“Bowen, are you or are you not willing to rewrite this paper?”
“Of course I’m willing to rewrite it, sir, if there’s something wrong with it. But I don’t understand exactly how you want it rewritten, sir. I did the best I could. I just wrote what I thought.”
“Think, Bowen! You’re not supposed to think! You’re supposed to learn. A boy your age doesn’t know how to think. That is why your parents send you to school. Remember that, Bowen. Your parents send you to school to learn what to think and I am here to teach you what to think. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you read this entire book, Bowen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Every page?”
“Yes, sir. We have two weeks between Scripture assignments and it isn’t a very long book.”
Outside the windows he could hear shouts of laughter and the sound of a tennis ball hitting the racquet and someone giving a laugh of triumph, and he knew he would miss the game he had been supposed to play before lunch. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hand closing convulsively as though around the handle of a racquet.
“Bowen!” Ludkin shouted.
“Sir?”
“Pay attention.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to drop that ‘holier than thou’ attitude, Bowen. I want you to rewrite your report, Mister Bowen, giving a résumé of the major points of the book, and then telling me why you agree with them.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t agree with them, sir.”
“Bowen, who are you, if you please, to disagree with Thomas à Kempis?”
“Nobody, sir.”
“Then will you write the report?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be glad to do a résumé of the book, but I’m afraid I can’t change my opinions, sir.”
“Opinions, Mister Bowen! This is only my second year at this particular school, Mister Bowen, but I have been teaching in various institutions for a number of years, and I have never seen a paper filled with such unpardonable arrogance as your paper, Mister Bowen.” He read aloud from Courtney’s paper in a high, nasal voice:
“… although some of this is quite beautiful, much of its thought I disagree with violently.…
Violently, Bowen, violently! Who are you to use violence in connection with a religious book of which you obviously have no understanding? Hm:
… I believe that since we are put in this world we are put in it to live in it, and to the full.…
If you have solved the problem of why we are put into the world, Mister Bowen, you have done more than most of us. I dare say Thomas à Kempis had given it more thought than you have.
… Even if one believes unreservedly in immortality—
have you been reading Darwin, too, Mister Bowen?
—there would be no point in being given life on this earth if our lives were to be spent in a rejection of life.…
I repeat, Bowen, what do you know about it?
… We are advised by Thomas à Kempis to retire from the world largely because if we don’t we are too apt to commit sins for which we will be punished. If we don’t have anything to do with the world, then we won’t commit the sins, and then we won’t be punished. It seems to me—
You again, Bowen!
—it seems to me that this is a very cowardly philosophy, and very unchristian in reality. I think that God put us into this world to live in it with courage, and to fulfill ourselves to the best of our ability, and to do as much as we can, even if we sometimes make mistakes. What about the parable of the three servants and the talents? If the servants had followed the advice in this book they would all have buried their talents. And if Christ had followed it He would never have argued with the sages in the Temple or dared raise people from the dead or knocked over the money-lenders’ tables or asked his disciples to risk everything for him. He would have remained a carpenter and He would never have been crucified and we would have no Christian religion today.…
Bowen, this paper sickens me so that I cannot read any further. It nauseates me. This paper is sacrilegious to the nth degree. If I were Dr. Sterne I would not allow the boy who wrote this paper to remain in the school. But because your record has been excellent, Bowen, I am willing to give you another chance. I will be magnanimous. I will not show this paper to Dr. Sterne if you will rewrite it according to my specifications.”
Courtney said stubbornly, “I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir.”
“Then you leave me no alternative. I shall give your paper to Dr. Sterne to read and leave the matter entirely up to him, with my personal recommendation of expulsion.”
“Yes, sir.” Courtney stared out the window into the clear spring air, bruised and baffled. Ping, came the sound of a tennis ball. He waited numbly to be dismissed.
“That is all,” Ludkin said. Then, as Courtney turned blindly towards the door, he called him back. “Just one minute, Bowen. What do you call this?”
“What do I call what, sir?”
“This—thing—you handed in for your English composition preparation?” He held out a sheet of paper as though it had a nauseating smell.
Courtney’s voice was flat. “It’s a poem, sir.”
“Yes, Bowen, I rather expected you to say that. It’s exactly the sort of arrogant tripe I might expect from the boy who had the gall to hand in such a Scripture paper. Hm.” The English master began to read aloud in a sarcastic, nasal voice; his voice seemed to be of the same sallow color as his complexion:
“I gaze upon the steady star
That comes from where I cannot see,
And something from that distant far
Pierces the waiting core of me
And fills me with an awful pain
That I must count not loss but gain.
Harrumph!’ Ludkin cleared his throat loudly and continued:
“If something from infinity
Can touch and strike my very soul,
Does that which comes from out of me
Reach and pierce its far off goal?”
Courtney stared harder and harder out the window, although he no longer heard the sounds outdoors or saw the trees with their pale green young foliage, or smelled the fragrance from the lilac bush that was bursting with a fountain of blossoms he could easily have leaned out the window to pick.
“Are you listening, Bowen?” Ludkin asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“I must say that I’m amazed you condescended to use rhyme and some sort of rhythm. But I wonder—can you tell me what it means?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well?”
“I’m sorry my meaning isn’t apparent, sir.”
“Apparent! I suppose you mean that you and the star were having some kind of communion. I can only say that you must have a very high opinion of yourself, Bowen.”
“No, sir.”
The bell for lunch rang, a strident clangor that silenced the English master as he opened his thin-mouth for his next remark. Courtney sighed and squared his shoulders.
“Very well, Bowen,” Ludkin said, “you may go now. I will take up the matter with Dr. Sterne.”
“Yes, sir.” Courtney wheeled and left the classroom, left the smell of ink and chalky blackboards and furniture polish and Ludkin’s tobacco and the lilac, and rushed upstairs. The penalty for cutting a meal without permission was a heavy one, but he was too nearly weeping with the rage and fury of being so sorely misunderstood to be able to face going into the refectory. He rushed into the dormitory and into his cubicle, flinging himself down on his cot.
He had never been in the dormitory during a meal before. The curtains marking off each cubicle hung stiff and white. The beds were leeringly smooth under their white seersucker spreads, and the faces of various mothers and fathers and sisters seemed to look at him mockingly from their neat alignment on chests. From the refectory downstairs h
e could hear the muffled roar of conversation, like faraway breakers or distant thunder. Then, still like the sea, came the subdued murmur of grace followed by the great roaring of chairs being pushed back, the sound of laughter liberated.
It was evening before Dr. Sterne, the headmaster, sent for him. Something in Courtney made his footsteps slow and deliberate as he walked the length of the building, and through the green baize door that led to the headmaster’s rooms. He knocked on the door of the study.
Dr. Sterne was sitting at his big desk reading what Courtney recognized as his Scripture paper. Ludkin was nowhere to be seen. The headmaster looked up and smiled.
“Sit down, Bowen, while I finish reading these literary efforts of yours. They seem rather to have upset Mr. Ludkin.”
“Yes, sir.” Courtney sat on the edge of a chair. Dr. Sterne read without hurrying. Once Courtney heard him make a sound that could have been a snort either of laughter or of disgust, but, looking at the headmaster’s impassive, leonine face, he could not tell which.
As Dr. Sterne put the papers down on the desk in front of him, he said, “You know, Bowen, Mr. Ludkin is a deeply religious man. I’m afraid you’ve made him very unhappy with your unorthodoxy.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Just what was your Scripture assignment?”
“We were to choose any book from the Scripture shelf and write a report on it. I thought that meant if we didn’t agree with the book we were to say so, and why.”
“A logical assumption.” Dr. Sterne leaned back in his chair and lit his pipe; Courtney did not know why the smell of Dr. Sterne’s tobacco was pleasant and that of Mr. Ludkin’s somehow musty and full of decay. “Have a more comfortable chair, my boy. You aren’t up for execution. Try that old red one. It’s really very restful.”
“Thank you, sir.” Courtney moved to a huge leather chair into which his body sank, resistless. It was impossible to keep a stiff backbone in the chair; its sagging curves insidiously insisted on relaxation. But if one could not keep one’s backbone stiff one at least had the upper lip.
“Tell me, Bowen,” Dr. Sterne said. “Why did you pick on The Imitation of Christ by Thomas à Kempis?”
“Well, the title was familiar to me, sir; I think my mother reads it, she reads a lot of religious books, and I guess I didn’t look at the name of the author very well, because I thought till I was about halfway through that it was St. Thomas Aquinas, and I’ve heard you talk a lot about St. Thomas Aquinas.”
Dr. Sterne laughed. He was a massive man and his laughter shook all of him. “Well, I wouldn’t confuse the two gentlemen again if I were you. They’re really very different.”
“Yes, sir. I hope so.”
“Thomas à Kempis seems to have upset you almost as much as you upset Mr. Ludkin. Why?”
“Well, sir, I was rather shocked that a book I knew to be so influential should say some of the things it said. Like it’s being better to be the servant than the master, it’s better to be led than to lead—because it’s safer. It seems so negative to me, sir.”
“You know, Bowen,” Dr. Sterne’s voice was confidential, “I haven’t read The Imitation of Christ since I was about your age and I’m afraid I don’t remember much of it. I certainly don’t remember being particularly upset by it. Are you sure you understood it?”
“Yes, sir, I think so. I mean, lots of it seemed to be not able to have two interpretations. I mean, when he said that we are held responsible for all knowledge, for everything we learn, so it’s better not to learn anything, it’s safer, because then we won’t be held responsible—I think that’s awfully bad, sir. It seems to me we ought to search for knowledge and truth, not run away from it.”
“Well, I can’t help agreeing with you, Bowen,” Dr. Sterne said. “I think I’d better read the book again.”
“And you see, sir, another thing that upset me until I found out it was Thomas à Kempis and not Thomas Aquinas, I thought it was a book you liked, and that bothered me, sir, because it seemed to me it was a book for weaklings, for people who were too cowardly to live life.”
“I see. Of course you explained none of this to Mr. Ludkin?”
“Well, sir, the main thing was he didn’t like what I thought of the book.”
“He said you were stubbornly offensive about it.” Dr. Sterne picked up the paper and looked at it again. Courtney could tell nothing from the expression in the headmaster’s eyes, but he felt himself relaxing.
“I didn’t mean to be offensive, sir, but I couldn’t say I agreed with the book when I didn’t agree with it so violently.”
“A little less violence might have been easier on Mr. Ludkin, Bowen, and still expressed your opinion. However, I think we’ll call it a misunderstanding all round and let it go at that. And suppose you read—let me see—fifty pages of Thomas Aquinas, and be sure you get the right Thomas this time, and you can write a quiet and unemotional report on him. Is that satisfactory to you?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you very much, Dr. Sterne.”
“As for your poem.” Dr. Sterne looked at Courtney, raised his strong gray eyebrows, and grinned. “Possibly it wouldn’t have upset Mr. Ludkin at all if he hadn’t read your Scripture paper first, though I can see it’s not the kind of thing he’s fond of, and I can see a little something of what he calls your ‘arrogance’ in it. However it’s not a bad kind of arrogance. I really cannot see you as a subversive character, Bowen. Do you think of yourself as subversive?”
“No, sir.”
“And in any event history is your subject, Bowen. Save your passion for history. As Thomas says—Thomas à Kempis—it’s a lot safer.”
Oh, clever, clever Courtney, appealing to Dr. Sterne’s vanity by pretending he was upset to think the headmaster might have liked Thomas à Kempis. Only it was not cleverness, he had really meant it, and if Dr. Sterne were alive today he would seek him out and ask for a teaching post under him.
Only it was not Dr. Sterne he saw in his dreams; it was Mr. Ludkin.
And the Courtney here in this hollow of the Haute Savoie was as far from the Courtney of Thomas à Kempis as he was from the picture of the grinning Courtney with the tennis racquet and the book under his arm. Thomas à Kempis alas, was right, and Courtney wrong. It is not safe to make mistakes. It is not safe to search for knowledge and truth; it is much safer to run away. It is not safe to participate too violently in life: one participates and one marries and loves one’s wife; one participates and one has children and a child dies. It is not safe to participate.
Oh, no, Courtney, let us withdraw. Let us follow Thomas’ advice, Thomas à Kempis’ advice, and withdraw. Let us not write anything new or exciting because it won’t be exciting to Tommy O’Hara and it is the Thomas O’Haras who control the purse strings. Let’s play it safe and if we’re not quite truthful Tommy O’Hara won’t care. And if we go to Indiana as we probably will, let’s go for the wrong reasons, or Thomas would call them the right reasons, and let us not participate, let us not become involved in any issues, let us avoid the dangerous passions of the mind, far more dangerous than the passions of the body. And if we betray the young Courtney, he was a fool and didn’t know what he was saying. Let us follow his much-scorned pattern of safety so there will be no more pain.
He looked at the blank sheet of paper in his typewriter, and very carefully and with no emotion whatsoever he typed out, PHILOPOEMEN …
Virginia stood a moment in the hall, breathing fast, listening to the comforting sounds around her, the warm noise of the furnace purring like a great cat in the cellar, her mother playing Beethoven on the piano, her father typing in his office. She hung up her outdoor clothes and went into the living room. Connie sat on the floor stringing a chain of silver beads made of rolled-up tinfoil. At the piano Emily turned.
“Back, darling? How was it?”
“Oh, very nice, thank you,” Virginia said. “I mean it stank. I walked out.”
“Walked out, Vee? Why?”
“Mimi says I don’t stand up properly for my principles. So I tried to stand up for them. Or for her, anyhow.”
“What do you mean, darling?”
“Oh, Sam had arranged for a double date and the boy he picked was a ghoul. I mean it wasn’t Sam’s fault or anything. He didn’t know what this creature was going to be like.”
“What was he like?” Emily asked.
“Oh, quite a dream boat and tall and everything. But—mother, what is this Jewish business anyhow?”
“What do you mean, Vee?”
“I called Mimi ‘Mimi Opp’ and Beanie—Snider Bean, that’s his name—made sort of a Thing out of it. And then when Mimi and Sam were dancing he made cracks about Mimi being one of the Chosen. Things like that. You know what I mean.”
“Yes, Vee, I know.”
Connie looked up from her beads. “Nobody’s talking to me.”
“Suppose you listen to Virginia and me for a while,” Emily said.
“But I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe if you listen for a few minutes you will.”
“Mother,” Virginia said, “when you wrote Mrs. Oppenheimer and asked Mimi to come and everything, you knew Mimi’s father was Jewish, didn’t you?”
“I don’t suppose I thought about it, Vee.”
“I mean, it didn’t make any difference to you or anything, did it?”
“No, Vee. Where’s Mimi now?”
“Still with Sam, I guess. They were dancing when I walked out on Beanie. This conies under the general heading of prejudice, doesn’t it, mother? Like the Negroes in the South, and the Italians and Poles in New England?”
“Yes.”
“Like daddy said about any minority group. Like sometimes even people who care about education and books and music and things being a minority group, too?”
“Yes, Vee.”
“Well, I know what a Negro is, and Italians are born in Italy and Poles in Poland, but what exactly is a Jew?”
“That’s the sixty-four dollar question, isn’t it?” Emily swung around on the piano bench, facing her daughter. She sat and looked at her without speaking for a moment. “You’ve got me, Vee,” she said at last. “I’m not exactly sure. I suppose it’s something like being a Baptist or a Roman Catholic, or an Episcopalian, as we are. And even though most Jews aren’t born in Israel, it’s sort of like being born in Italy or Poland, too. Doesn’t make much sense, does it?”
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