Freddy's Book

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I WAS IN Madison, Wisconsin, on a lecture tour, when I first met Professor Agaard and his son. I was there to read a paper, brand new at the time (since then, as you may know, widely anthologized), “The Psycho-politics of the Late Welsh Fairytale: Fee, Fie, Foe — Revolution!” The lecture was behind me, a thoroughly pleasant event, as usual, at least for me — a responsive audience that had laughed at the right places, perhaps here and there shed a tear or two, asked the kinds of questions that let a speaker show his wide-ranging knowledge and wit, and applauded with generous gusto when it was over. Now I was deep into one of those long, intense celebrations that put the cap on such affairs, making the guest feel gloriously welcome and the audience (those who make the party) seem a host of old friends. The whole first floor of the house was crowded; a few may have drifted to the second floor as well; and from the sound of things, there was another party roaring in the basement I think I never knew whose house it was; probably the elderly professor of antiquities who’d met me at the door, one of those bright-faced, bearded fellows with a great, hearty handshake, a thundering laugh, and a pretty, younger wife. I don’t mean I was indifferent to who my host was; not at all. I have been, from childhood upward, a gregarious, infinitely curious being, quick to strike up friendships wherever I travel, always more than willing to hear the other person’s side. It was no doubt those qualities that led me to my profession, history — or more precisely, psycho-history.

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