IT'S DECIDED THAT they should meet over lunch—Sunday lunch, at Neville's house, where Ramanujan will have arrived the evening before. Hardy loathes introductions, the formality of first handshakes, the rote inquiries about the journey and the throat clearing afterward. If it were possible (and perhaps someday physics will make it possible) he would like to own a device akin to Wells's time machine, but more modest in purpose, designed so that one might leap over awkward moments and into a more tolerable future. Instantly. If you had such a machine, you would never have to wait for the results of an examination to be posted, or judge whether the newly arrived "Ph.D." from Princeton was going to answer your advances with friendliness or hostility. Instead you could just pull a lever or push a button and be already in possession of your exam results, or on the way to bed with the friendly "Ph.D.," or safe at home after being rebuffed by the hostile one. And if you knew that you wouldn't have to go through these things, then you wouldn't have to dread them. As Hardy dreads this first meeting, this first lunch with Ramanujan.
Why does he dread it? Too much expectation, he supposes; too much wrangling with institutional forces, and too many delays, and far, far too many letters. A fat file of them: from Neville, from Alice Neville, from various colonial bureaucrats, from Ramanujan himself. As it happens, finding the money to get Ramanujan to England has proven to be far more difficult than was persuading him to come. In the opinion of Mallet, it was highly unlikely that funds sufficient to support a student at Cambridge could be raised in Madras. Trinity promised only to consider giving Ramanujan a scholarship after he had been there a year. Nor was there any question of the India Office itself contributing so much as a penny. Indeed, Mallet wrote to Hardy, in his opinion Neville had made a grave mistake encouraging Ramanujan to come in the first place; there was "a danger that a student in India might count on Mr. Neville's kindly assurance, and assume that a Cambridge Don would find it easy to raise the money required." Which, beyond the £50 a year that he and Littlewood were prepared to pledge, this Cambridge don hadn't.
No sooner, though, had Hardy rushed off a letter warning Neville to "be a little careful" than he learned that Neville, entirely on his own, had managed to persuade the University of Madras to provide Ramanujan with a £250 per annum scholarship, a £100 clothing allowance, the money for his passage to England, and a stipend to support his family in his absence. What the India Office had assured Hardy could never be done, Neville, in the course of three days, had done.
Neville the hero.
And now Ramanujan is in England, and Hardy has still to meet him face-to-face, to see if the reality of him bears any resemblance to the image his mind has conjured—an image, no doubt, to which the descriptions offered by each of the Nevilles has contributed, as has (he cannot deny it) the endlessly fascinating spectacle of the cricketer Chatterjee. Not that it's been easy to forge from these fragmentary and not always complimentary clues a face on which his mind's eye, at least, can gaze. Neville is hardly what one would call a wordsmith. "Stoutish, darkish," he said when he got back from Madras. Well, what else? Tall? No, not tall. A mustache? Perhaps. Neville couldn't recall. Hardy thought of asking Mrs. Neville but feared that if he did, he might give away the game; might reveal to her shades of anxiety that she, unlike her husband, would be perspicacious enough to glean. So he has kept his mouth shut and tried to make do with the little he's been given.
As it happens, he's in London this week, alone in the Pimlico flat. Ramanujan is also in London. His ship docked on Tuesday. Neville went with his brother, who has a motor car, to meet him, after which they ushered him immediately to 21 Cromwell Road, across from the Natural History Museum. The National India Association has its offices there, as well as some rooms that it makes available to Indian students just off the boat in order to ease their transition into British life. Hardy went up for Easter and stayed on—needing a change of air from Cambridge, he told his sister. And if, in the course of the week, he's happened to wander past the Natural History Museum a few times, happened to gaze across Cromwell Road at number 21 and taken note of the Indians coming in and out the front door—well, what of it? It's natural to wonder if he'll recognize Ramanujan, to see if the face matches the image in his mind. A genius. What does a genius look like? What does Hardy himself look like? Hardly the typical messy-haired scientist, who, when on occasion he makes an appearance in a Punch cartoon, is usually gazing abstractedly over the tip of his pipe, his jacket misbuttoned and his shoelaces untied. Figures dance above his head, a cloud of Greek letters, punctuation marks, logic symbols, all meant to indicate his remoteness from worldly concerns and occupation of a realm at once too complex and too dull to be worth the effort of trying to enter. The scientist, in such cartoons, is estimable but laughable. Genius and joke. Whereas Hardy is the sort whom those who refer to themselves as "us" would consider "our sort."
And Ramanujan? Standing outside 21 Cromwell Road, Hardy has no idea. Perhaps he comes in or goes out. Perhaps not. Nor will Hardy ask Neville—though he knows that Neville is coming down to London on Saturday to fetch Ramanujan—whether he might accompany him and Ramanujan to Cambridge. He does not want to give, even indirectly, the impression that his attitude toward this momentous arrival is anything but blase. After all, G. H. Hardy is an important man, with many important things to worry about. Still, on Saturday morning, he takes a last stroll by the Natural History Museum before heading off to Liverpool Street to catch his train.
Back in Cambridge, he returns to the safety of his rooms, to Hermione and his rattan chair and Gaye's bust. Ramanujan, he knows, will be staying with the Nevilles until accommodations can be found for him at Trinity. Everyone agrees—it's much commented upon in Hall—that the Nevilles have been absolutely splendid, have gone beyond the call of duty. Indeed, a few days ago, a classics fellow came up to Hardy and congratulated him on the role he'd played in "bringing Neville's Indian to Cambridge." Hardy smiled thinly and walked away.
The day of the lunch, he meets Littlewood in Great Court. Littlewood is whistling. "A great occasion for us," he says as they head out through the gates on to King's Parade. "After all this effort, we've finally got him here."
"So we have," Hardy replies. "Now we have to decide what to do with him."
"Shouldn't be a problem. Let him continue as he's been going. Oh, and teach him how to write a proof."
"Yes, merely that." Hardy pulls his collar tighter against his neck. The breeze chills his bones even as the sun warms his face. Such a confluence of opposites has a calming effect upon him, so much so that, by the time they reach Chesterton Road, he's nearly forgotten his anxiety. But then, as Neville's house comes into view, his heart starts racing. Prize Day all over again. Were he alone, he might turn around, hurry back to his rooms and send a note to the Nevilles pleading illness. For better or worse, though, Littlewood is with him. Little would Littlewood guess (Little would Littlewood) the extent of his terror.
Ethel, the housemaid, answers his knock. Hardy hasn't seen her since the tea the previous autumn. In the interval, she's put on weight, looks like a loaf of unbaked bread. The sitting room into which she leads them is flooded with a natural light that lends to the purple wallpaper a gruesome, almost funereal aspect, exposing the smudges on the window glass and the thin coatings of dust on the mahogany side tables. This effect, of sunlight on a room meant to flatter the dark, enchants Hardy. For a moment he's so distracted that he fails to notice Neville getting up from the Voysey settee, holding out his hand in greeting, guiding Hardy to the spinster armchairs, from one of which a murky figure rises. This is Ramanujan.
The time-skipping machine works: the moment's over before he even blinks.
Familiar names—one of them his own—are repeated. They shake hands (Ramanujan's dry and slippery), and all at once some other voice—some public orator's voice, a headmaster's voice—is booming from Hardy's throat. Words of hearty welcome. A pat on Ramanujan's back, which is warm, meaty. Ramanujan appears to be even more nervous than Hardy is. Sweat beads on his forehead: that's the first detail that Hardy takes in. His skin is the color of coffee blended with milk, and pitted with smallpox scars. He does not have a mustache. Instead there's a shadow that, from a distance, might be mistaken for a mustache, because Ramanujan's nose (squat, pronounced) comes down very low, nearly touching his upper lip. He is neither as short nor as stout as Neville suggested. The appearance of shortness and stoutness, rather, owes to his clothes: a tweed suit a size too small, a collar so tight around his neck he looks as if he's being strangled. The jacket, every button of which he has buttoned, strains to cover his belly. Even the shoes seem to clamp his feet.
Littlewood is introduced—a smoother business. Then they all sit down, and Mrs. Neville comes in, aflutter with apologies for being delayed, and greetings for Gertrude, and questions about Gertrude.
She sits next to her husband, who puts his arm over the back of the settee so that his fingers fall lightly on the nape of her neck.
A disquieting silence falls, which no one seems to know how to fill, until once again that headmaster's voice comes crashing forth from Hardy's throat. "Well, Mr. Ramanujan," he says. "And how was your journey?"
"Quite pleasant, thank you," Ramanujan says.
"Although he was seasick for much of it," Mrs. Neville puts in.
"Only the first week."
"And how do you find England so far?" Littlewood asks.
"I must admit, I find it rather cold."
"Not surprising," says Neville. "Today in Madras it's probably a hundred degrees."
"For us, Mr. Ramanujan, this is warm weather," Mrs. Neville says.
"Still," Hardy says, "I'm sure the Nevilles will have made you comfortable." (What idiotic chatter! Every cell in his body resents it. He wants to rip off his clothes, to smash windows.)
"Most comfortable, yes. They have been very good to me."
"He didn't close his door last night! I said to him this morning, Ramanujan, why didn't you close your door? But Alice reminded me, when we were at the hotel in Madras, the Indian guests never closed their doors."
"Eric, don't embarrass Mr. Ramanujan."
"I'm not. I'm just asking a question. Why don't Indians like closed doors?"
"In our dwellings we do not have doors to close."
"Whereas we English do everything behind closed doors!" Littlewood says, laughing and scratching his ankle.
"Yes, I fear we're a prudish people," Alice says. "I've heard that at the department stores in London only ladies are allowed to change the clothing on the female mannequins."
"Is that true?" Hardy asks.
"Of course, times are changing. For instance, I feel I can say with comparative certainty that of those of us present—those of us who are English—not one had parents who slept in the same bedroom."
The silence that greets this supposition also affirms it. Neville coughs in embarrassment. What a saucy character this Alice is, Hardy thinks, or at least aspires to be! Fortunately at that moment Ethel announces lunch. She holds open a door and the five of them file into the dining room, which faces the back of the house. Here the furniture, like the wallpaper, is William Morris, the chairs slat-backed and rush-seated. As for the round table, Hardy can tell from the way it's been set that Mrs. Neville considers this an occasion. She has put out silver, the best wedding china, starched white napkins. At the center there is an arrangement of spring flowers, bluebells and violets and crocuses, in a fluted bowl.
Ethel circles with a bottle of wine, which Ramanujan politely refuses. No doubt another injunction imposed by his mad religion.
And his vegetarianism? For an awful moment, Hardy fears lest Mrs. Neville should have prepared a traditional Sunday lunch—a joint and Yorkshire pudding and two veg and spuds, to welcome the foreigner and introduce him to English ways. In which case, what will he do? Hardy panics at the prospect of this poor Indian having to refuse even the potatoes, which will have been cooked with the meat, until he remembers that, having been to India, Mrs. Neville should know perfectly well that Ramanujan is vegetarian and have made for him, at the very least, a separate set of dishes.
It turns out that she's gone one better. "In anticipation of your arrival, Mr. Ramanujan," she says, "I've been studying vegetarian cookery."
"Much to the chagrin of the cook," Neville adds, laughing.
"Eric, please. The last time we were in London, Mr. Neville and I ate at a vegetarian restaurant—the Ideal on Tottenham Court Road—and we had a very appetizing meal."
"Aside from the meat, the only thing missing was flavor."
"And I purchased a vegetarian cookbook. I hope you're pleased with the results."
Ramanujan waggles his head in a way that might mean yes and might mean no. Such effort on his behalf seems to have left him at a loss for words. Fortunately right then Ethel comes back in, bearing a soup tureen. Lentil soup—not bad, if a little bland—is followed by a salad, after which Mrs. Neville disappears into the kitchen, only to return bearing an immense silver platter covered with a bell. This she lays ceremoniously on the table. "As our main course today," she says, "we have a special dish. A vegetable goose."
With a flourish, she removes the cover. A brown, lumpen mass, surrounded by boiled potatoes and carrots and sprigs of parsley, sits in the middle of the platter. Ramanujan's eyes widen as he takes the thing in. His mouth opens. At this, Mrs. Neville laughs brightly. "Oh, please don't worry, Mr. Ramanujan," she says, "it's not a real goose. No fowl of any kind was involved, I assure you. We simply call it a vegetable goose because—well—it's a sort of mock goose. A mock stuffed goose."
"You see, Ramanujan," Neville says, "we English are basically cavemen. Given our druthers, we'd tear raw meat off the bone with our teeth, and so when we eat vegetarian food, we try to create simulacra of the sorts of things we crave. Vegetable goose, vegetable sausage, vegetable steak-and-kidney pie."
Appalled silence greets this menu. "What? Do you think I'm joking? I've had a look at Alice's cookbook, and all these are bona fide recipes."
Ramanujan is blushing. A little smile has crept onto his face. Neville is chaffing him, Hardy sees, and he is enjoying it.
"Call the dish what you will," Mrs. Neville says, slicing into the lump. "All that it is is a vegetable marrow stuffed with bread, sage, and apples and then baked."
Steam escapes from the first incision, carrying with it a strong whiff of cinnamon. A first slice is produced, plated, and put before Ramanujan.
"There's just one thing I don't understand," Littlewood says, as the rest of the plates are handed round. "Why on earth would a vegetarian want to eat imitation meat? I thought the whole point was . . . well. . . not to eat meat. To eat vegetables."
"Personally, I'd rather have this than a plate of cold boiled turnips," Neville says, tucking in. "Delicious, darling."
"Thank you, Eric. And what do you think, Mr. Ramanujan?"
"Very tasty, Madam," Ramanujan says—still ill at ease, Hardy can see, with the fork. Primitive implement, designed to pierce flesh. Poor fellow. He must not be used to such flavors. Hardy himself is not used to such flavors. For him, the cloying sweetness of the cinnamon only makes the mush of marrow more repulsive.
The meal concludes with sago pudding, after which the party returns to the sitting room for coffee—which, Hardy is pleased to note, Ramanujan accepts with great enthusiasm. As Mrs. Neville proceeds to explain in her Baedeker voice, coffee is very popular in Madras, even more popular than tea, though it's prepared in a different way: boiled with the milk and then sweetened. They drain their cups, and with exaggerated apologies—perhaps this has been pre-arranged with Neville—she explains that she has some "household matters to attend to" and leaves the room. Now, Hardy supposes, they are supposed to talk mathematics. Good God, how awful! Even worse than the small talk! He wants to escape, and wonders if Ramanujan must feel the same way. But then Neville asks Ramanujan a question about the zeta function, on which Ramanujan proceeds to expatiate, at first haltingly, then with growing confidence. It seems that he has been shown Hardy's proof—just now published—that there are an infinite number of zeros along the critical line.
Only now does Hardy have the presence of mind to really see him. The heavy-lidded eyes, dark and searching, glance out from beneath a massive, furrowed brow. The hair, though short, is thick and luxuriant. Perhaps because Mrs. Neville is no longer present, he has unbuttoned his jacket, with the result that he looks altogether more comfortable. He says that he's becoming interested in what he calls "highly composite numbers." Littlewood asks what he means. "I suppose I mean," Ramanujan says, "a number that is as far from a prime as a number can be. A sort of anti-prime."
"Fascinating," Littlewood says. "Could you give us an example?"
"24."
Hardy raises his eyebrows.
"None of the numbers up to 24 has more than 6 divisors. 22 has 4, 21 has 4, 20 has 6. But 24 has 8. 24 can be divided by 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 8, 12, or 24. So I define a 'highly composite number' as a number that has more divisors than any number that comes before it."
What a strange mind! What a strange, ranging mind!
"And how many of these numbers have you calculated?"
"I have listed every highly composite number up to 6,746,328,388,800."
"And have you drawn any conclusions about these numbers?" Neville asks.
"Well, yes. You see, you can work out a formula for a highly composite N—" He makes a grasping motion with his fingers, as if reaching for an invisible pencil, at which Neville stands and says, "Hold on a minute." Then he goes out of the room and returns, a few seconds later, bearing a blackboard on legs and some chalk. Awkwardly Ramanujan stands beside the blackboard. "Well," he says, "if we say N is a highly composite number, then the following formula can be written for N."
And he's off. At the blackboard, any self-consciousness he might feel about speaking English leaves him, just as Hardy's discomfort evaporates. They're lost now, and when, an hour later, Alice Neville peers down from the top of the stairs, she sees four men she hardly recognizes, speaking a language she cannot hope to understand.