After several days no word from Bucket, not even an acknowledgment he had got, or was reading, the paper; but Levin waited patiently. Two more days made him restless. He had come up with a new idea but did not want to work on it until he knew how good the first paper was. If Bucket agreed with CD he could see the article already in print. S. Levin, essayist and critic, the start of a new career. Patience, he counseled, knowing how busy poor Bucket was. His dissertation had been newly rejected and he had begun a “final” revision: Uncle Toby once more at his sorry fortifications. In a rare free moment he was still hammering boards on the addition to his still uncompleted house. Algene was pregnant. The little Buckets, Levin knew, had been trading illnesses since November. Joe himself had come down with chicken pox, “an humiliating experience.” To pay doctors, medicine, and other bills he had added to his odd-job schedule several hours in a gas station where he had worked as a boy. (He had once lubed Levin’s car.) And he still had themes, preparations, quizzes to take care of. Levin was now sorry he hadn’t thought twice before wishing the article on him, even if only ten pages.
He considered asking him to return it, but then worried he might be offended—Bucket could be touchy—if Levin got in the way of his making up his mind what he wanted to do, or seemed to be pressing. The instructor had learned in the West that his Eastern timing was often on the tightly wound side for many of the people he dealt with. He was concerned with time even when he had on hand more than he knew what to do with; you couldn’t knit with it or purl. None of his colleagues seemed to grow jittery about where time went. Perhaps it was the climate, no clearly marked seasons to make a man conscious
of, and impatient with, passing time: Time’s winged chariot walked. Such being so, best wait, Levin advised himself, till the assistant professor either returned the paper unread or indicated he had read it and was willing to express an opinion.
Although Levin saw him at least once daily, Bucket never alluded to the essay. By now the instructor felt he must do something about it, or he might not see it for years. There were that type; you didn’t know who until you dealt with them. Since he had made the mistake of leaving Bucket the original copy, and not wanting to pay Milly for another from the carbon if it wasn’t worth doing, Levin reluctantly decided to drop him a note. He would say he needed the original to send out but would gladly leave the carbon if Bucket had time to read it; if he hadn’t Levin understood. But when he entered his office after his last morning class, the manuscript, somewhat worn—the first page looked as though it had kissed a lollipop—lay on his desk. He thumbed through hastily for comments and found none. Levin searched the floor, under the desk, even the wastebasket, for a note that might have fallen off but there was no such thing.
Seeing Bucket in the hall later he thought he would speak to him, but then it seemed to Levin that the assistant professor was pretending not to see him; Levin said nothing. He returned to his office, his heartbeat in his ears, but blaming his sensitivity lately, heightened by every sort of dissatisfaction. Have I done something to him that I shouldn’t have? he wondered. Had he perhaps heard about Levin and Pauline and thus shown his disapproval? Ironic if so at this stage, yet not likely. If he knew something he minded his business, his virtue his fault. He wasn’t a puritan, nor addicted to gossip. It must be something else—but what? He recalled a pleasant cup of coffee with Bucket in the Student Union the day after he had left the paper, neither mentioning it; still it was pleasant. Was he, despite that, secretly annoyed that his customary good nature had earned him an unwanted task
when he had so much to do? If so, why not say it instead of putting on the mask of Fu-Manchu? Whatever the answer, from the look of the ms., he was certain Bucket had read it; yet he seemed not to have the slightest intention of saying what he thought of it. Levin, now greatly irritated, didn’t know what to do next.
Maybe there had been a misunderstanding? No, his request for the man’s opinion was clear; the least he could do was acknowledge he had read it. Or maybe Bucket was worried about something—he had his worries, all right. Could he, for instance, be ill? A secret cancer? Levin saw him later, in the hall, looking healthy as an ox. I don’t understand, he thought. He’s a nice guy, affable, honest; but isn’t it just good manners to say something: “Sorry, I couldn’t get to it,” or “Sorry I did.” Was he too timid to say the paper was bad, in fact, stank? If Bucket had a weakness it was his small-town timidity—the departmental disease, or how could they have lived so long with
The Elements
and the damned d.o., to say nothing of how Fairchild and Gilley, seemingly equalitarian, autocratically ran things? Climate or moral climate? “We all have our weaknesses,” Levin sighed. But Bucket had never before held back criticism of his ideas, so why begin now? Could he have gone through some private crisis while reading the paper? Jealous because the instructor wrote not badly whereas he (evidence: the oft-returned dissertation) wrote like a clod? Professional jealousy?
He considered every possibility but none satisfied him. He often peeked into Bucket’s office to see if he had a minute to talk, but his day was always booked solid with students. Standing unseen near his door, Levin had once heard him go on—he estimated twenty minutes—to a not fully awake freshman, concerning the uses of the semi-colon. For semi-colons he had all day, for a colleague’s paper not a minute. Infuriating. Levin considered waiting downstairs on the porch until Bucket left for home, and walking with him a bit to sneak in a question or two. But pretense of this sort bothered him (his
little moralities). So time went by without satisfaction. One day Levin had to speak to Bucket about a book committee meeting and the assistant professor seemed his cordial self, tempting the instructor to pop a question then and there. But before it popped, out of pride he swallowed, then chewed his bitter cud all day. From Bucket’s behavior who would think he had ever seen the manuscript? Or had he in a former existence? or was he mesmerized when reading, or had been hit on the head by a brick and no longer remembered he had seen the paper? How else explain the mystery? Apparently what was important to Levin did not exist for Joe B. How far apart men are, strangers to each other’s needs. In anger he thought, Be damned to the bastard, I swear I’ll never say a word to him about that cursed article. Either he brings it up or he can go to hell. What could he have expected from a man who had not once in all these months invited him to his house for a little talk and hospitality? He had made not the slightest effort to be more than an acquaintance despite Levin’s desire to have him as friend; the instructor had clearly shown this by his good will for Bucket that still—mind you—lived in his breast. He doesn’t need me, so his theory is I don’t need him. Knock on his door and you knock on wood, nobody answers. I hate his small guts. Levin worked himself into fits of rage. Whatever he looked at looked black. Once he had to run home and take a cold shower to calm down.
When they passed each other in the hall he wouldn’t look at the man, his skinny frame, oversize goggles, meaty ears. He envisioned punishment fallen on him, some sad misfortune: One day J.B. collapsed at his desk and died at home. Levin came uninvited to the wake. The former assistant professor was laid out in the still unfinished parlor, in wool sweater and brown socks, shoeless. He lay on a soft fir slab he had cut himself, his trusty crosscut saw at his side. During the services, Levin, assisting wherever possible, held a dripping candle over his waxen face. As the five little Buckets prayed for their
father’s return he prayed with them, but Bucket had entered his last long silence.
The next morning Levin awoke with wet cheeks. He woke inspired: what a unique man Joe Bucket was! This was he, his personal quality, the only one in the world who could be Joseph P. Bucket. He had acted on his rights as a free man, the right not to say, for whatever reason, under no matter what provocation, what he didn’t feel like saying. He did not care to say anything about Levin’s paper, probably to save someone pain—himself, both, either. He wasn’t talking, his natural and constitutional right. And it was his free choice as a man
not
to choose Levin, not to have him in, not to make a bosom buddy of him, not to utter a single syllable in his presence if he so pleased. And he pleased. Marvelous! “Man, the wonder of the world!” The instructor threw aside his covers and hopped out of bed. He found his article in a drawer, and gritting his teeth, read through it. He was slowly nauseated. He fought contempt for Fabrikant, but after tearing up and burning both copies of the paper, did not blame CD. Probably he was, in his way, trying to be kind. The article was trivial, not an original thought in ten typewritten pages. He had inflicted gratuitous punishment on a friend by asking him to read it, then worsened the situation because the poor guy wouldn’t confess the agony he had undergone. The unpardonable affront was Levin’s. He hated his sick pride.
I must be humble, he told himself. Humility is its own virtue, sweet, if true. I must be generous, kind, good. He wanted to embrace Bucket and ask his forgiveness. He vowed he would forever be his friend, no matter whose friend he was. This was Levin’s own choice. He drove to town to buy Bucket a present. Sweet are the uses of humility. He left a potted white carnation on his desk. Without a word, nameless, for the wrong he had done him.
Levin was moved to discover he cherished what he had best cherished. For the first time since he had parted from
Pauline the world seemed home, welcome. He had, as men must, given birth to it; he was himself reborn. Proof: leafy trees stippling green of earth on sky. Flowers casting bright color everywhere. Vast fires in cosmic space—all nature flowing in Levin’s veins. He felt tender to the grass. “God’s handkerchief,” Whitman called it. He watched with pleasure a flat-footed bluejay hopping up and down branches in the blooming cherry tree. He was amiable even to Mrs. Beaty’s cat, licking herself on the lawn at night, her whiteness, light. And Levin wanted, still, to be closer to men than he had been. The good you did for one you did for all; it wasn’t a bad way to love.
He had visions of service to others, the truest form of freedom, a secret he had unlocked. It stared him in the face like a crown of violets, diamonds, plums and wild pink roses. When he wore it on his head he created invisible miracles. He had become an extraordinary physician, S. Levin, M.D., F.A.C.S., an experienced man with a bony bald head, craggy face, kind eyes, sparse gray beard, and thin-fingered confident hands. He healed the sick, crippled, blind, especially children. When not practicing medicine he wrote, played the harpsichord, or spun his spinning wheel. In his tiny room only a cot, table, chair, and shelf of books. He lived on dried dates and goats’ milk. He often fasted for days. Levin read and reflected to know for tomorrow. He lived everywhere. Every country he came to was his own, a matter of understanding history. In Africa he grafted hands on the handless and gave bread and knowledge to the poor. In India he touched the untouchables. In America he opened the granaries and freed the slaves.
Alas, the picture blew up in his face. What dreadful egoism, willed humility, inverse, ass-scratching pride. Saintliness was for his betters. Levin was a small man, constantly in error, and had to live practically.
He changed to his students. He had allowed his disappointment in their mediocre work, their sameness as people, to sour him against them, though this bothered him in afterthought.
Levin’s freshmen, when he met them, were eighteen and warm. Many were fine people, earnest, ambitious in uncomplicated ways, some obviously bright, but very few he knew were committed to ideas or respected intellectualism. They showed almost no interest in the humanities and arts (“electives”). They overvalued “useful” knowledge and confused vocational training with humanistic education. They consistently applied standards of technical efficiency to the values and purposes of life; so did too many of their professors. Even their fears were unimaginative: not that civilization was imperiled and might be destroyed, but that if their grades were not high enough they would miss out on the “good jobs” and have to settle for a “lower standard of living.” They were badly informed about themselves and the world. Their intelligence, their lives, were absorbed in triviality. They had lost much without knowing it. They had not earned their innocence. This wasn’t, of course, true for all, but it was true for too many.
Still they were human and possible. Although they were responsible for tomorrow, they had not invented the world or the values they had found in it. He could not blame them for being uneducated to begin with; he blamed them for their resistance to ideas they had not inherited. For their unexamined lives. Still, a teacher’s job was patiently to teach them. It was the nature of the profession: respect those who seek learning and help them learn what they must know. So Levin, although now spending solid hours trying to catch up with papers he had neglected during the time he had felt so bad, opened his office to them. There he sat in full view of the multitudes in the corridor, WELCOME tacked on the wall above his head. Though he hadn’t Bucket’s forbearance in explaining punctuation rules, he had his students read them again and answered questions. Although their personal lives were none of his business he asked them who they were and what they were living for. He said the wealth of life lay within, keeping his fingers crossed because he hadn’t learned all the
lessons he taught. He advised the students he had not already frightened away, to study more of the liberal arts before they became technicians, even if it meant transferring to Gettysburg. He quoted Mill: “Men are men before they are lawyers or physicians or manufacturers …” He loaned out his best books and asked those who read them to come back for more. Once he caught a glimpse of George Bullock easing an ear close to his door. Levin suspected there had been complaints—that he was a communist propagandist, homosexual, corrupter of youth. But he continued to say: The liberal arts, you can’t get enough. They teach what’s for sale in a commercial society, and what had better not be. That democracy is a moral philosophy and can’t be defended by lopping off its head. A man can find an ideal worth living for in the liberal arts. It might inspire him to work for a better society. It takes only one good man to make the world a little better.