Dr. Prescott turned at once and placed his hand sympathetically on the other’s arm. “Poor Davey.”
“You haven’t called me ‘Davey’ since I was a schoolboy!”
“Then it’s time I did. Good night, my friend.”
I picked up Dr. Prescott’s cloak and put it over his shoulders. “Let me see you home, sir,” I murmured.
“Thank you, Brian, I will. These old eyes aren’t what they used to be in the dark.” He turned now to shake hands with Mr. Griscam. “We’ve put young Brian through quite a scene tonight, haven’t we?”
Mr. Griscam glanced at me in his old, half-suspicious fashion and shrugged. “Oh, Brian is used to them by now, I guess,” he said as he closed the door behind us.
The following night, at the big dinner, Dr. Prescott sat at the head table on the dais between Duncan Moore and the Bishop of Massachusetts, looking down over four hundred men in evening jackets at long tables decorated with silver candelabra and red candlesticks. It was a good show. The big portraits were lit, and I happened to be facing the magnificent canvas that Ellen Emmet Rand had painted of the former headmaster under Mr. Griscam’s commission to replace the Laszlo portrait which his son Jules had destroyed. Gavin Glenway had already announced Mr. Griscam’s proposed gift, and he had received, as anticipated, a standing ovation. Duncan Moore was now concluding his speech with a eulogy to his predecessor.
“Whatever we do at Justin Martyr, whatever we keep of the past, whatever we change, whatever our mistakes and whatever our strivings, in happy moments and in times of discouragement, we are always in the tradition of Dr. Prescott, for the simple reason that there is no other tradition that we can be in. No matter how good a job I may be lucky enough to accomplish, and no matter how brilliant my successors, we will always be the disciples of Francis Prescott. Justin Martyr is his school, his child, his ideal. And whatever he may think of our fumbling, I hope that he will always have his renowned tolerance for those whose best, after all, is only of his own creating.”
The whole room arose again in a spontaneous roar of applause, and when they were seated I noticed that Dr. Prescott had remained on his feet. He stood for several seconds until the room was silent. Never had he looked more sage, more beautiful, and only the twitching of the muscles of his left cheek betrayed his conflicting emotions.
“Bishop, Mr. Moore, fellow trustees and Justinians,” he began in his grave, slow, carrying tone, and then he paused again.
I could not bear to look at him. I decided it would be less painful to watch the drama that must ensue in the theatre of Pierre Dahlgren’s round face, and I fixed my eyes on him and saw his lips open and close.
“You have all heard much fine oratory this evening, much moving oratory. I had hoped that I could add to it, but I find that I cannot. When I think of sixty years of school my heart is too full for comment. Let an old man say one thing and then step back into the shadows where he belongs. May all of you know the joy one day that I have now, the greatest joy that can befall a man of my years, the joy of knowing that his work is carried on. To you, Duncan Moore, my more than worthy successor, I lift my glass.” Solemnly, slowly, he did this and turned back to his audience. “God bless you, gentlemen.”
We all rose for the third ovation of that evening, but this one was far greater than its predecessors. We must have stood clapping and cheering for five full minutes. Poor Pierre Dahlgrenl He clapped the hardest of anybody and looked as ashy as if he had had a stroke.
…
I did not see Dr. Prescott again that weekend. When I called at his house the following afternoon, Mrs. Midge met me at the door and told me with obvious apprehension that he was very tired after the celebrations and was resting in bed. Over her shoulder I saw Duncan Moore coming down the stairs, and I turned away, ashamed of the sudden prick of childish jealousy. I went to Parents’ House to bid farewell to Mr. Griscam and found him on the porch. The chauffeur was already putting his bags in the car.
“Frank is tired, I hear,” he said as I came up.
“Yes, last night took a lot out of him.”
“Heroic deeds are apt to.”
“What I don’t see, sir, is how you could have been so sure that everything would work out as it did.”
“I wasn’t sure. I took my chances. A lawyer learns that.”
“And if I hadn’t come to visit you last Christmas you wouldn’t have done anything?”
“Naturally not. How would I have known?”
“I see.” I nodded stupidly. “I suppose you had to do it. Only somehow I didn’t anticipate that you would disillusion him so.”
“You must learn, as a minister, Brian,” Mr. Griscam reminded me severely, “to bear the consequences of conduct that you believe to be right.”
“Yes, of course.” I plunged my hands in my pockets and continued to stare at the floor. “Only if I’d known that you would find it necessary to hurt him so deeply, I wonder if I wouldn’t have let the whole thing alone. That’s always been my trouble. I care more for him than for the school. You don’t. You’re right, of course.”
“Hurt him so deeply?” he queried, and I knew by the exasperation in his tone that he was fighting to stem his own concern. “But surely that’s nonsense. Frank has great resilience. You’ll see. In a day or two he’ll be smiling at the whole thing.”
I shook my head. “He’s old now, sir. Suddenly very old. That’s the difference. And he thinks his life has been a failure.”
“But that’s absurd!” In his sudden impatience I thought Mr. Griscam was going to shake me. “One doesn’t decide one’s life has been a failure because one happens to disapprove of the point of view of a handful of trustees!”
“Let’s hope not, sir.”
“Well, does one?”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t.”
He stood there, biting his lip, frustrated by his inability to convince me. Or to convince himself. “Is there anything I can do?”
I tried not to show in my tone how much more than enough I thought he had already done. “No, I don’t think so, sir.”
He saw that it was hopeless and shrugged. “Just remember, young man, that you can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.” He went briskly down the steps to his car and turned before getting in. “Keep me posted. You know how much I care.”
I waved mechanically as the big limousine drove off, remembering my fantasy of its seeming the threatened symbol of authority. I continued to wave, as foolishly as a child, until it was out of sight.
23
Brian’s Journal
OCTOBER 10, 1946. Shortly after commencement last spring I was asked by the Bishop of Massachusetts to take a six months’ leave of absence to prepare a report on church schools and church education in the diocese, and Mr. Moore thought it advisable that I should accept. I have been living in Boston since June, and only yesterday on my first visit back to school, did I receive the bad news.
I had driven down for the day, as I now have a car for my researches, and after Sunday chapel Mr. Moore came up to me and led me aside from the throng.
“Have you seen Dr. Prescott?” he asked gravely.
“No, I’m just on my way now.”
“Good. But you must expect to find him much weaker. We had the diagnosis yesterday.”
The bell in the tower above us struck the quarter hour, and the air throbbed with its note and my apprehension. “I didn’t even know he was ill!”
“None of us did, though he’s been looking poorly and didn’t make his usual trip to the Cape this summer. Evelyn Homans finally took him into Boston for a complete test at Massachusetts General.”
“What is it, for God’s sake?”
Mr. Moore put his hand firmly on my shoulder. “Take it easy, old boy,” he said as I shivered. “It’s what you’d want at his age. It’s what he wants himself. Cancer of the lung. Dr. Larkin says it will be very fast and almost painless.” His grip tightened as I suddenly sobbed. “Try to remember, Brian, tha
t he’s had a very long and a very happy life.”
I nodded, but I couldn’t look at him. “Does he know?”
“Oh, yes. You’ll find him actually cheerful about it.”
“And how long does he have? I mean, is it weeks or months?”
“Weeks, probably. But one never knows. He’s so strong. I’m glad you’ve come, Brian. Go to him now.”
I stumbled like a drunkard across the garth to Dr. Prescott’s house and found him as cheerful as Moore had said.
“I see you’ve heard my news,” he exclaimed in the tone he might have used to tell me of another honorary degree. “I must say it’s not kind of you to look so downcast. A speedy, efficient little killer, isn’t that what we all want?” We were sitting on the tiny front porch from which we looked out at the back of the school chapel and up at its great rambling dark tower. Dr. Prescott’s little house seemed to squat happily in its shadow like a reverend toad stool. “Think of it. Could any old fogy of eighty-six ask for more? I used to have a dim little hope that my seeming immunity from pain would run out and that one day I would suffer a bit of what other humans have suffered. Well, that hope is apparently going to be a vain one, and it’s just as well. Only vanity asks for a test when none is offered.”
When he saw the tears start to my eyes and that I was about to blurt something out, he raised a warning hand. “I don’t want to talk about it any more. It is very awkward. I have always deplored the selfishness of old people who embarrass the young with unnecessary references to their demises. I have told my daughters and Moore, and I told him to tell you. You are a minister and you must learn to take death in your stride. It is another fact to a professional, that is all.”
He then had the kindness to send me away until I should have collected myself. “Go for a walk, dear boy. Go to the river and back. Consider my years and that my career is over. Consider that Harriet has gone before me. Consider what a gentle exit, laced with dope, awaits me. And then ask yourself how much more time you would want for an old man who wants none for himself. You see? It’s not so bad. Then come back, and we’ll talk about other things.”
I did as I was told, and when we had tea together, later that afternoon, I was under control. When I left, I asked him if I could make a habit of driving down to see him every Saturday afternoon, and he consented provided only it did not interfere with my church report. And then in a burst of gratitude and because I had been overwrought by his news, I subjected him to one of my silly fits of conscience. Oh, the egotism of the neurotic!
“Unless you think I’m only coming to collect your last words!” I exclaimed. “Perhaps I am. Perhaps, God help me, lam!”
“Coming to see me is a good deed, Brian,” Dr. Prescott replied gently. “It gives me pleasure, therefore it is good. You worry too much about motives. Suppose your motive is selfish. Very well. But now suppose yourself an inquisitor of the Middle Ages who would burn my living body to save my soul. The motive might be good. But what about poor me at the stake! Do you imagine the good Lord will reward the inquisitor more than you? Of course not. Some of the intrinsic goodness of a good deed must seep into the motive, and some of the bad of a bad deed. Keep doing good deeds long enough, and you’ll probably turn out a good man. In spite of yourself.”
October 17. I was much ashamed of my outburst of last week, and I resolved not to daub my sick little worries again on the serene canvas of his departure. When I went down yesterday I was able to behave more like a man. I stayed the night in Dr. Prescott’s guest room, and the next morning we went to chapel together. The disease is as rapid as he hoped, and his strength is failing fast. He had to pause to rest every few steps of the brief distance.
“I made a foolish resolution last spring,” he told me. “I wanted to teach myself a lesson for having interfered with Duncan Moore’s administration, and I made a vow that I would never set foot on the campus again. But that, of course, was making poor Moore pay for my mistake. That was sulking in my tent! When I understood this, I decided to make certain regular appearances at the school. On Sunday chapel. At Sunday lunch. At football games with visiting teams. On Prize Day, and so forth. Now I am obliged to cut it down to Sunday chapel, but I shall continue that as long as I am able.”
October 24. Alas, he was not long able, for when I arrived this afternoon, I found him in bed and in a very despondent state of mind. He was sitting, hunched up on three big pillows, looking unexpectedly forlorn in a rather ragged old dressing gown. He seemed hardly to mind what I was saying, shaking his head gloomily. As I was about to leave, he told me a story that seemed relevant to nothing but his mood.
“When I was a little boy I used to visit my maternal grandmother in Dedham, and I attended a Sunday school there. The minister, a long, lanky, dour-looking fellow, opened each class by making us hold out our hands with the index fingers pointed upwards. ‘Consider, children,’ he would tell us in a sepulchral tone, ‘the pain of touching the tip of your finger to your mother’s stove, even for a fraction of a second. That is an experience which most of you must have suffered. Now try to imagine that pain, not simply on a fingertip but spread over the whole surface of your body, and not for a mere second, but everlastingly. That, children, is hellfire.”
I shuddered. “And did you believe it?”
“At seven? Of course I believed it!”
“But you don’t believe it now?”
“Oh, now.” He shrugged. “I suppose not. But I think of it sometimes when I lie awake in the early morning!”
October 31. Today, thank God, he was in an easier mood. I found him sitting in an armchair in his bedroom, dressed in a beautiful blue silk kimono that Cordelia Turnbull had sent him. It looked a bit curious on him, but one forgot about if as soon as he began to talk. I have never heard his voice softer or more melodious.
“Do you know, Brian, that retirement was the making of me? It taught me some elementary lessons in humility. It taught me, for example, that I should have retired ten years ago. For my own good, as well as the school’s.”
“Surely not for the school’s, sir.”
“Well, you know what people are saying. ‘Old Prescott, he was picturesque, in his way—of his generation, you know. A bit theatrical, a bit violent, but he got away with it. Now, however, one needs a different type. A more accommodating head. One like Moore who knows how to get on with the parents and trustees.’” He turned on me suddenly with some of his old presence. “Do you dare deny, Brian, that they’re saying that?”
“Some say it, I suppose, sir.”
“And they’re right, too,” he said emphatically. “The crowd has a way of being right, of flaring the ego under the noble ambition. Who was I to think I could change the face of American education?”
“But why, sir, must you always be looking to the high goal you haven’t totally achieved? Could anyone have come any closer to it? Why can’t you ever consider instead the smaller goals that you have reached? The individual boys you’ve helped?”
“That’s all a man should look to, isn’t it?” His smile was melancholy. “Yes, Brian, I have asked too much. I have been greedy. I have helped a few boys, and I should be grateful for that.” He closed his eyes as he cast his mind back. “I think I helped Charley Strong a bit. At the end, anyway. And Gates Appleton, when his parents had that terrible divorce. And Christian Villard when he lost his arm.” Then he opened his eyes and shook his head wistfully. “But think of the others, Brian. The ones I hurt. Or killed, even. Like Jules Griscam.”
“You didn’t mean to. God will know.”
“God will know I hated that boy!” he exclaimed violently. “A headmaster should have no hates. Poor Jules. He has had his revenge in my remorse.” He shuddered. “Yes, it was terrible, my remorse. For I had allowed him to bring me down to his level, and he knew it. When his father tore the scales off my eyes last spring and made me see my lifework for the poor thing it was, I wondered if I couldn’t hear Jules’ high, screeching laugh. How he would have cr
owed!”
“Jules was only one of thousands of boys, sir. How could you succeed with them all?”
“I couldn’t,” he said abruptly. “I’m getting maudlin. You’d better go.”
November 8. Today he told me not to come again. He is in bed and likely never to leave it. For the first time he seemed like a dying man. He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling.
“There comes a time when the doors should be closed,” he said, “when the family takes over. My daughters are coming. Harriet, in fact, is here. It is a rather pleasant atavism, the priority that blood takes over friendship in the end. It is a ceremony in which each participant knows just what to do. I shall say goodbye, Brian. You must be a fine minister and cast out fear. I love you, my boy.” He turned now, and the dark eyes seemed to stare through me. “Do you know what my old master at Balliol, Jowett, said at the end? ‘I bless God for my life.’ It’s all one can say. Bless God for my life, Brian. And for yours.”
In tears I fell to my knees and kissed his hand, as I kissed his wife’s seven years ago. I then remained by the bedside praying. I do not know how long, until I felt a touch on my shoulder. It was Mrs. Kidder, who with a brief but friendly smile indicated that I was to go. I took my last look at my dear old friend, whose eyes were closed, and tiptoed out of the room.
December 10. Duncan Moore telephoned to say that Dr. Prescott died in his sleep this morning. God was merciful to the very end in sparing him the pain he had sometimes wanted and that I have no doubt he would have borne like a hero. He died in peace, and I believe that we should be in peace. But the very sky looks darker to me, and the Boston streets where I walked today seemed dreary and woebegone. He would have scoffed at me and told me not to be a fool. And, God helping, tomorrow I shan’t be. But today all is dust within me, and I can write no more.
The Rector of Justin Page 32
