The Indian Clerk by David Leavitt

Strachey," Norton says, "mustn't Herr Witter-Gitter realize that Cecil's not the Society any more than Hardy is, or I
     am, or—well, any one person? If he can't see that, there's nothing to be done."
    "Still, the current lot of undergraduates . . . they don't make what you'd call a lasting intellectual impression. That's
     why we need Wittgenstein. To raise the bar. Do you know what he told Keynes? He said that watching Taylor and the others talk
     philosophy was like watching young men at their toilets. Harmless but obscene."
    "But if he resigns, won't he have to be cursed and roby-ized?"
    "Nonsense. You can't roby-ize a man like Wittgenstein. If anything, he might roby-ize us." Strachey turns to Hardy. "It's
     not like the old days, is it? In the old days, we used to talk about what goodness was. Or Goldie would be on the hearthrug, disquisiting on whether we should elect God. And we voted, and I think most of us
     agreed—you were in the minority, of course, Hardy—that, yes, we should elect God. And now look who we've got instead of God. The squitter-squatter. Our best days are behind us, I fear."
    Strachey appears to be correct. At the moment, the tri-testicular Taylor is fuming by the fire. Bekassy and Bliss are in the
     window seat, petting each other's necks. Sheppard looks as if he's about to weep. Fortunately Brooke—who has an instinct for
     such things—picks this instant to pass around the tobacco jar. Matches snap, pipes are lit. In the past, they all would have
     stood about chatting and arguing until three in the morning. Tonight, though, no one seems to have the heart for it, and the
     meeting breaks up just after twelve. McTaggart rides off on his tricycle, while Hardy makes his way back, alone, to Trinity.
     It's still surprisingly warm out. Patting the letter in his pocket, he thinks of his own letter. Has it yet passed through
     the Suez Canal? Is it on a ship crossing the ocean? Or has it already arrived at Madras, at the Port Trust Office, where the
     real Ramanujan will retrieve it Monday morning?
    And now, as if on cue, his mysterious friend joins him; walks with him, matching his stride step for step. If the real Ramanujan
     really does come to Cambridge, might he be inducted into the Apostles, as the Society's first Indian member? Hardy would be
     his father, of course. Only what would Ramanujan make of these clever men with their fey rituals and private language? It's
     difficult for Hardy to reconcile the public image of men like Keynes and Moore with this boys' school atmosphere in which
     they frisk each Saturday night, calling each other by pet names and eating nursery food and talking endlessly, endlessly,
     about sex, and then about philosophy, and then sex again. Dirty jokes, boastful hints of carnal adventuring. Yet how many
     of them have any real experience? Practically none, Hardy suspects. Keynes, yes. Hardy himself, though few of them would guess
     it. Brooke—mostly with women. Also a sticking point. Hardy thinks of McTaggart, making his creaking, three-wheeled progress
     back to the unfeminine, Apostolic Daisy. For this is the Society's great secret, and its lie. Most of these men will marry
     in the end.
    He is just arriving at the Trinity gates when Norton catches up with him. "Hello, Hardy," he says—and the Indian wraith evaporates.
    "Heading home?" Hardy asks.
    Norton nods. "I've been walking. The meeting left me full of agitated energy. I couldn't go to bed . . . I mean, I couldn't
     go to sleep yet."
    He winks. He is not good-looking. More and more, the older he gets, does he resemble a monkey. Still, Hardy smiles at the
     invitation.
    "You might come up for a cup of tea," he says, ringing the bell. Norton nods assent. Then they are quiet, lost in a silence
     in which there lingers an embarrassed silt of compromise, of settling for what's available in the absence of what's desired.
     Footfalls sound in the gloom, an impish, spiteful Cupid beats a drum, and