Harlansburg, with practical sense, shields itself from northern winds
by a high hill, spreading over the barren southern slope. Trade clings
to the river-front, in a compact mass around the square, and from there
the town rises, scattering as it climbs, and the higher it goes the
larger are the houses and the more imposing, suggesting a contest in
which the stronger have overtopped their weaker brethren. But the
university, I suspect, was never surfeited with practical sense, else
she would not have settled on the very crest of the hill, to shiver the
winter through in icy winds and in the summer to bake in tropic heat.
There was, indeed, a delightful lack of responsibility about the
university. She had something of Micawber's nature, and was so inured
to adversity that she would have been ill at ease in a position less
imposing, even though less exposed. She might shiver, but she would
dominate the town. She was hopefully waiting for something to turn up,
and for such a purpose was well placed, for the railroad threaded the
narrow valley below, and at any moment some multi-millionaire might see
her from the car window, take pity and endow her. This impression of
worth in honorable tatters, of virtue appealing for aid, is made on me
to-day when the train swings around the jutting hill and I behold the
roof of "Old Main" rising from the trees, and the smutted white dome of
the observatory. But that afternoon when I first saw my alma mater, I
was quite overwhelmed by her magnificence. Before that I had known
McGraw only by an ancient wood-cut of Mr. Pound's, which showed a long
building, supremely bare, set among military trees; with a barouche in
the foreground in which was a woman holding a parasol; with
wooden-looking gentlemen in beaver hats pointing canes at the windows
as though they were studying the beauties of imagined tracery. The
military trees had grown, and through the gaps in the foliage as I drew
nearer I made out the detail of the most imposing structure I had ever
seen. Not St. Peter's, nor the Colosseum, nor the Temple of the Sun
have awakened in me the same thrill of admiration that shot through my
veins when "Old Main" stretched its bare brick walls before me to
incomprehensible distances, and rising carried my eyes to the sky
itself, where the Gothic wood-work of the tower pierced it.
In the name, "Old Main," there is a suggestion of a score of collegiate
Gothic quadrangles clustering about their common mother, but these
existed only in the dreams of Doctor Todd, and the most tangible
expression they found was in a blue-print which was hung in a
conspicuous place in his study and presented his scheme of placing the
different schools in that hoped-for day when the multimillionaire
untied the strings of his money-bags.
"Our founder, Stephen McGraw," Doctor Todd was fond of explaining,
"gave us the nucleus of a great educational institution. Our task is
to build on his foundation. It is true that in fifty years not a new
stone has been laid, but that must not discourage us. We shall go on
hoping and working."
Dear old Doctor Todd! He still works on and hopes. He has had bitter
disappointments, but they have never beaten him down. Had Stephen
McGraw left his money and not his name to the university, the doctor's
task would have been easier, for it is not the way of men to beautify
another's monument. Once, I remember, a Western capitalist was
persuaded to make a great gift to McGraw. He made it with conditions,
and for a while our hopes blazed high and with exceeding fury. The
collegiate Gothic quadrangles were within our reach, as near to us as
the grapes to Tantalus. A half-million dollars was promised us if we
raised a like sum within a year. Doctor Todd tried to effect a
compromise by accepting two hundred thousand dollars outright, but the
philanthropist did not believe in making beggars of institutions by
surfeiting them with charity. So we cheered him right heartily and
went to work to gather our share. I remember it all very well because
I sang in the glee-club concert which we gave in the opera house to
help the fund, and because our classroom work was very light, as the
president and half of the faculty were canvassing the State for aid.
We worked desperately--faculty, alumni, and students. Even Mr. Pound
gave ten dollars from his meagre salary, and the Reverend Sylvester
Bradley, three times moderator of the synod, a round hundred. With
only a month in which to make up a deficit of four hundred thousand
dollars, we did not abandon hope. Every morning in chapel the doctor
prayed earnestly for a rain of manna or a visitation of ravens, which
we knew to be his adroit way of covering a more mercenary petition.
But heaven never opened, and a check never fluttered to earth from the
only source from which it could be expected. The year ended and our
would-be benefactor gave his money outright to Harvard or Yale, I
forget which, for a swimming tank or a gymnasium.
Some day McGraw may get the coveted money. I know that were it in my
power the collegiate Gothic quadrangles would rise on the lines of
Doctor Todd's faded blue-print. I should build Todd Hall and McGraw
Library, but not one brick would I add to "Old Main." There would be
the only condition of my gift of millions. They might suggest oriel
windows to relieve the bare facade, buttresses to break the flatness of
the wall and pinnacles to beautify the roof, but I would have "Old
Main" always as I saw it on that September afternoon, when I had
climbed the hill, paused, set down my bag and stood with arms akimbo
while I scanned the amazing length and height of the splendid pile. My
heart at each remove from home had become a heavier weight until I
seemed to carry within me a solid leaden load. Now it lightened
mysteriously. Face to face with a new life that had its symbol in this
noble breadth of wall, the cords which held me to the old snapped.
That very morning seemed the part of another age, and yesterday was
spent in another world. I was wide awake at last. The cheer which Mr.
Pound had taught me was on my lips, and I should have given it as a
paean of thanksgiving had I not been embarrassed by the scrutiny of a
group of young men who loitered on the steps before me. So I picked up
my bag, a feather-weight to my new energy, and went boldly on.
My impression of the splendor of college life was heightened by the
first acquaintance I made in my new environment. This was Boller of
'89, and today Boller of '89 holds in my mind as a true pattern of the
man of the world. His was the same stuff of which was made "the
perfect courtier." The difference lay solely in the degree of finish,
and justly considered, true value lies in the material, not in the
gloss. Boller, polished by the society of Harlansburg, appeared to my
eyes quite the most delightful person I had ever met. It was the
perfection of his clothes and the graciousness of his manner that awed
me and won my admiration. In those days wide trousers were the
fashion, and Boller was, above all, fashion's ardent devotee. His, I
think, exceeded by four inches the widest in the college. Recalling
him as he came forth from the group on the steps to greet me, I think
of him as potted in his trousers, like a plant, so slender rose his
body from his draped legs. His patent-leather shoes were almost
hidden, and from his broad base he seemed to converge into a gray derby
of the kind we called "the smoky city," the latest thing from
Pittsburgh. Looking at him, so wonderfully garbed, I became conscious
of my own rusticity, so old-fashioned did the styles of Pleasantville
appear beside the resplendent garments of my new friend. I was sure
that he must notice it. If he did, he gave no sign.
"I'm Boller of '89," he said, grasping my hand cordially. "What's your
name?"
"Malcolm, sir--David Malcolm," I answered.
Boller clapped an arm across my shoulders in friendly fashion. "You're
three days late, Malcolm, but better late than never. I suppose you
were hesitating between McGraw and Harvard."
"Oh, no!" I faltered, not fathoming his pleasantry. "I had to wait
until the tailor finished my new suit. It should have been done last
Monday, but----"
Something in Boller's eyes checked me. He was regarding me from head
to foot so gravely that I divined that I might have joined the crew of
the Ark in my new clothes, judged by their cut.
"You have come here to study agriculture, I presume," he remarked most
pleasantly.
So subtle a reference to my bucolic appearance was lost on my innocent
mind. He seemed quite serious and as he was mistaken I wanted to set
him right. I was proud of my laudable ambition. Proclaiming it had
brought me only commendation, and I proclaimed it now.
"I'm going to be a minister," I said, drawing myself up a little.
"Indeed--a minister--how interesting!" returned Boller, raising his
eyebrows.
Now had he laughed at me, had he called his fellows from the step to
mob me, in the glory of my martyrdom I should have held fast to my
purpose; or had he flattered me like Miss Spinner or Mr. Smiley, my
vanity would have carried me on my chosen path. His middle course was
disconcerting. He treated my ambition as though it were quite a
natural one and just about as interesting as to follow dentistry or
plumbing.
"I'm going to be a missionary," I said in a louder tone, hoping to
arouse in him either antagonism or adulation.
"Curious," he returned. "Very curious. Why I am thinking of taking up
the same line myself. It makes a man so interesting to the girls.
I've a cousin who is a minister, and last year he received seventeen
pairs of knit slippers from the young ladies of his congregation.
That's going some--eh, Malcolm?"
What a different picture from my cherished one of cork hats and express
rifles! The suggestion was horribly insidious. To be interesting to
women _en masse_ was to my manly view exceedingly unmanly; to labor for
reward in knit slippers the depth of degradation. I was about to
declare to Boller that I was not going to be his kind of a clergyman
when I stopped to ask myself if I had ever known any other kind, if my
own ideal were not as unattainable as to be another Ivanhoe or Captain
Cook. Mr. Pound rose before me, his feet incased in the loving
handiwork of Miss Spinner. From him my mind shot wide afield to the
Reverend Doctor Bumpus, fresh from the dark continent, thanking our
congregation for the barrel of clothing sent to his eleven children in
far-off Zululand. Thoughts like these were as arrows in the heart of
my noble purpose.
"I haven't absolutely made up my mind," I said suddenly.
But Boller refused to accept such a qualification. He had me firmly by
the arm and brought me face to face with the loungers on the step.
"Gentlemen," he said, "allow me to present to you the Reverend Doctor
David Malcolm!"
And the loungers on the step saluted me as gravely as if I had been
that friend of Mr. Pound's, the Reverend Sylvester Bradley, thrice
moderator of the synod.
It was thus that I became the Reverend David Malcolm, and this was all
the authority I ever had for so honorable a cognomen. So it was that
by the insidious raillery of a moment, Boller shook the foundations
laid by Mr. Pound in five years of labor, and it was not long before
the whole structure of his building tumbled into ruins. My first
violent protest against a nickname which seemed to me to savor of
sacrilege served only to fasten it to me more securely. Resigning
myself to it, I came to regard it lightly, and the longer I bore it in
jest the less I desired to earn it in honor. It was a far cry from Mr.
Pound to Boller of '89, but I doffed the vestment and donned the motley
that September day, for Boller became my mentor and in all things my
model. I was flattered by his condescending treatment. Before a week
had passed my engrossing ambition was to wear trousers as wide as his
and to crown myself with a "smoky city" derby. Having accomplished
this ambition by going into debt, I realized a greater, and pinned to
the lapel of my gayly checked coat, the pearl and diamond-studded pin
of Gamma Theta Epsilon. That, of course, was Boller's fraternity, and
I think he could have persuaded me to join whatever he asked, so wholly
was I captured by his kindness.
In the study of Doctor Todd to which he led me, in the presence of the
great man, he did not venture any airy presentation. Boller of '89
inside of the study door was quite a different person from the Boller
without it. The bold manner fled. He was suppressed, obsequious; even
his clothes seemed to shrink and grow humbly dun. We entered so
quietly that the doctor, bending over his desk, did not hear us, and we
had to cough apologetically to apprise him of our presence.
"David Malcolm, sir--a new freshman," Boller said.
The doctor rose. I saw a little man with a very large head covered
with hair which shot in all directions in scholarly abandon. His neck
seemed much too thin to carry such a weight, but that, I think, was the
effect of a collar much too large, and a white tie so long that its
ends trailed down over an expanse of crumpled shirt. The doctor's
black clothes looked dusty; the doctor himself looked dusty, yet the
smile with which he greeted me was as warm as the sunshine breaking
through the mist.
"This is splendid," he cried, shaking my hand fervently. "Mr. Malcolm,
you are welcome. You make the thirty-ninth new man this year--a record
in our history. McGraw is growing. Have I not predicted, Mr. Boller,
that McGraw would grow?"
To this Boller very readily assented, and the doctor, rubbing his hands
with delight at his vindication, placed a chair for me at his side and
began talking rapidly, not of me, nor of my plans, but of the
university. He did mention incidentally that he had heard of me
through his dear friend, Mr. Pound--a man of whom the university was
proud--yet, though I was sure Mr. Pound had spoken well of me, he made
no mention of it. I was of interest to him simply because by my coming
I had broken the records of McGraw's freshman class. Last year it
numbered thirty-eight; this year, thirty-nine. Through me the
university had taken another stately step onward. He showed me the
blue-print and explained it in detail. He spoke so earnestly that in a
moment he had abandoned the subjunctive mood, and was describing the
buildings as though they actually existed--here the new dormitory,
there the chemical laboratory, the gymnasium, the chapel. So potent
was his imagination that when I was dismissed and stood again on the
steps, I found myself sweeping the campus in search of the beautiful
structures which he had pictured for me. Not finding them, I was prey
to disappointment, so small did the McGraw that was appear beside the
McGraw that should be. I began to suspect that those other
universities upon which Mr. Pound looked with such contempt might
resemble the creation of Doctor Todd's imagination, that there might be
more behind those foot-ball scores than my old mentor had cared to
disclose. Distrust of him was rising in me, but I was not allowed to
remain long pondering over these things, for Boller had been waiting
for me and I was quickly in his possession.
Had the murmurs of rebellion risen to a point where I was planning to
abandon McGraw, my new friend must have blocked me. He regarded me as
his property. He installed me in the bare little room which for four
years was to be my home. He took me to his own quarters and there gave
me such a glimpse of my new life as to make me forget my momentary
disillusionment. While he dressed, arrayed himself more impressively
than ever in evening clothes, I divided my eyes between him and the
pictures on the wall. Here Boller, in foot-ball clothes, sat on a
fence, wonderfully dashing, with a foot-ball under his arm; there he
was in base-ball toggery, erect with bat lifted, ready to strike; here
holding a baton, a conspicuous figure in a group of young men, looking
exceedingly conscious and uncomfortable in evening clothes--the glee
club, he explained, taken on their last tour of the State. And while
he dressed, he painted such a glowing picture of life at McGraw as to
make it of little moment to me now whether or not Doctor Todd's dream
ever came true. That I should grow to Boller's size and fashion was
all I asked.
As I watched him soaping and brushing his hair, struggling a half hour
with his tie and setting that hair all awry again, soaping and brushing
once more and at last emerging flawless from the conflict, my own
self-confidence ebbed away and the sense of my own rusticity and
awkwardness oppressed me. I was to go with him to the first important
social event of the year, the reception to the new students, and seeing
how my friend arrayed himself for it, I wanted to crawl away to my own
room and hide there. But he would not let me. He laughed at my
excuses. To be sure my clothes were not the best form, but it was not
to be expected that a man new to university life should be--here Boller
surveyed himself in the glass and I understood the implication. So I
polished my shoes, wetted and soaped my own hair to rival his and went
with him. Had he been leading me into battle I could not have been
colder with fright. Had he not had a fast hold on my arm I am sure
that when I came face to face with the formidable array of faculty and
faculty wives waiting to receive me, I should have beaten a precipitate
retreat. I had never before been received; I had never before been a
guest at any formal social function, and it was appalling to have to
charge this battery of solemn eyes. But there was no escape. Boller
pushed me into the hands of Doctor Todd, who gave another hearty
handshake to the thirty-ninth and presented him to Mrs. Todd. She
assured me that it was a great pleasure to meet me, a statement
entirely at variance with the severity of her countenance and the
promptness with which she passed me on to Professor Ruffle, who
combined the chair of modern languages with the business management of
the college. He with a dexterous twist consigned me to his good lady,
and thus I passed from hand to hand down the dreaded line.
The ordeal was over. I had had my baptism of social fire. Fear left
me, but not embarrassment. I forgot that thirty-eight other young men
were being received and were undergoing numberless bewildering
introductions. It seemed that the whole college was there simply to
meet me, and I returned its greeting in a daze. If I lost Boller in
the press, I felt the need of his supporting arm and peered longingly
among the jostling crowd to find him. He was continually going and
coming, but he never forgot me for any time. He was wonderfully kind
about informing as to whom it was worth my while to be agreeable. . . .
Don't trouble with Brown; be pleasant to Jones, but look out for
Robinson, the fellow with a Kappa Iota Omega pin. He had hardly warned
me against Robinson, before that young man was addressing me with great
cheerfulness. I saw nothing whatever repulsive about him; but to
Boller I was evidently in danger.
"There's a young lady here who is dying to meet you," he whispered in
my ear as he drew me from the sinister clutches.
Oh, subtle flattery! This was the first time I had ever had a young
lady dying to meet me. Of course I understood that Boller had spoken
figuratively, and yet I did not question that the young lady had seen
me, and I was vain enough to hold it not at all unlikely that something
in my appearance had interested her. Had not vanity overcome my
embarrassment, curiosity would have done so. I wanted to see what she
was like who had been so affected by the sight of me. And when I did
see her, when I stood before her on shifting feet, I would have given
the world to be somewhere else, yet, by a curious contradiction,
nothing could have dragged me from the spot, so fair was she to look on.
"Miss Todd--Mr. Malcolm," said Boller of '89. Then he mopped his brow
with a purple silk handkerchief and added that it was very warm. I
said that it was very warm, and Miss Todd smiled quite the loveliest
smile that I had ever seen.
I realized that this Miss Todd was the doctor's daughter, of whom I had
heard Boller speak in the most extravagant terms, and now it seemed to
me that his praise had quite failed to convey an adequate idea of her
charms. She was very fair, very pink and white, with a Psyche knot of
shimmering hair; a tall, slender girl, clad in clinging, gauzy blue.
To my mind came the picture of Penelope Blight, the only girl to whom I
had ever given a thought; I remembered her tanned cheeks, her brown
arms, and hard little hands, and it seemed to me that even she could
never grow to such loveliness as this.
I loved Miss Todd. Had she offered herself to me at that moment, I
should have married her on the spot, and now there was shattered my
boyish contempt for all that was weak and gentle, however beautiful.
The ideas which composed my mind rattled and tumbled about like the
bits of colored glass in a kaleidoscope, and in a flash they formed a
softer and more harmonious design. The world was something more to me
than a happy hunting-ground, life more than an exciting adventure. The
world was the home of Gladys Todd; life was to win her love; happiness
was to sit at her side.
And now I was sitting at her side in a seventh heaven; in one of the
silent places of the seventh heaven, for we had little to say to each
other. We were tyros in the art of conversing, and our promising ideas
born of long mental struggles were stilled with bludgeons of assent and
dissent. We knew not how to nourish and embellish them, and yet,
though there were long stretches of embarrassed silence, we were not
unhappy. Even Boller found his subterfuges to drag me away quite
futile, and Miss Todd herself seemed content, for she met a dozen like
efforts with a quiet and unpenetrable smile.
So Gladys Todd and I sat the evening through as on a calm cloud,
looking down to earth and the antics of little men. They crowded close
to us, laughing and talking; they called up to us and we did not hear
them; they jostled one another and they jostled us, but they could not
entice us into their restless social game. They offered us coffee,
sandwiches and cake, and we brushed them away. The very thought of
food was repulsive to me, and this was not because I had reached that
point where the immeasurable yearning of the heart dwarfs all mean
desire. I was really hungry, but I had no mind to spoil the impression
which it was evident I had made; I had no mind to let Miss Todd see me
with a half-eaten sandwich poised in one hand and scattering crumbs
untidily, and in the other a cup of muddy, steaming fluid. She seemed
to have a like conception of the undignity of eating, for when she
declined the proffered feast it was with the air of one who never ate
at all, who never knew the pangs of appetite, but lived on something
infinitely higher. She even spurned the cake, and I was glad to let
her deceive me. I liked to coddle myself with the belief that she
never ate. I knew that she did not want me to see her eating, for then
I must have classed her with the mass of women--with Mrs. Ruffle, whom
I heard choking on a bit of nutshell; with her mother, who was standing
near us talking in a voice muffled in food; I must have slipped off the
cloud to earth.
But Gladys Todd was wise, with that innate wisdom of her sex in matters
of appearance when appearance is to be considered, and we held in
silence, loftily on our cloud. And looking back on that evening, my
recollection is of misty, nebulous things; not of a passing flow of
incident, but of a welling up of new thoughts as I sat awkwardly
pulling at my fingers and caressing my collar. Yet there were
incidents, too, of high importance to McGraw. Doctor Todd declared
that the evening was historical. Standing in the centre of a hushed
company, he announced that the year had broken all records for
matriculation; McGraw was growing; McGraw could not long be contained
within her present walls, and the world must soon realize that in
simple justice something must be done for her. The doctor was not cast
down by the fact that nothing had been done and that there was no sign
of anything being done. Hope was his watchword, and so hopefully did
he speak of the future that the collegiate Gothic quadrangles began to
rise in the imaginations of the company as dreams almost accomplished,
and so infectious was his confidence that his hearers caught the high
pitch of his enthusiasm, and when he had finished Boller sprang to a
chair, and, waving a coffee-cup, struck the first deep tones of "Here's
to old McGraw, drink her down!" and everybody joined in as fervently as
though it were a hymn. They were not satisfied with it once, but
Doctor Todd himself cried, "Again," and, waving an imaginary cup, led
us off once more into the bibulous and inspiring song.
I remember joining in the first bars, but not because I was unduly
stirred by the love of my alma mater. It was rather to give Gladys
Todd a hint of the rich depths of my voice. To make an impression on
Gladys Todd had become the business of my life. I was glad that I had
come to McGraw, because here I had met her. McGraw's past and future
were of no moment to me; her growth was nothing. She might shrivel up
until I was the only student, yet I should still be happy in my
nearness to Gladys Todd. And what of Penelope? I did think of
Penelope that night as I sat alone in my room, cocked on two legs of my
chair, gazing blankly at the ceiling. I remembered the foolish,
childish promises which I had made to her that I should never forget
her. Of course I should never forget her, no more than I should forget
the moon because I had beheld the sun's dazzling splendor.
But a man's ideas change, I said; his view broadens. And I remembered
Penelope as I first saw her, in her tattered frock and with the faded
ribbon tossing in her hair. I liked Penelope. I thought of her with
brotherly affection. But I said to myself that she could never grow to
the wonderful beauty of this Miss Todd.