by Anita Shreve
The faculty had divided itself on this issue; two-thirds were in favor of instituting the new discipline and one-third were against. Mine was, unfortunately, the minority view, and thus it was all the more necessary to exhibit the courage of my convictions in a stirring speech before the assembled staff of the college. To say that I was not in a fit condition to do this is an almost ludicrous bit of understatement. I was barely able to stand and was completely unable to take food of any kind, since I was still in shock over the distressing news of Etna’s sudden departure. Worse, I could not gather my thoughts properly. I had left the drafting of my argument until the last minute, an uncharacteristically procrastinive gesture on my part, though, as I have said, during that time I had let a certain laxity undermine my normally excellent discipline. Thus was I faced with the horror of having to compose a speech within hours of having read Etna’s letter. That I was able to do so at all is testimony to my considerable willpower, for I remember having the utmost difficulty concentrating. In addition, I kept succumbing to intense fits of despair. Only by remaining awake most of the hours of the night was I able to fashion something that at least resembled an argument.
The next morning, the faculty assembled in the Anatomy amphitheater. Hallock and I and the President of the college, Isaac Phillips, sat on the stage. By common though unspoken agreement, the faculty had seated themselves more or less according to their convictions — two-thirds on one side of the theater, the remaining third on the other side, which made the room look a bit like a state legislature. As mentioned, I had not slept much the night before, and I knew I presented a poor argument for the continued absence of physical culture at the college. I looked pale, even haggard, and though I took great pains to position my features and my limbs so as to convey a brighter aspect, the center of my being felt aged to the core.
Hallock, by contrast, radiated good health and seemed to anticipate the debate with genuine relish. One could not fail to notice his impossibly erect spine or the way his muscled limbs nearly burst from his frock coat. He was reported to have had an excellent arm in his time and, consequently, he coached, in the springtime, the fledgling and seldom victorious Thrupp Throwing Team.
After an introduction by President Phillips, Hallock took the podium. He began by assembling an impressive number of facts about the deteriorating health of Thrupp students. Though I managed to feign politeness at the beginning of the assembly, I grew more and more agitated as Hallock’s argument evolved. He put forth the theory that moral and intellectual weakness were the result of poor hygiene. He called upon the Greek ideal of the palaestra in his comparison with the physical characteristics of the typical Thrupp student: that is, misshapen limbs, slumped posture, pale visages, and difficulties with breathing brought on by indifference to matters of the body. He called attention to cases of disease and feebleness and, in some instances, premature death among the students. (I thought this was going a bit too far.) If every student were required to participate in physical exercise daily, he insisted, the general health of the student population would improve. Worse, he had the audacity to suggest that faculty ought to be required to exercise regularly on the theory that their teaching and their relationships with the students would improve as well. To house such activity, Hallock proposed, the college should erect a gymnasium.
I was on my feet at once, though it was some moments before I could speak over the cheers from the gallery. The proposed site of this “gymnasium,” I informed my audience, was none other than the college’s beloved Strout Park, a particularly serene bit of landscape nestled among the severe granite hills. Was such a precious natural resource to be squandered in the pursuit of an enterprise that ought best to be performed in private and certainly not under the auspices of the college? To then endow, I asserted, this endeavor with all the hallowed privileges of, say, the faculty of Literature and Rhetoric was obscene. There was a faint titter of laughter, which I tried to ignore, despite the fact that I feared that my cause was lost (the simple geometry of the audience could tell me that).
Nevertheless, I persevered. Was it truly the charge of the college, I asked, to take over the physical education of a man? Was this not more properly a task suited to the military, which depended on a man’s fitness, or to the physician, whose job it was to preserve the health of any individual? Did the college really think it could dictate health and then, piling absurdity upon absurdity, grant a degree for it? Were the precious financial resources of the college to be spent on a facility in which young men might run around with balls, or were they not better apportioned to the improvement of the library, which sorely needed more books, or to the erection of an observatory, so that our understanding of the heavens might increase?
“Surely men are entitled to the pursuit of physical health,” I argued, softening my tone a bit, as is necessary in any rhetorical argument. “Surely anyone who actually enjoys throwing a ball around a field can find like-minded fellows with whom to do this in his spare time. This is the essence of recreation, by definition an adjunct to education, not its point.”
“Hear, hear,” someone from my side called out.
“Nonsense,” shouted someone from the other side.
President Phillips had to ask for order. William Bliss was seated to my right (in the pro-gymnasium two-thirds), and I dared not look at him lest I be derailed completely.
“But to make such an activity compulsory,” I said, “is beyond reason. One cannot dictate physical health any more than one can dictate good teeth or good breeding. The college is in danger of straying into an arena in which it has no place and, further, of risking becoming a laughingstock. Do we really imagine that sober parents will send us their children? Will they not want more for their one hundred and fifty-five dollars a year than this misplaced commitment to harden their sons’ bodies?”
The shouts and calls had reached a level uncomfortable enough that I was forced to raise my voice above the fray.
“Of what possible use will a degree in physical culture be?” I asked, nearly shouting now. “Are we not in danger of releasing into the world students with no skills beyond what might be useful in the military? The business of a university …” I said, and then stopped.
“The business of a university …” I tried.
I could not finish my sentence. An odd and unpleasant sensation had taken hold of my eyes so that the audience before me had broken into a hundred — no, a thousand — brightly moving dots.
“The business of a university …” I began again, but I could not think how I had intended for the sentence to end. My mouth opened and closed, and I am sure I must have winced, for I was certainly wincing inwardly from extraordinary pain. I felt light-headed and gripped the podium. It was then that I found myself most grievously indisposed in a manner I should not like to set forth in any detail here. After a time, I felt a hand on my arm and looked up into the face of Arthur Hallock, who, as a physician, undoubtedly felt it necessary (and politically expedient) to see to my distress. I shook him off, humiliated by his attentions. “Go away,” I think I actually said as I fainted to the floor.
I awoke moments later on the stage of the amphitheater. I could hear Hallock telling Phillips that he thought I had had a seizure, and though I wanted to protest this misdiagnosis, I found that I could not; that, for the moment, I had no speech. In a state of confusion and deep chagrin, I was brought to a sitting position and then to my feet. When it was determined I could stand on my own — even though, mysteriously, I still could not talk — I was led like a child to my rooms.
Though I regained my speech before the night was out, I was too exhausted to move or to eat — my collapse, I am convinced now, more emotional than physical. I tried diligently to convince my would-be physician of this, but I could tell that he was no more persuaded by my argument than he had been by my impassioned rhetoric in the amphitheater.
I remained in my rooms for several days. The vote to institute a department of physical culture was dela
yed a week. The outcome might have been predicted. And although by then I hardly cared about the matter, I have often wondered whether I should have been more persuasive and perhaps even victorious had Etna not abandoned me and had my voice contained a natural and convincing enthusiasm for my cause, or had I not presented such a haggard appearance on the stage. Thus there might not be, even today, a department of physical culture at Thrupp College. Which makes me ponder the nature of fate and coincidence: A man is propelled one minute sooner to his automobile because he decides not to stop to kiss his wife good-bye. As a consequence of this omission, he then crosses a bridge one minute before it collapses, taking all its traffic and doomed souls into the swirling and angry depths below. Oblivious, and safely out of harm’s way, our man continues on his journey.
I waited the week in a feverish grimace. On Saturday, I hired a coach to take me to Exeter. I gave no advance warning of my visit, for fear either Etna or her apparently formidable brother-in-law might forbid it.
The journey from Thrupp to Exeter could be made in one very long day and was then a rough journey, since there were no direct highways to that part of the state. One had to resort to the twisting lanes and village roads of a countryside not best known for its easy landscape. Thus I was in somewhat disheveled condition when I arrived in Exeter. Though my need to see Etna was keen, for once prudence held sway; I asked the weary driver of the coach to take me to a boardinghouse instead.
I doubt Exeter has changed much since I was there. It is a handsome academy town with many fine residences along its High and Water Streets. As the driver brought me into the village, I tried to imagine in which house Etna was prisoner. For that is how I saw her then — a servant, even a slave, in her brother-in-law’s possession. If I had before been determined to liberate her from the kindly though stifling household of her uncle, I was doubly resolved then to free her from the employ of the man who had contrived to steal from Etna her entire capital.
I spent a restless night in the home of a widow who had been forced to open her own considerable abode to the public. In my distraction and haste, I had neglected to pack a suitable kit and was forced to borrow from my landlady a razor and clean shirt and so on, which I promised to return as soon as my mission was accomplished. After an odd dinner of chutney and potatoes and brussels sprouts, I retired to my room and sat in a chair and thought about my plight and my mission. It was clear to me, as indeed it had been clear all along, that Etna did not care for me in the same way that I cared for her. (Would I have left Etna behind in Thrupp? Never.) At that time I attributed this imbalance to the physical and temperamental differences between men and women. Certainly men were capable of greater passion than women, were they not? And so, perforce, must always be the predators? And was there not a certain sport in the chase? Was I not expected to pursue Etna, no matter where she had gone? By then, of course, I had persuaded myself that she had left Thrupp against her will, whatever she had written in her letter. Though I had never met Josip Keep, I imagined him to be an intimidating presence, a man accustomed to having his wishes obeyed. And would Etna not have felt dutybound to help her sister with her children? Yes, surely she would. I had seen the way she was with her young cousin and had already admired the humor and patience she had displayed. But all of this was merely idle speculation on my part. I could no more have given Etna up than I could have taken my life. Indeed, she was my life now. I could not envision a future that did not include her.
And there was something else that I must admit to here: I could not cease from my pursuit until I had known Etna Bliss. I mean this in the sense it will be understood. It was not a desire I would freely have confessed to at that time, but there was in me the keenest need to touch and to experience Etna Bliss, a need I had recognized from the first time I saw her the night of the fire, a need that had grown only sharper as the days and weeks had progressed. Do all men feel this way when they meet their beloved? I do not know, for it is not a discussion I have ever had with any man or woman. I know only that the alternative was for me intolerable. If I did not pursue Etna, I was convinced, I would be tormented all my life by longing — a longing that no other woman would be able to slake. (And I must say that even today I am not certain that I was not correct in this assumption.)
That night, as I slept in the boardinghouse, I was haunted in my dreams by images of Etna: her skirts tangled in tree branches as she sought to fly, sheltering under a shelf of rock that quite suddenly fell upon her, and then soaring up and out from Noah Fitch’s office like a gull caught on an updraft. The next morning, I inquired as to the whereabouts of Keep’s home, and it gratified me to be told by my widow-landlady that the house was still known as the Bliss house and would be for years to come, the townsfolk preferring to pay homage to the ancestral owners and not its usurpers. I walked the not-very-great distance of a mile to the house I sought, the day clear and cold, but it was not the glory of the morning that increased my pace. No, it was the thought of seeing Etna again that gave me vigor: the knowledge that if I failed today, I was likely to fail for a lifetime.
One could see at once that the Keep residence (the Bliss residence) had been newly painted and the windows freshly glazed. I passed through a gate and approached a large paneled door. A manservant opened it. I stated my business. He asked me to wait in a parlor.
Despite my nerves, I could not help but notice that the parlor was in considerable disarray. All about the room were ladders and drop cloths and putty knives and paintbrushes laid out upon newspaper; the smell of turpentine was much in evidence. It seemed obvious that Josip Keep, having taken up residence as the largest creditor of the Bliss estate, was now making repairs that the late Mrs. Bliss had been unable to afford in her declining years.
I heard footsteps on the stairs and turned.
“Professor Van Tassel, you surprise me very much,” Etna said.
She had on an extraordinary dress of navy and cream that set off the color of her hair in a marvelous way and seemed to give it hues I had not noticed before. Her eyes, above her pronounced cheekbones, appeared wary. I had interrupted her in the act of fashioning her hair, for I saw that loops and curls were suspended from a knot at the back of her head, the sight of which stirred me greatly, for I had never seen her with her hair down.
“I could not stay away,” I said at once. “I must speak to you.”
She did not seem precisely alarmed to see me, but neither did she appear pleased. It was difficult for me to determine exactly how my arrival was being received.
“We are shortly to leave for church,” she said.
“I don’t have much time,” I said. “I must be back at Thrupp for my classes tomorrow afternoon.”
“You are well?” she asked.
“As well as can be expected.”
“Why have you come?”
“You must know why I have come.”
From the hallway, behind Etna, I could hear rustling on the stairs. I saw her stiffen at the certain interruption.
A diminutive woman entered the room, and Etna turned politely.
“Etna, you have a guest,” the woman said with some surprise. And then added, “Your hair is not done.”
“Miriam,” said Etna, “this is Professor Nicholas Van Tassel. He has come from Thrupp. Professor Van Tassel, this is my sister, Miriam Keep.”
It seemed scarcely possible that the two women before me could be related. Where one was dark, the other was fair; while one was tall, the other was petite and delicate in her look; while one had arresting features, the other was truly beautiful in a more conventional manner: that is to say, she possessed the nearly perfect beauty of wide green eyes, naturally pink lips, and skin so luminous it seemed to have the sheen of marble. She held herself with the bearing of a woman who had used her beauty to advantage, and I surmised immediately that it had been her comeliness that had secured for her a rich husband. It would be interesting, I thought, to see if the man was worth so dear a sum.
“So yo
u have come a distance,” Miriam said, taking a step farther into the room.
“Yes,” I answered.
“To pay a call on Etna, or are you engaged in business here?”
“My business is with Etna,” I said.
“Your timing is unfortunate. We are just on our way to services.”
“Yes, forgive me. I did not think,” said I (who had done nothing but think).
“Etna,” said Miriam, surveying Etnas’s coiffure. “Josip will not want to be kept waiting, not for church, which, as you know, begins promptly at ten o’clock.” I winced to hear Etna spoken to in this manner.
“Miriam,” said Etna, “would you be kind enough to entertain my guest while I go upstairs for a moment? I shall be right back.” I understood this as my cue to leave, but I could not. Etna left us — whether gratefully or in a state of confusion I did not know.
“So, Professor Van Tassel,” Miriam said, seating herself on the only uncovered chair in the room, “what brings you to our house so early on a Sunday morning?”
I heard in the question another mild rebuke for having disturbed a family on their day of religious worship.
“I have something of importance I must discuss with Etna,” I said plainly.
“Is that so?” she said, bestowing upon me a cool glance. I had the distinct sense of being in the presence of a diamond even as I preferred the golden glow of the lesser jewel, the topaz.
“I’ll not pry,” she said, though I could see that she dearly wanted to. “Unfortunately, I fear the Reverend Young will not wait upon our arrival at services. As for myself, I confess I could easily forgo the man’s dusty sermons, but my husband has a keen sense of piety and religious obligation. And though he has many excellent qualities, he is often impatient with tardiness.”
