How shall I write of Haggershaven as my eyes first saw it twenty-two years ago? Of the rolling acres of rich plowed land, interrupted here and there by stone outcroppings worn smooth and round by time, and trees in woodlots or standing alone strong and unperturbed? Of the main building, grown by fits and starts from the original farmhouse into a great, rambling eccentricity stopping short of monstrosity only by its complete innocence of pretense? Shall I describe the two dormitories, severely functional, escaping harshness because they had not been built by carpenters and though sturdy enough, betrayed the amateur touch in every line? Or the cottages and apartments, two, four, at most six rooms, for the married fellows and their families? These were scattered all over, some so avid for privacy that one could pass unknowing within feet of the concealing trees or shrubbery, others bold in the sunshine on knolls or in hollows. I could tell of the small shops, the miniature laboratories, the inadequate observatory, the heterogeneous assortment of books which was both less and more than a library, the dozens of outbuildings. But these things were not the haven. They were merely the least of its possessions. For Haggershaven was not a material place at all, but a spiritual freedom. Its limits were only the limits of what its fellows could do or think or inquire. It was circumscribed only by the outside world, not by internal rules and taboos, competition or curriculum. Most of this I could see for myself, much of it was explained by Ace. “But how can you afford the time to take me all around this way?” I asked; “I must be interfering with your own work.” He grinned. “This is my period to be guide, counselor and friend to those whove strayed in here, wittingly or un. Don’t worry, after youre a fellow youll get told off for all the jobs, from shoveling manure to gilding weathercocks.” I sighed. “The chances of my getting to be a fellow are minus nothing. Especially after last night.” He didnt pretend to misunderstand. “Barbara’ll come out of it. She’s not always that way. As her father says, she’s high-strung, and she’s been working madly. And to tell the truth,” he went on in a burst of frankness, “she really doesnt get on too well with other women. She has a masculine mind.” I have often noticed that men not strikingly brilliant themselves attribute masculine minds to intelligent women on the consoling assumption that feminine minds are normally inferior. Ace however was manifestly innocent of any attempt to patronize. “Anyway,” he concluded, “she has only one vote.” I didnt know whether to take this as a pledge of support or mere politeness. “Isnt it wasteful, assigning a chemist like Dr Agati to kitchen work? Or isnt he a good chemist?”