“My wife, Aspinwall, takes Mr. James too seriously. That is not to say that one should never take him seriously. But I’m a great believer in safety valves, particularly where art is concerned, and one cannot read James properly without bearing in mind that for every three parts genius he is one part ass.”
“Oh, Frank! What utter rot you’re talking.”
“Let Aspinwall be the judge between us, my dear. Take this very novel you’re reading. Strether, an elderly, provincial widower, is dazzled out of his senses by the sudden apparition of Paris. Certainly his creator knows how to evoke the city. Oh, I own that! Renoir himself could not have conveyed a more vivid sense of the greens and greys of the boulevards or of the stately stillness of Louis XV interiors. Strether imbibes Paris through every pore. He is revived and rejuvenated. Yet what spoils it all for him? The simple fact that Chad Newsome, the young blade whom he has come to bring home, turns out to have a French mistress. Which everyone under the sun, including the reader, knew from the beginning and which was indeed the very reason for Strether’s mission! What in the name of Gallia did he expect the young man to be up to? Yet he finds his vision of Paris incompatible with this simplest of biological facts, and all is wrecked for him. Tell me, Aspinwall, is poor old Strether, like poor old James, not a bit of a dunce?”
“But it is not all wrecked for him!” Mrs. Prescott exclaimed passionately. “Chad and Strether may both be going back to Woollett, but Strether is going back with his vision, and his vision will sustain him.”
“His vision of what?”
“His vision of Paris. Of life!”
“But is it life? Isn’t it rather, a vision of the bits and pieces of Paris that he didn’t find too sordid? Would you recognize any part of it as the Paris of L’Assomoir?”
“It’s a vision of beauty. And James transmits it. That is art. And therefore it must be life.”
“Or dope!”
“What a Philistine you really are, Frank. Scratch a headmaster, and you’ll find one every time. And when I think that you complain about the others!”
At this point it was evident that Mrs. Prescott was becoming too excited, and with the smallest motion of his head her husband indicated that it was time for me to go. I rose and murmured my farewell, but he followed me out and closed the door behind us.
“Aspinwall,” he said, taking my elbow as he guided me to the front door, “you are very kind to devote so many afternoons to my wife.”
“Oh, it’s my pleasure, sir. Truly, I love it.”
“It can’t be very gay for a young man,” he pursued, “and I want you to know that I am not ungrateful. Allow me to see that you are compensated with extra time off.”
“Oh, sir, that won’t be necessary,” I exclaimed, shocked. “Mrs. Prescott is the most wonderful woman I’ve ever known!”
The grip tightened on my elbow. “Bless you, my boy. Bless you for seeing that.”
Outside I almost ran back to the main door of Lawrence House, so full of emotion that it was all I could do to keep from skipping. What a man was this! A man who could read the later James and love his wife so tenderly, a man who could appreciate what a silly mite like myself, the reverse of all he expected in a master, could offer her and not hesitate to ask that mite to continue his offering. This was magnanimity on a scale for the gods. Looking up at the formidable dark tower of his chapel I laughed aloud in jubilation at the thought that there might at last be a place for me in Dr. Prescott’s Justin.
2
Brian’s Journal
NOVEMBER 6, 1939. I was reading aloud to my dormitory tonight when I received an unexpected visit. This reading period, incidentally, has not been any more of a success than my other activities. I read too fast and too low, and I tend to become so absorbed in the matter that I hardly notice that I have lost my audience. It is different with Mrs. Prescott where the reading is so much more a shared experience. The boys whisper and giggle and even play games. I know that I should reprimand them, but I cannot help feeling that it is supposed to be their time off and that they should be allowed to do as they choose. Tonight, even in my abstraction, I became gradually aware of a deepening silence about me, the silence of songbirds in the sudden shadow of a hawk, and looking up, I saw the headmaster himself standing in the doorway.
“Go on, please, Mr. Aspinwall,” he directed me with a friendly wave of his arm as he came slowly forward to take the nearest seat, from which a boy now jumped. “You must think I have nothing better to do than interrupt your readings. I shall listen a bit, if I may. What is it tonight? Not The Ambassadors again?” He smiled as he glanced about the room. “I suppose not for this crowd.”
“Oh, no, sir. The Moonstone.”
“And a corking good yarn.” His approving nod was decisive. “Let us get on with it.”
I read for several minutes in a silence which I found as disturbing as it was unusual. Then the rich level voice interrupted me again. “Excuse me please, Mr. Aspinwall, but what do I see there? Over there by the fireplace? Is that a checkerboard? Good gracious me, I believe it is. Were you two boys actually playing while Mr. Aspinwall was reading?” I was aware in the silence of two small moons of dismay over the half-concealed board. “Have you lost your tongues, sirs? Were you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then go to bed. Go to bed right away. And mind you make no noise undressing to disturb the reading. Pray proceed, Mr. Aspinwall.”
I kept my eyes fixed on the print to avoid stammering, glancing up only once to see if the minute hand of my clock would ever reach nine.
“Carstairs!” the dreaded voice boomed out again. I had learned that one could never tell when Dr. Prescott would address a boy by his name or simply as “boy.” It apparently had nothing to do with his memory. “Are you chewing gum?”
“Well, sir, I—er—”
“‘Er?” demanded the headmaster. “What does ‘er’ mean? Don’t say ‘er.’ Keep your mouth closed until you have the words ready that you want to use. Now I repeat. Are you chewing gum?”
“Yes, sir. But I started before you came in.”
“What difference does that make? Do you think the rules operate only when I am present? You must know it is not allowed to chew gum inside any building on the campus. Spit it out. Yes, now. Spit it out in your hand, boy.” But when poor Carstairs complied with his order, it seemed only to make Dr. Prescott angrier. “Ugh! What a disgusting sight. Go to bed, boy, right away. We don’t want to see you any more tonight. All right, Mr. Aspinwall. We may proceed again.”
In a trembling tone I continued the now shattered reading session, knowing that I was but marking time before the next outburst. In two more minutes it came.
“I’m afraid you must excuse me once more, Mr. Aspinwall. I can hardly credit my eyes, but it seems to me that the two boys crouching on the other side of your desk have no ties on. Can it be? Stand up you two, Morgan and the boy next to Morgan. Gracious me, these old eyes were right again. But I fear this time being sent to bed will not be enough. No, I fear I shall have to give you each a black mark. See that the black marks are recorded, Mr. Aspinwall.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Prescott, I’m afraid it’s my fault. I allowed them to remove their ties.” I hadn’t at all, but I had known they were doing it, and I could not have them punished for my own laxness in enforcing the rules.
“Have you indeed, sir?” the headmaster queried, with soaring eyebrows. “How very singular. Then I shall, of course, rescind the black marks, but let it be clearly understood by all present that ties are not to be removed nor shoes unlaced until it is time to retire. When a gentleman undresses, a gentleman goes to bed. And as I do not wish to continue to gaze at Morgan’s bare neck or at the bare neck of Morgan’s friend, I suggest that the whole dormitory go to bed right now, even though it is still ten minutes before the hour.”
He remained in my study while the boys prepared for bed and then accompanied me on my round of the cubicles as I pulled each curtain and
bade good night to each occupant. His mood seemed to have softened for he paused to banter Carstairs about the chewing gum. After lights, however, he became grave again, and in my study he motioned me to close the door to the dormitory as he took a seat by the fireplace and lit his pipe.
“I want to give you a little lecture about discipline, Brian,” he began, using my Christian name for the first time. “You are obviously having trouble with it, and the reason is twofold. In the first place you think it’s some kind of trick with which you do not happen to be endowed. That is nonsense. If you were a missionary facing a crowd of cannibals or a lone sheriff facing a lynching mob, you would need what the army calls ‘command presence.’ But a schoolmaster does not need that. Oh, it’s a useful thing to have, certainly, but it’s not necessary. You have the power of the black mark, and that is all you basically need. When the boys begin to get the idea that the least impertinence to Mr. Aspinwall means missing the Saturday afternoon game or the Saturday night movie, they will give up their impertinence. It’s as simple as that.”
I realized that he was being kind, which gave me the courage to appeal to him. “But I hate being unjust, sir, and sometimes it’s difficult to know who’s the culprit. If a boy, for example, makes an insulting noise when my back is turned in class, what am I to do?”
“You can give six black marks to the boy you first suspect. If you are wrong, this will often have the effect of making the true culprit confess. Or you can give the whole class a black mark apiece. This will put the innocent against the guilty, and you can be sure the former will make life so miserable for the latter that the episode will not be repeated. The big thing is not to worry too much about guilt or innocence. A class where an impudent noise is made is apt to be an impudent class. Your dormitory is now a bad dormitory. If you gave every boy in it six black marks on the spot, I wager the great majority of them would be deserved.”
“You wouldn’t have me do that, sir?”
“No. But I would have you establish your authority. A week after that is done, you’ll have a good dormitory. Which brings me to the second reason for your trouble. You want to be popular.”
“Oh, surely not, sir!”
“Well, then, you’re afraid to be unpopular which comes to the same thing. I’ve watched you, Brian. I have my spies. Now what I want you to do is this. I want you to give out twelve black marks before the end of next week. Don’t worry. There will be plenty of occasions if you keep your eyes open. I shall consult the Black Ledger a week from Saturday at noon and see what you have entered. Is that fair?”
He stood up now, his pipe clenched between his teeth, and I stood up after him, trembling in the knees. “I’ll try, sir.”
“Good boy.” He reached out to pat my shoulder. “You will be unpopular, but you will be respected. And in time you will build a more solid kind of popularity on respect. Take my word for it. I’m an old hand at this game, and I know what I’m doing.” Here he suddenly raised his voice to a roar. “I know, for example, there’s a boy listening on the other side of that door.” In the silence that followed we both could make out the patter of rapidly retreating feet. “There you are, Brian,” he said grimly. “The whole dormitory will know of our conversation in the morning. But that’s fine. Let them know what you’re going to do and then do it. Good night, my boy.” And he left me to the ominous silence of that dark, awake dormitory and to the blessed anodyne of this journal.
November 14. Well, I made up my twelve black marks. It almost killed me, but I did it. I have been so nervous that I couldn’t write a word in this journal until it was done. I gave two to a boy whose voice I thought I recognized after lights. He protested bitterly that it had not been he, and I wavered, but than I remembered Dr. Prescott’s warning and told him firmly that he would have to accept my verdict and that I was sorry if it was a mistaken one. He accepted this so philosophically that I realized he must be guilty.
I next gave a black mark apiece to two boys whom I caught fighting in the shower. This was clearly fair, and I began to gain confidence. Four out of twelve. But already the dormitory was becoming orderly, and the week was going by. I then gave one each to two boys who took their ties off during my reading period. Unfortunately this touched off a real test of my authority, as the whole dormitory burst into protest, clamoring that the offense called only for a demerit. Again I wavered, sick at heart, fearing an actual riot, and again I remembered the headmaster’s reminder that my power was absolute. I picked up a lead paperweight and banged it down on my desk with all my might. There was instant silence.
“Spruance!” I cried at the ringleader. “You started all this, and I’m giving you six black marks. If I hear a single word more from you, I shall send you to Dr. Prescott. And the entire dormitory is going to bed. Now.”
It was a terrible moment, and I knew that my career in Justin hung in the balance. When the dormitory rose at last and sullenly filed past me to their cubicles, I had to strain every muscle not to let the surging tide of relief flood into my silly face. I might be a monster, but I had won! And dear God, let my journal be witness that I am humbly grateful for all your help in my foolish crises and for sending to my aid the strong arm of Dr. Prescott. Let me not be proud at petty victories, and let me remember that if I should ever become respected by the boys, it will be my task to be merciful and gentle and kind. I am here, after all, to serve them.
November 16. Dr. Prescott has played a very mean trick on me. He has doubled all my black marks except Spruance’s, telling each boy that I am of such a notorious leniency that he is exercising a headmaster’s prerogative of bringing my punishments in line with those more generally meted out. My dormitory is sullen, silent and obedient. I am really unpopular now, which I hate, but I have to confess that it is not a disagreeable sensation to give an order and know that it will be carried out. It is like driving a new car after struggling with a stalling jalopy. Am I being corrupted by power? Please, God, forgive and help me if this is so. At least Dr. Prescott has not given me a new stint of black marks to hand out. I do not think I could have borne it if he had.
November 18. Poor Mrs. Prescott is beginning to go downhill rapidly now, and there are signs that her mind is failing. Twice last Monday it was evident that she thought I was reading William and not Henry James, and yesterday afternoon she seemed to have forgotten all about our project and only wanted to talk. She dwells in the past, as I believe is natural in such cases, except that in hers there seems to be a strong drive to reduce isolated incidents to some kind of pattern. It is difficult to make out, but I believe she is trying to give me an oral memoir of memorable events in her life. It is as if, at the end of a long existence of intelligently receiving impressions, by eye and ear and even touch, she wants at last to give something back, to leave some little record of what Harriet Prescott has observed.
It is pathetic, even agonizing, to see this remarkable woman thrash about in her memories for some bit of tangible evidence that she has been, after all, remarkable. And now it is too late. She told me of her visit to Proust’s cork-lined chamber with an old bachelor friend of Dr. Prescott’s and of a talk she had had with Mrs. Jack Gardner at the time of her purchase of the great Titian “Europa.” But as our vivid memories of sights abroad, of Chartres or the Parthenon, merge in time with the most banal of postcards, so have Mrs. Prescott’s impressions become more ordinary than she suspects. I wanted to tell her to stop, to talk only about herself; I wanted to convince her that her life itself had been a work of art and that even the memory of her in my puny mind would be a greater memorial than the observation that Proust was a snob or Mrs. Gardner a sensationalist. But what can I do? She is way past my helping.
November 21. There is certainly no question that the headmaster’s approbation has made a great change in my campus status. In a word, I am become respectable. So strong is the power of Dr. Prescott’s personality in this little world of his creation that his special favors are accepted by all without overt resentmen
t. Mr. Ives himself now asks me to coffee gatherings in his bachelor’s wing of Lowell House. I sometimes wonder what is behind those yellow-streaked eyes, but he is certainly pleasant. Best of all, my dormitory seems to have accepted me. When I offered to give up reading in the evening and let them play games instead, the boys actually voted to have me finish The Moonstone. Henry James and Wilkie Collins have been my sponsors in Justin! Even the once formidable red and grey stones of the architecture have softened in color, and the dark craggy chapel tower seems occasionally to wink at me. I see what up until now has escaped me: that the common denominator of the heterogeneous faculty is an extraordinary devotion to the headmaster. I am actually happy, however precariously. Have I sold out, and if so, to what? Help me, dear God, not to be puffed up.
November 24. Mrs. Prescott took such a bad turn on Monday that the daughters were summoned, but she has improved again, and they have gone. I saw them all at lunch with Dr. Prescott at the head table and was struck by their resemblance to him. They look much alike, with pale skins and squarish faces and dark hair, and they are all very animated. In fact, there was rather more laughter at the head table than seemed to me quite appropriate under the circumstances. But then in these days the smallest display of grief is considered morbid. I must try to avoid the sin of judging others. Perhaps I wish to denigrate the filial feeling of Mrs. Prescott’s daughters so that I may pose to myself as her only true friend. Count on the devil to work overtime!
November 25. I saw Mrs. Prescott this afternoon but only for a minute. She seemed very weak but clearer than before, and she told me that nothing rallied her “old carcass” like a gathering of the clan.
December 1. Mr. Ives fell in with me today, walking after breakfast from Lawrence House to morning chapel. One never feels that anything with him is a coincidence. I am sure that every minute of his day, every colloquy, every walk, every meal is somehow put to the service of Justin. He seems to have no interest in anything beyond the campus and, within the boundaries of the latter, only in matters corporeal. When I confided in him that I had a strong but still unmatured drive towards the ministry, he looked faintly surprised as if I, a nice young man of irreproachable manners, had suddenly told an off-color story. Yet in his narrow field he can be wonderfully illuminating.
The Rector of Justin Page 3
