“Observe,” lisped Mr. Torrington, the old Rhodes Scholar (Pulpit Hill and Merton, ’14), “observe how skilfully he holds suspense until the very end. Observe with what consummate art he builds up his climax, keeping his meaning hidden until the very last word.” Further, in fact.
At last, thought Eugene, I am getting an education. This must be good writing, because it seems so very dull. When it hurts, the dentist says, it does you good. Democracy must be real, because it is so very earnest. It must be a certainty, because it is so elegantly embalmed in this marble mausoleum of language. Essays For College Men—Woodrow Wilson, Lord Bryce and Dean Briggs.
But there was no word here of the loud raucous voice of America, political conventions and the Big Brass Band, Tweed, Tammany, the Big Stick, lynching bees and black barbecue parties, the Boston Irish, and the damnable machinations of the Pope as exposed by the Babylon Hollow Trumpet (Dem.), the rape of the Belgian virgins, rum, oil, Wall Street and Mexico.
All that, Mr. Torrington would have said, was temporary and accidental. It was unsound.
Mr. Torrington smiled moistly at Eugene and urged him tenderly into a chair drawn intimately to his desk.
“Mr.—? Mr.—?—” he said, fumbling at his index cards.
“Gant,” said Eugene.
“Ah, yes—Mr. Gant,” he smiled his contrition. “Now—about your outside reading?” he began.
But what, thought Eugene, about my inside reading?
Did he like to read? Ah—that was good. He was so glad to hear it. The true university in these days, said Carlyle (he did hope Eugene liked rugged old Thomas), was a collection of books.
“Yes, sir,” said Eugene.
That, it seemed to him, was the Oxford Plan. Oh, yes—he had been there, three years, in fact. His mild eye kindled. To loaf along the High on a warm Spring day, stopping to examine in the bookseller’s windows the treasures that might be had for so little. Then to Buol’s or to a friend’s room for tea, or for a walk in the meadows or Magdalen gardens, or to look down into the quad, at the gay pageant of youth below. Ah—Ah! A great place? Well—he’d hardly say that. It all depended what one meant by a great place. Half the looseness in thought—unfortunately, he fancied, more prevalent among American than among English youth—came from an indefinite exuberance of ill-defined speech.
“Yes, sir,” said Eugene.
A great place? Well, he’d scarcely say that. The expression was typically American. Butter-lipped, he turned on the boy a smile of soft unfriendliness:
“It kills,” he observed, “a man’s useless enthusiasms.”
Eugene whitened a little.
“That’s fine,” he said.
Now—let him see. Did he like plays—the modern drama? Excellent. They were doing some very interesting things in the modern drama. Barrie—oh, a charming fellow! What was that? Shaw!
“Yes, sir,” said Eugene. “I’ve read all the others. There’s a new book out.”
“Oh, but really! My dear boy!” said Mr. Torrington with gentle amazement. He shrugged his shoulders and became politely indifferent. Very well, if he liked. Of course, he thought it rather a pity to waste one’s time so when they were really doing some first-rate things. That was just the trouble, however. The appeal of a man like that was mainly to the unformed taste, the uncritical judgment. He had a flashy attraction for the immature. Oh, yes! Undoubtedly an amusing fellow. Clever—yes, but hardly significant. And—didn’t he think—a trifle noisy? Or had he noticed that? Yes—there was to be sure an amusing Celtic strain, not without charm, but unsound. He was not in line with the best modern thought.
“I’ll take the Barrie,” said Eugene.
Yes, he rather thought that would be better.
“Well, good day. Mr.—Mr.—?—?” he smiled, fumbling again with his cards.
“Gant.”
Oh yes, to be sure—Gant. He held out his plump limp hand. He did hope Mr. Gant would call on him. Perhaps he’d be able to advise him on some of the little problems that, he knew, were constantly cropping up during the first year. Above all, he mustn’t get discouraged.
“Yes, sir,” said Eugene, backing feverishly to the door. When he felt the open space behind him, he fell through it, and vanished.
Anyway, he thought grimly, I’ve read all the damned Barries. I’ll write the damned report for him, and damned well read what I damn well please.
God save our King and Queen!
He had courses besides in Chemistry, Mathematics, Greek, and Latin.
He worked hard and with interest at his Latin. His instructor was a tall shaven man, with a yellow saturnine face. He parted his scant hair cleverly in such a way as to suggest horns. His lips were always twisted in a satanic smile, his eyes gleamed sideward with heavy malicious humor. Eugene had great hopes of him. When the boy arrived, panting and break-fastless, a moment after the class had settled to order, the satanic professor would greet him with elaborate irony: “Ah there, Brother Gant! Just in time for church again. Have you slept well?”
The class roared its appreciation of these subtleties. And later, in an expectant pause, he would deepen his arched brows portentously, stare up mockingly under his bushy eyebrows at his expectant audience, and say, in a deep sardonic voice:
“And now, I am going to request Brother Gant to favor us with one of his polished and scholarly translations.”
These heavy jibes were hard to bear because, of all the class, two dozen or more, Brother Gant was the only one to prepare his work without the aid of a printed translation. He worked hard on Livy and Tacitus, going over the lesson several times until he had dug out a smooth and competent reading of his own. This he was stupid enough to deliver in downright fashion, without hesitation, or a skilfully affected doubt here and there. For his pains and honesty he was handsomely rewarded by the Amateur Diabolist. The lean smile would deepen
