* * * * *
I had a flirtation with a pretty, freckle-faced girl. She worked in
Barton's "factory," and she used to come down to my tent where I sat
reading, with only my trunks on,--during the noon hour,--and ask me to
read poetry aloud to her. And I read Shelley. She would draw shyly
closer to me, sending me into a visible tremour that made me ashamed of
myself.
At times, as we read, her fair, fine hair would brush my cheek and send
a shiver of fire through me. But I still knew nothing about women. I
never even offered to kiss her.
But when she was away from me, at night specially, I would go into long,
luxurious, amorous imaginations over her and the possession of her, and
I would dream of loving her, and of having a little cottage and
children....
But words and elegant, burning phrases are never enough for a woman.
In a week I noticed her going by on the arm of a mill-hand.
* * * * *
And, broke again, I wrote to my grandmother that I must have fifty
dollars to get back to school on. And, somehow, she scraped it together
and sent it to me. My first impulse was to be ashamed of myself and
start to return it. Then I kept it. For, after all, it was for poetry's
sake.
* * * * *
On the train to Hebron, as I walked up the car to my seat, health
shining in my smooth, clear face and skin, the women and girls gave me
approving, friendly glances, and I was happy.
A summer of control from unhealthy habits had done this for me, a summer
of life, naked, in the open air, plus exercise. I had learned a great
lesson. To Barton I owe it that I am still alive, vigorously alive, not
crawlingly ... but I suffered several slumps before I attained and held
my present physique. For the world and life afford complications not
found in "Perfection City."
* * * * *
The school hill lay before my eyes again. From it spread on all sides
the wonderful Connecticut valley. Up and down the paths to the dining
hall, the buildings in which classes were held, the Chapel crowning the
topmost crest, wandered groups of boys in their absurd, postage-stamp
caps, their peg-top trousers, their wide, floppy raglan coats.
I was a senior now. At first my change in bodily build and bettered
health rendered me hardly recognisable to my friends.
The very first day I reached Hebron again I was out on the wide, oval
field, lacing around the track. In a month would come the big track-meet
and I was determined this time, to win enough points to earn me my "H."
* * * * *
Principal Stanton sent for me, the second day after my arrival.
"I wanted to have a long talk with you before you got settled, Gregory."
His steely, blue eyes gleamed through his gold-rimmed eyeglasses.
"Sit down."
And we had a talk lasting over an hour ... about religion mainly. He was
surprised to learn that I knew a lot about the early Church fathers, had
read Newman, and understood the Oxford controversy ... had read many of
the early English divines....
"Gregory," he cried, putting his hand on my knee, "what a power for God
you would be, if you would only give over your eccentricities and
become a Christian ... a chap with your magnetism--in spite of your
folly!--"
He impressed on me the fact, that, now I was a senior, more would be
expected of me ... that the younger boys would look up to me, as they
did to all seniors, and I must be more careful of my deportment before
them ... my general conduct....
He asked me what I intended making of myself.
"A poet!" I exclaimed.
He spread his hands outward with a gesture of despair.
"Of course, one can write poetry if necessary ... but what career are
you choosing?"
"The writing of poetry."
"But, my dear Gregory, one can't make a living by that ... and one must
live."
"Why must one live?" I replied fervently, "did Christ ever say 'One must
live'?"
"Gregory, you are impossible," laughed Stanton heartily, "but we're all
rather fond of you ... and we want you to behave, and try to graduate.
Though we can't tell just what you might do in after-life ... whether
you'll turn out a credit to the School or not."
"Professor Stanton, I have a favour to ask of you before I go," I asked,
standing.
"Yes?" and he raised his eyebrows.
"I want to know if I can have that room alone, over the platform, in
Recitation Hall."
"You'll have to ask Professor Dunn about that ... he has charge of
room-transfers ... but why can't you room as the other students do?... I
don't know whether it is good for you, to let you live by yourself ...
you're already different enough from the other boys ... what you need is
more human companionship, Gregory, not less."
"I want to do a lot of writing. I want to be alone to think. I plan to
read Westcott and Hort's Greek New Testament all through, again, this
winter." ... This was a sop to his religious sentiment. I related how I
had first read the New Testament in the Greek, while on a cattle-boat,
in the China Seas....
"Gregory, you're quite mad ... but you're a smooth one, too!" his eyes
gleamed, amused, behind his glasses....
"And I want to write a lot of poems drawn from the parables of the New
Testament"--though, not till that minute had such an idea entered my
head....
When I was admitted to the study of Professor Dunn and sat down waiting
for him among his antique busts and rows of Latin books, I had
formulated further plans to procure what I desired....
He came in, heavily dignified, like a dark, stocky Roman, grotesque in
modern dress, lacking the toga.
I told him of my New Testament idea ... and added to it, as an
afterthought, that I also wanted to prosecute a special study of the
lyrics of Horace. Though he explained to me that Horace belonged to the
college curriculum, his heart expanded. Horace was his favourite
poet--which, of course, I knew....