Clifton High School - Rotunda Yearbook (Clifton, NJ)

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Heritage By Gora'w1 Rott Smifh HE music of the organ hlled the cathedral as if with some magic color as it rose and fell, almost fading away, and then suddenly breaking upon one's ear with voices of thunder. Clar- ence was quite impressed as he walked down the nave between the rows of pillars. He felt as though he were little more than a speck beside the towering columns, beneath the dis- tant arches of stone. The huge rose windows above the doors made him feel conspicuous. They looked like monstrous eyes, cold and blue, or inflamed and red. They seemed so round-as if innocently surprised. Soft beams of light came through them, beams that soothed the raw stone, glossed over its roughness, smoothed it to indistinctness, until it mounted into nothing - fantastic and dream-like in gloom. Life, thought Clarence, was something like this cathedral: distant, yet close, hard and cold, yet intangible. Ah, that, he thought, would be a good topic for his story, The I3m11u.tic.s of Life. Or maybe he should say, The Inmzefz- Jifier. Well, anyway, that could be decided upon later. just at present the all-important problem was the selection of a theme, a basic idea. In fact, that was the reason he had come to the cathedral. This stoical structure had in- differently looked down on many deeds and scenes, dramatic, pathetic, and humorous, and would look down on many more. Here, he had thought, within this quiet edihce a great idea might come to him. But no idea, no inspiration, no divine revelation came to the boy. A genius is never prosaic. On the con- trary, often a little mad. He walked up to the foot of the chancel. Then he turned to his left and walked around behind the altar. He stared up at the towering columns, columns that formed the back- ground of the chancelg smooth, polished col-

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umns that appeared to mount to heaven, indestructible columns, among which the music of the organ seemed to billow and roll, surging into every nook, every corner, every existing cranny. It was all too great. It was all too huge. It seemed so complete, so omnipotent, that Clarence felt vaguely annoyed. He turned and entered one of the little chapels, but the music, now soft and quiet, followed him in. He closed the gate at the entrance as if to shut it out. It was in vain. The chapel, though of small dimensions, was exceedingly rich in material. On the milk-white altar of marble, which was partially covered with a purple silk cloth, stood sacramental vessels of gold. Brilliantly colored Gothic windows rose behind it. Twin ormolu cabinets, standing in the centers of the side walls, were crowned with Sevres vases of the most exquisite propor- tions. The cushions, the urns, even the walls themselves were of incredible richness. But amid this luxury and beauty was a foreign note, discordantly sounded. It consisted of the chairs, which were plain to a point of crudeness. Perhaps the Bishop feared souvenir hunters. Nevertheless, they pleased Clarence. To him they seemed to dilute the luxury of the apartment, to make it palatable. Ha! There was an idea. It might serve as a core about which to construct a story. He seated himself on one of the aisle chairs and began to think. He thought and thought, but after every idea some sort of objection presented itself. He grew bored and drowsy. His gaze wandered back to the chairs. They were evidently just a whim of the Bishop. He was notoriously eccentric. Clarence began to mentally ramble, aiming criticism and conjecture at everything in general and at nothing in particular. Presently he remembered his purpose in being in the chapel. Perhaps, he thought, if he closed his eyes he would not be distracted by his surroundings. Yes, that was a good idea. He put it into execution and-fell asleep. It was night when he awoke, and the cathedral was silent. A faint hum of traffic penetrated to the dim interior of the building. He stood up, somewhat alarmed. He should have been home long ago. He went to the windows and studied his watch in the feeble light that filtered through from the street. It was twenty-live minutes past nine. Not so late after all, he thought, as he groped toward the vague outlines of the chapel gate. With a maximum of difhculty he opened it and stepped out. In the corridor, he stood undecided as to which way to turn. But then, he thought, it didn't make much differnce. He turned to his right, walking quickly and quietly around the the chancel toward the transept. God, how dark it was! The arrogant, threatening columns reared themselves to indiscernible heights, like petrified tree trunks in an enchanted forest. Enchanted? Haunted! It was approximately here that the Bishop of Hampshire was murdered. That was a half a thousand years ago, but it was still claimed that his spirit haunted the place. The REFLECTOR- . ., 11