XI

On the morning following the final lecture Tom woke early, and his mind

flew to the miracle of the preceding night. He was now ablaze with

Nancy! It was a dazzling business, but when had it happened? It had not

been as though he had gazed too boldly into the sun and had fallen down,

blinded by the light of it. It had, to date, been altogether painless.

He had seen Nancy in various situations, some of them pleasant, some of

them trying. He had liked the way she had met them; and then it dawned

upon him that her behaviour was consistently good; and next he knew that

it would always be so. This was a stupendous discovery, the more so

since he was not aware of any such consistency in his own character. Had

he not learned in elementary physics that unlike poles attract one

another? He could even now picture a diagram in the book showing the

hearty plus pole in happy affinity with the retiring minus pole, a

figure which proved the thing beyond a doubt. Science, when made to

serve as handmaiden to the arts, has its uses, after all, and Tom took

comfort in its present service.

Still, Nancy wasn't "cut and dried"; it would be a grave injustice to

imagine her so. She was consistent in an ever new and charming way; she

never obtruded her consistency. One would almost certainly never be

bored with her; and yet one could depend upon her through thick and

thin. He thought of the way the crew on a ferry boat throw their ropes

over the great piles as they make fast in the slip. Nancy was such a

pile--but what an odious figure! He thought of her face as he had first

seen it on the night of the Vernal, when, slightly flushed and smilingly

expectant, she had peered into the costume closet. A couplet floated out

of Freshman English into his mind--something about a countenance which

had in it sweet records and promises as sweet. He jumped out of bed to

verify it, and found:

"A countenance in which did meet

Sweet records, promises as sweet."

He read on:

"A creature not too bright or good

For human nature's daily food,

For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles."

There was one more verse, and the last two couplets covered everything.

"A perfect Woman, nobly planned

To warm, to comfort, and command;

And yet a Spirit still, and bright

With something of an angel-light."

He turned the book down, open at this point, and resolved to memorize

those lines.

His youth and playtime had now left him for good. The time for

half-hearted or three-quarters-hearted attempts to forge ahead were

over. He had pledged his heart and shortly hoped to pledge his hand in

the service of the loveliest young lady in the world, none less. At

present he was only a young instructor; of promise, perhaps, but still

unproved. The immediate goal in his academic career was an Assistant

Professorship; and although, even under the most favourable

circumstances, it would probably be a matter of at least three years

before he got it, nevertheless he could at least make it plain that he

was indubitably on the way to it, and that (giddy thought) he was even

of the stuff that Full Professors are made on! And no time should be

lost before this were shown. Dressing feverishly, he corrected some

slightly overdue test papers; and when he appeared at breakfast his

landlady's three other guests noted the spirit in his bearing and

commented upon it when he left.

There was to be a meeting of the Freshman English Department in the

afternoon, and Tom found himself looking eagerly forward to it. He had

no idea of the business that was coming up, but he was going to be

extremely keen-eyed and watchful about it, whatever it was. The little

slump which he had allowed to creep into his work recently was over. He

wondered if any of his colleagues had noticed it, and in particular he

wondered if Professor Dawson, Head of the Department, had noticed it.

Professor Dawson was Tom's beau ideal of all that a university

instructor should be. Tom had had him when in college, had taken

everything that he taught; and he looked back upon the hours spent at

his feet as among the best of his whole life. To teach like that was to

be doing something indeed; and it was the picture of himself giving

formal lectures in the Dawsonian manner that had finally led him into

teaching. That Tom should have imitated as best he could the Dawsonian

manner and method was, therefore, inevitable, but it none the less

exposed him to the smiles of the Department. A member of it, a Professor

Furbush, found occasion to refer to the Johnsonian anecdote anent sprats

talking like whales; and, Tom hearing of it, there was brought into

being one of the enmities which add zest to collegiate existence.

Professor Dawson was a young man to be so celebrated, being only some

fifteen years older than Tom himself. He was, of course, a Full

Professor--the only Full Professor in Freshman English.

Next in rank to him in the Department was Mr. Brainerd, a gentleman who

was nearly as much Professor Dawson's senior as Dawson was Tom's. Mr.

Brainerd was, however, only an Assistant Professor, and it was now

understood by all that he would never be anything higher. Fifteen years

ago when he produced his chef-d'oeuvre on Smollett his hopes had run

high. At that time his fate hung in the balance. He could no longer be

regarded as one of the "younger men," and his status was to be

determined once and for all. The crowning glory of a Full Professorship

could only go to one who had made some significant contribution to his

subject. Would _Tobias Smollett_ be that? Into it had gone all that

Brainerd could give, and it had, after a brief and generally indifferent

appearance in the reviews, dropped out of sight. Then it was recognized

that good old Burt Brainerd would have to putter through life as best he

could. Mr. Brainerd felt no particular bitterness about it, certainly no

bitterness towards the College. He had been disappointed in his

publisher. He should have gone to Beeson, Pancoast with it; instead of

to Trull. Trull hadn't pushed it at all: they merely announced it with a

string of books on very dull subjects. Then, too, they had used a cursed

small type. He had protested against this and had been told that a

larger type would have made it much more expensive, would probably have

necessitated doing the work in two volumes. They had had the calm

assurance to talk to him of expense when he had consented to waive his

royalties on the first five hundred copies!--an exemption, by the way,

which they had not yet succeeded in working off. Well, that had been his

main chance, and he now watched the rise of younger men with equanimity.

And it must be confessed that he got a certain amount of cold comfort

from the remembrance that on three several occasions good things had

come to him from out of the west, and that he need not have remained

"assistant" had he not elected to do so.

Were it not for his wife, he might have become content. The library was

a strong one, particularly in his field, and what more delightful end

for a scholar than to browse at will in his period and write essays for

the literary magazines? But Mrs. Brainerd chafed. Not having been a

woman of means or of any particular position, she had been somewhat

self-conscious in mixing with the great ones of the place. She had, at

length, however, after a residence of nearly twenty years, decided that

to live so was nothing; and she had boldly called upon Mrs. Robert

Lee-Satterlee. She had found the great lady all charm and friendliness;

but when, upon leaving, she had expressed the hope that Mrs. Robert

Lee-Satterlee might be inclined to return her call, Mrs. Robert

Lee-Satterlee had replied, "Thank you." "Is it 'Thank you, yes' or

'Thank you, no'?" the rash woman had persisted. To which Mrs. Robert

Lee-Satterlee had bowed, "Well, since you insist, I'm afraid it will

have to be 'Thank you, no.'" Mr. Brainerd had felt the snub perhaps more

than his wife, although he was most convincing in reassuring her that

upon trying again, say with some one of the Whitman family, there would

be small danger of such a rebuff. Mrs. Brainerd, however, had not tried

again and had, with what stoicism she could command, resigned herself to

the path God had ordered for her feet. So Mr. Brainerd's end at

Woodbridge was not a brilliant one, but he did not shrink or cry aloud,

and it was generally recognized that dear old Burt Brainerd was a good

sport.

The other Assistant Professor in Freshman English has already been

mentioned--Jerome Furbush. He was a young man, a classmate of Henry

Whitman, and rather intimate in consequence. He was, quite decidedly, a

striking figure. Whereas the average member of the Faculty might have

been taken for an ordinary business man in his working clothes, Furbush

was obviously a man of temperament. Tall and lean, he had allowed his

beard to grow into something of patriarchal proportions, or, more

exactly, into one of those healthy spade-like growths which the French

know so well how to develop. That it was a rich red only added to its

distinction, and to his. He was noted for being a hard worker and a wit,

but feeling about him was sharply divided. One could not be neutral;

either one hailed him as a prophet and seer, or one hated him as an

abandoned cynic, a vicious and arbitrary egoist whose presence in the

community was a menace. There appeared to be evidence in support of

either view. It was true that the Dean's office was frequently absorbed

by problems of his making. He had a weakness, to illustrate, for calling

his students liars and cheats upon, frequently, tenuous evidence; and

the discussions that ensued were never amiable. On the other hand, a

certain number of the most promising men in the class were invariably

drawn to him and, taking up his battles, defended him against all

detractors. The Permanent Officers had to admit that he got "results,"

but they shook their heads. Jerome Furbush was notoriously a "case."

Phil Meyers, instructor, had been graduated from a small western college

and had taken his Ph.D. at a large eastern university. He was what is

known as a "monographist," a thesis-writer; and it had become apparent

to all that he was not long for the Woodbridge world. Word had

repeatedly come through the somewhat devious channels of information

that he was "no good." His classes were doing shockingly bad work and

they were articulate in their disapproval of him. The coming June would

close his first appointment, and it had been tactfully broken to him

that he need not expect another.

Such was the personnel of the meeting in Mr. Dawson's office.

"I have called you together today, gentlemen," said Mr. Dawson after the

preliminary pleasantries, "to consider the advisability of changing our

course next year. It has been brought to my attention that there has

been some criticism of the course as it now stands. Although," he

continued, gazing at the blotter before him, "I could have wished that

this criticism might have been made first to me, rather than have

reached me indirectly, I am grateful for it at any time and welcome this

opportunity for discussing it."

The air had become electrified. Everyone understood that the criticism

referred to had come from only one source, Furbush, and that Dawson was

administering to him a public rebuke. Dawson remained staring at his

blotter when he finished, and there was complete silence for several

seconds. "Well?" he asked, raising his eyes. "Don't hesitate, gentlemen.

Although the course is largely of my making at present, there is no

reason why it should remain so, and I'm sure no one will welcome an

improvement more than I." Another pause. "Come, Jerry, won't you lead

the discussion?"

Furbush, who seemed to be waiting to be thus addressed, rather than to

presume to take the floor from his superior, Mr. Brainerd, smiled

charmingly. "I should frankly wish," he said, "that the discussion be

opened by one of you gentlemen, for I feel that my judgment in such a

matter is possibly not of much value. I confess that I am not in as warm

sympathy as any of you"--by singling out Meyers at this point he lent a

quietly insulting tone to his remarks--"with the present course. Were it

left to me, I should do away with Wordsworth, substituting, possibly,

Swinburne. I have sometimes wondered if we weren't underestimating the

potential strength of the Freshman's mind by feeding him on too much

pap. By the same token I am inclined to think that I should drop Carlyle

and Hawthorne for Matthew Arnold and, perhaps, Cardinal Newman."

(Furbush was a High Churchman of a militant dye.) "What I should, of

course, do would be to divide the present first term between Spenser and

Milton, instead of giving it all to Shakespeare." This last was said

directly to Dawson. It had been Mr. Dawson's particular joy that he

could give one whole term to Shakespeare.

Tom was sitting keen-eyed and alert, but it would obviously be madness

worse confounded to risk a contribution to this discussion, which was

for Titans only. But he was thrilled by the duel before him, even though

the outcome was never in doubt, since a show of hands would give a

unanimous vote to Dawson whatever the issue. Mr. Dawson, however,

declined the gage of battle altogether. He apparently merely wished

Furbush to make public confession of the iniquity that was in him; and

after noting out loud the changes recommended, he abruptly closed the

meeting.

"Well, Jerry, we shall think over what you have said, and a week from

today we'd better get together again and act on it. At that time, too, I

wish you people would come prepared with your questions for the final

examination paper." He looked around pleasantly at the little group. "I

guess that will be all today," he said.

Tom had been nothing but a spectator at that meeting; but after the next

he emerged radiant. The discussion of the first one had taken only a few

minutes. It happened that Mr. Furbush was not able to be present; and it

was announced incidentally, that he had been transferred to Sophomore

English. Of his proposed changes nothing had been said, although another

change was made. It appeared that Mr. Dawson had been teaching _The

Winter's Tale_ for the past six years and that he wished the

Department's permission to drop it for _Cymbeline_. Mr. Dawson explained

that he was getting a little stale on _The Winter's Tale_, and the

change was hurriedly made.

What an object lesson was this for the keen-eyed young instructor! On

the one hand was the Scylla of Mr. Brainerd and on the other was the

Charybdis of Mr. Furbush. Lucky was he who could sail safely past the

two; and he was a wise young instructor who determined to follow in the

Dawsonian wake.

The final examination paper was then discussed; and Tom, who had come

fully prepared and was extremely wide-awake, had contributed the "spot"

passage in Wordsworth in its entirety--the couplet,

"A countenance in which did meet

Sweet records, promises as sweet,"

was included--and he had, furthermore, lent a most constructive hand in

the framing of the Carlyle-transcendental question--a performance which

he retailed to Mrs. Norris at the earliest moment, and which made the

Assistant Professorship and Nancy seem definitely within his grasp.