Particularly since the Birdless hassle, Levin had thought he would like to suggest an improvement or two in department principles and methodology, subtly or otherwise, if not to Gilley perhaps to Fairchild through some of the men on good terms with both. Since overcoming his drunkenness, perhaps as interest received on what he had accomplished, or what learned from what he had been through, he had from time to time felt the return of the courage of his convictions. As of old, Levin felt the human lot could be infinitely improved, but what was he doing about it? The true liberal, in his moral fervor, kept alive the visionary ideal, in the long run perhaps the
decisive thing, and fought at every opportunity to translate it into a better life for people; but not Levin. The ideal got no farther than the inside of his head. Although thoughts of “making things better” continued to arrive by inspiration, at Cascadia College he restrained them. He did nothing to resist the status quo. He was, after all, a newcomer here; of the same race as the Cascadians, true, but a distant relative. And if not abysmally timid, not terribly courageous. Too often, in the midst of discussions with those who found his liberalism distasteful, Levin—as though his nervous system voted conservative—broke into hot sweat and his knees softened; lockjaw set in.
He blamed this unwilled reaction partly on his personal history, partly it was the effect of the times. He had dragged through the past a weight of shame and sense of exclusion from normal life, engineered by his father, Harry the goniff, misfit turned thief—he stole from everyone and his own left hand—whose fantastic thieving was the talk of every neighborhood they had to move out of. Levin had his whole life felt imperiled. In recent years he had come to pity his father but was still influenced by his distortions. Add to a backlog of personal insecurity his portion of the fear that presently overwhelmed America. The country was frightened silly of Alger Hiss and Whittaker Chambers, Communist spies and Congressional committees, flying saucers and fellow travelers, their friends and associates, and those who asked them for a match or the time of day. Intellectuals, scientists, teachers were investigated by numerous committees and if found to be good Americans were asked to sign loyalty oaths. Democracy was defended by cripples who crippled it. At Cascadia College the American fear manifested itself, paradoxically, in what was missing: ideas, serious criticism, a liberal position. Levin remarked this only to Bucket, who nodded once. No one, for instance, disagreed with Professor Fairchild’s daily dispraise of “Roosevelt socialism”; if one did, disagreement was silent. Levin’s protective coloration was to pretend he thought like everyone else. The
specter of Duffy haunted his head, beware his fate. You have only one life to live, the instructor counseled himself, why lose it here, cut down in your prime at a cow college in a backwoods town for bucking the petrified order? For who, after all, was Levin but a poor man trying to make an honest living, a tough-enough proposition for him in the best of times. Therefore be smart, mind your business, don’t make trouble.
Yet because others were more timid than he (who was striving, as Chekov said, to squeeze the slave out of himself) perhaps Levin, mixing feelings of weakness with intimations of strength, was brave by default; for even as he whispered warnings to himself the word within sometimes was, “Speak up, do what you must to uphold the common good”—emphasis on the issues, Levin, conservative radical, loyal opposition, master of the gentle tactic, patient persuader, calm reasoner. He must on
principle
not be afraid. “The little you do may encourage the next man to do more. It doesn’t take a violent revolution to change a policy or an institution. All it takes is a good idea and a man with guts. Someone who knows that America’s historically successful ideas have been liberal and radical, continuing revolt in the cause of freedom. ‘Disaster occurs if a country finally abandons its radical creative past’—R. Chase. Don’t be afraid of the mean-spirited. Remember that a man who scorns an idealist scorns the secret image of himself. (Levin’s notebook: “Insights.”) Don’t be afraid of names. Your purpose as self-improved man is to help the human lot, notwithstanding universal peril, anxiety, continued betrayal of freedom and oppression of man. He would, as a teacher, do everything he could to help bring forth those gifted few who would do more than their teachers had taught, in the name of democracy and humanity. (Whistles, cheers, prolonged applause.) The instructor took a bow at the urinal.
Such being his mood these days he felt the need to make an issue of the book censorship business, all but convinced that Fairchild and Gilley would retreat if they ran into unexpected opposition. But Levin though feeling free and energetic,
remembered he was in love with Pauline Gilley and stood speechless.
If not I, who shall lead? he eventually asked. Listening to Fabrikant’s voice, the instructor wondered if he ought to ally himself with the scholar, and if Fabrikant managed to come into power, become useful through him? There seemed no doubt that an election was on its way, though no one could say just when. Fabrikant, according to Bucket, was still eager to become the next head of department, and Levin thought he would offer his support, at least a vote added to Joe’s and a few others’ who seemed to take the scholar’s candidacy seriously. Levin had considered this course of action before but hadn’t made up his mind because he was still not entirely sold on Fabrikant. CD wasn’t exactly the open type; he offered little of self. Sought out, he could be hospitable, laugh you his short laugh, even invite you to come again, but if you didn’t he wouldn’t miss you. He was not warm even to warmth. Scowers called him “soured—he has lost too many battles.” Leopold Kuck had remarked that privacy represented more than a privilege to him. “He enjoys it as an exclusion of those he thinks don’t appreciate him.” Levin knew what they meant but tended to explain certain of Fabrikant’s limitations as brought on or intensified by his hard life during the Depression, and, for that matter, his kind of luck. He was a man who had never run ahead of the life he lived. Maybe so, Levin thought, and he wears white socks, and his shoes squeak but what matters are his principles and record.
He knew George Bullock didn’t think much of either. George had once said that CD had never fought a major battle. “Okay, he’s got good marks for plugging for salary increases, more promotions, freer sabbatical rules, and a better retirement system than we now have on the books. He’s also for academic freedom, but who isn’t outside of Congress? I hear tell he did use to go see Marion Labhart every now and then and urge him to support this or that item, but once when he took a dim view of a policy of required attendance at
department meetings, Marion blasted him out of his office, and, as I understand it, CD has never gone back in. If you want to know what’s mostly on his mind, read some of the letters he’s written in the past few years to the local rag and the college daily. On campus he’s against reports in triplicate, fraternities, and student apathy in college elections. His letters to the
Commercial Budget
protest the inefficiency of county government. He’s against indiscriminate garbage dumping and dogs that run loose and murder his chickens. He’s also got no use for chlorine and fluorides in the drinking water. ‘What this country needs is a pure glass of water.’ If he’s written one letter on that subject, I swear I’ve read five. Do you call that a record?”
On the other hand, Gilley, so far as Levin could learn, had fought not even for a pure glass of water. Beyond his good nature and lovely wife, he had little to recommend him. At the very least Fabrikant stood on principle. Gilley, totally congenial, was blown by every wind, in particular Fairchild’s. Fabrikant, though maybe a little eccentric—give him credit— showed in his independence a strength of sorts. Gilley’s strength was to persist in his weaknesses. Fabrikant might grow as an administrator as he loosened to life, once it had at last rewarded him; Gilley would remain as he was, gregarious, generous, ungrown. Of these two most possible choices it seemed to Levin the better was Fabrikant.
Through the wall came his dry voice reading Emerson: “‘Whoever would be a man must be a non-conformist. He who would gather immortal palms must not be hindered by the name of goodness …’ That is to say,” said Fabrikant, “not ‘goodness’ but ’the name of goodness.’ ‘Nothing at last is sacred but the integrity of your mind.’”
“Amen,” sighed Levin.
The bell in the hall rang. He checked his fly and turned to the sink. Standing there was Professor Fairchild, watching him with interest.
“All yours,” Levin stammered.
On his way out of the building that afternoon he visited Fabrikant in his office and in a low voice told him the story of the censored anthology. The scholar, his thick brows pressed together, listened gloomily.
“It’s been that way as long as I can remember.”
“Couldn’t you talk to Fairchild?”
“It wouldn’t do any good. Once his mind’s made up he’s stubborn as a goat.”
“Even if you talked to him?”
“Even if Teddy Roosevelt did.”
“Shouldn’t we at least try?”
“It wouldn’t come to anything. I’d advise you not to worry about that book. One battle isn’t the war.”
“Unless it is,” said Levin.
“It isn’t. This isn’t the time to fight each petty tyranny or idiocy that comes along but to wait and overthrow the tyrant.”
“You think it’s possible?”
“A lot depends on popular support.”
Levin said quietly, “I would like to offer my—assistance in your campaign, in some way.”
“Fine, but you must understand I can’t show my hand just yet, though I will soon. I have one or two other irons in the fire. Fairchild has promised my long overdue promotion and I want to be sure that’s gone through before I antagonize him again. I should know in a month.”
“Don’t wait too long,” Levin advised. “Anyway,” he said, “I’m your man. I meant to tell you before this.” He felt not quite at ease saying it but said it.
“Call me CD.” Fabrikant cordially offered a cigar.
Levin refused a light but to be sociable sat with the cigar in his mouth. Feeling foolish, he thrust it into his breast pocket. “I’d better be getting home. I have a load of papers to go through tonight.”
“Feel free to come in.”
The instructor thanked him. He almost walked into Gilley in the corridor. Levin tried to hide the cigar but failed though
he crushed it into his pocket. Gilley nodded coolly, his expression suggesting suspicion. Levin, wondering which perfidy he knew, absently lifted his hat.
If Gilley were alive to political affront, he showed not the slightest sign he was aware of a situation that insulted his manhood; and Levin’s passion for his wife grew, fed by the secrecy it lived in. His heart was a taut string played hard by love, one further note of longing and it would snap in its face. Secrecy was an intensifying component, another that he saw her rarely now, and lived much in images of desire. At the time of his deepest need (one way of tormenting himself was to imagine spending twenty-four normal hours in her company) Gilley’s winter extension course ended and he did not reschedule it for spring. The trout season wouldn’t open till April, and freshman recruitment was temporarily over until a last intensive week in May. Gerald was therefore either home with Pauline or out with her. She saw Levin for occasional short visits, but was now hesitant to give as her excuse for going out, non-existent civic meetings. A Mrs. Bowie, whose house she was supposed to be at, had called one night, and Gilley was mystified until Pauline (fresh from love with Levin) said she had remembered the meeting had been postponed and so had dropped in at Jeannette’s. She had become again “deathly afraid.” It’s the town, Levin thought; too tight to maneuver in. Too much is visible to the naked eye. When they met it still took her a while to stop being afraid. She looked sometimes as though it were all too much for her. Levin said that one night but she denied it. “It’s just that I sometimes worry what would happen to the children.” He had not much thought of them, but now he thought, though not much. She made him promise faithfully never to mention her name to anyone.
Though the Gilleys entertained more frequently now, Pauline thought it best not to invite Levin. “It’s hard to pretend no-love when I feel so much for you.” Therefore though they
made plans to be together more often, they saw each other less. As always he “had” again as have-not; hadn’t bargained for this much longing, this much not having what was his to have. Missing her became work. He reveried a warm floral time when they’d be inseparably together, in various stages of dress or undress, bed or board. My God, if I could only walk in the street with her. He dreamed of her as his wife, but on her belly was tattooed “Mrs. Gilley.” She wrote him suddenly, a spate of letters in official-looking brown envelopes, which he was not permitted to answer because Gilley made a point of going to the box after the mail delivery during the lunch hour; and Levin, after carrying it in his inside pocket, reading and rereading it, burned each letter in the fireplace because she had asked him to. The letters he couldn’t write her were a further loss. He was in his heart a poet these days; each thought of her was crammed with beauty. It’s what you don’t say that counts. But she let him telephone if he made sure Gerald was either at his desk or in class. Levin went into a phone booth in the Student Union to make his call, his heart thumping like a hand on a bull fiddle. They exchanged endearment and hung up. On Saturday mornings she called from downtown, if she could. If Mrs. Beaty, deaf or not, was too close by, she could tell from his voice and said goodbye. If not, each praised the other and both praised love. Afterwards Levin walked unknown distances.