, Em,” he said. “Although I don’t know whether young Pirbright there is the best of prospects, frankly.”
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” I said.
Bambleby made an odd sort of choking sound.
“It’s not as though you’re lacking for student assistants,” I continued. “They’re falling all over themselves to fetch and carry for you. You might allow for the possibility that at least one of them prefers me.”
(I admit I find it a rather remote possibility myself, but one never knows.)
Bambleby, however, appeared to think this so hilarious that he broke into peals of laughter.
“What?” I asked.
“Oh, Em,” he said, his eyes as green as I have ever seen them. “What am I to do with you?”
“You might start by thanking me for taking the time to speak with your class,” I told him.
Bambleby inclined his head; I looked, but could detect no mockery in the gesture. “It was an excellent presentation, Em. I should never have thought of connecting that legend about the fisherman and his daughter with the tale of the woodcutter’s wife, but you explained it all very convincingly.”
“I don’t know why you should never have thought of it,” I said tartly. “It’s a fairly basic framework, if one bothers to reflect upon the matter for longer than a moment.”
Bambleby appeared unoffended by this remark, for he merely smiled and thanked me again.
I have never thought of him as a particularly graceful loser - indeed, I could produce a document nearly as long as this one with examples to the contrary - but despite the fact that my success will surely have been a blow to his agenda, he gave no sign of being anything other than delighted by my triumph.
Perhaps he was merely grateful not to have to come up with today’s lecture himself. He is so deplorably lazy that I should not put it past him.
17th April, 1905
I am faced with an unpleasant prospect: asking Wendell Bambleby for help.
I have received an invitation to observe a particular spring ritual performed by a birdlike species of fae that dwell just outside of Madrid. The scholar who approached me (a faculty member at the University of Salamanca) has offered co-author credit on any resulting papers. The ritual, however, is next week, and I have three classes scheduled that cannot be moved at this late date.
Nearly every member of the dryadology faculty has refused to stand in for me, some for legitimate reasons and others because they simply do not feel it worth their while to help me, although I have of course offered equal assistance in return. The only person I have not yet asked is, naturally, Bambleby.
When I spoke to his class, I half-expected him to mention that he would be happy to do the same for mine, if only because he no doubt fancies himself a far more charming speaker than I am and might therefore hope to make me appear duller in comparison. But he said no such thing; I expect his indolence won the day.
Still, though, at least I have some basis upon which to approach him.
And, after all, if and when he says no, I shall be in no worse position than I am now.
17th April, 1905 - Later
My meeting with Bambleby went very oddly indeed.
I approached him at his office just after lunch, when I thought he might be more likely to be in an agreeable mood. His office is far nicer than mine, a fact of which I am only moderately resentful. I do suppose a good portion of the niceness in question is Bambleby’s own doing; I do not remember the professor who held the office before him ever managing to make the place quite as comfortable-feeling as Bambleby has. There are a great many shiny trinkets and mirrors all around, and luxurious furniture that I suspect Bambleby bought - or, given my suspicions as to his true nature, otherwise acquired - himself, and there is always a faint scent of nutmeg about the place.
However, the office also has a fireplace, which is not his own doing and which I covet ferociously.
The fire was not lit today when I went in, it being rather warm for the time of year, and Bambleby was (surprisingly enough) working at his desk, covering a piece of paper with his extravagant handwriting.
“Em!” he said, throwing the pen down at the sight of me. “Is there something you need, or is this merely a social call?”
“There is something I need,” I admitted, and put the matter before him.
I was just beginning to remind him of the lecture I had given for him when he interrupted and said, with his usual ease, “Of course I’ll take the classes.”
“Oh!” I said, a little stupidly, for I was a bit taken aback. “Thank you. I do appreciate it.”
“Certainly,” Bambleby said, waving a hand. “What else are friends for?”
Friends.
I do not have much experience with friends. I have surely never had someone proclaim friendship with such clarity. (Although it is so very characteristically arrogant of Bambleby to declare the sentiment as though he is certain it is mutual, when I myself am sure of no such thing!)
But I see now that I have been committing that worst of scholarly sins and reasoning backwards from a conclusion. I had in my head the notion that Wendell Bambleby wanted me gone, and I interpreted all of his behaviour in accordance with that hypothesis. But each action, examined individually, can, I find, also be viewed in another light, in a light prompted by his words today - in the light of friendship. It had not occurred to me that he might stop by my office to talk so often not because he wished to bother or antagonise me, but because he enjoyed the conversation. Because we are friends.
I am still uncertain as to the truth. Bambleby is, after all, almost certainly Folk, and I know better than almost anyone that there are ways of thinking common to his people that bear no resemblance to human logic. There may yet be more to the matter.
But I have decided to conclude this document here, in light of today’s revelation. I do not believe that further enumerating Bambleby’s actions in this fashion will show me anything I do not already know, and it is therefore an unprofitable use of my time and energy.
I do not know whether I want Bambleby as a friend. But I am remarkably relieved by the notion that he is not necessarily an enemy.
Footnotes
1. The Folk of the Apennines are notoriously hard to bargain with (see Ellsworthy, Journeys Among the Fae of Italy), and I am rather proud of my successes with a few of the common fae in the region.back
2. W. Bambleby, “Subject/Verb/Object Construction in the Argentine Dialect of Faie,” Modern Dryadology, 1904.back
3. E. Wilde, “Hospitality Customs of the Folk of the Apennines,” Dryadological Fieldnotes, 1905 (forthcoming).back
4. Herbert Wellings, Folktales of the Adriatic.back