Levin saw himself fleeing with both heavy bags when he learned the next morning that Cascadia College wasn’t a liberal arts college. Gerald Gilley gave him the news, one long leg, thick-ankled in home-knit argyle socks, amiably dangling over the arm of a chair in Levin’s newly acquired room at Mrs. Beaty’s, complete with fireplace and optional private entrance. The new instructor had waked at the Gilleys in despair, typical of him in a strange place (it often amazed Levin how past-drenched present time was) but when, as he was putting on his new-suit pants, he saw that last night’s high-walled mountains had shrunk drastically—their vast height illusion, a trick of clouds massed above the peaks—his mood changed and he heartily enjoyed breakfast. “Come see us often,” Pauline Gilley had waved, standing by the birch tree and lifting little Mary to wave as Levin and her husband
drove off in his Buick. Afterwards Levin had liked the old landlady and the large light room she showed them, but Gilley’s news disturbed him.
Though he tried to seem casual, Levin had risen from his chair. “Why I thought—I was positive—this was a liberal arts college.”
“I guess you didn’t stop to examine the catalogue I sent you,” Gilley said.
“Did you? I never got—”
“That’s too bad, probably reached you after you had left. I guess I sent it out late in the rush of summer school closing. Anyway, if you had read it you’d have understood, from the section in front about our history, that we are mostly a science and technology college. We were founded in 1876—next year we celebrate our 75th charter anniversary—as an agricultural and vocational community college, but after ten years the state took it over, and to the original schools of ag for men and home ec for women, added forestry, animal husbandry, every kind of engineering you can think of, and of course the pure sciences, and others. We also had the liberal arts here, beginning around 1880, but we lost them shortly after the First World War.”
“Lost them?” Levin, feeling behind him, unsteadily resumed his seat.
“They were taken from us, Sy. I won’t go into the whole long story but there’s a history of some nasty pitched battles for funds between us and our sister institution, Cascadia University at Gettysburg.—That, if you have checked the map, is our capital city, a hundred miles north of here, where they still rib us as ‘southerners,’ to say nothing of ‘aggies’ and ‘hay palace.’ Politics get steaming hot every biennium when the state budget is in the works, and I guess some of our alumni took it into their heads that it might make things easier all around to bring CU right down here to Easchester—they’re the younger institution, 1878, and we have a lot more land than they do—and incorporate us both into one big super-university
with one physical plant, which would, of course, have saved the taxpayers lots of money in the long run. Well, for too many reasons to mention, the plan didn’t come off. Their alumni in the legislature raised a stink—they’ve always had the law and journalism schools and as a result can influence public opinion almost any way they want—and they got their own bill through, separating CC and CU more than we were in the first place. There was talk—as I’ve many times heard the story—of removing us to the Gettsyburg campus, but then they decided to settle for certain punitive measures, which in this case were nothing less than cutting out our upper-level courses in the liberal arts, which people here thought weren’t so important anyway, so we’d be two absolutely different institutions and theoretically uncompetitive. To make it look fair, and at the insistence of some of our boys in the legislature and two or three influential lumbermen in town, they had to part with their upper-level science courses. Now the dirty part of the deal was that during World War II they got all their science back on the ground that it served the national interest, while we never did get back the liberal arts—”
“A dirty shame.” Levin was on his feet again. “The liberal arts—as you know—since ancient times—have affirmed our rights and liberties. Socrates—”
“That’s how these things go. It’s best to be philosophical about it.”
“Democracy owes its existence to the liberal arts. Shouldn’t there be—er—some sort of protest?”
“I appreciate your attitude,” Gilley said, “but there isn’t much that can be done about it now. Due to the fact that our graduates land so many influential jobs in the state, and since our athletic teams are usually better than theirs, we have a larger student registration than the University, which annoys them no end. And they also haven’t forgotten that during the Depression they lost a lot more staff positions than we did here, and we lost plenty, believe me. They still think of those days, though a lot of the old timers who have always hated
us have died off. They’re afraid if we keep on gaining at the rate we have since the end of the war, they’ll lose out percentagewise in funds for buildings and faculty salaries, so you can bet your bottom dollar that as soon as somebody starts talking about bringing liberal arts majors back here they get hopping sore and start telegraphing the legislature. Frankly, it’s a bread and butter proposition and you can’t really blame them. We’d do the same in their place.”
“But that’s fantastic,” Levin said, “—ah—isn’t it? How can we—if you’ll excuse my making myself familiar—teach what the human spirit is, or may achieve, if a college limits itself to vocational and professional education? ‘The liberal arts feed our hearts,’ this old professor of mine used to say.” Levin laughed self-consciously.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Gilley said patiently. “We do have lower-level liberal arts courses here, though not many or in much variety. Still and all, there are departments of English, art, religion, history, speech, philosophy, modern languages, et cetera, on the campus. I will have to admit that the great majority of our boys and girls don’t seem to be much interested in these subjects and take only what they have to. If they insist on more, they have to transfer elsewhere, usually to Gettysburg—and we don’t go out of our way to encourage that. We have to handle it that way because the Higher Education Committee of the legislature just won’t recommend an investment in a double liberal arts program in the two big state institutions of higher learning.”
“But didn’t you just say that full schools of science exist in both places?” Levin asked.
“They do but pure science has always been considered part of the liberal arts, and besides that’s ‘necessary duplication’ because we have the Russkies to think about. What are you still standing for, Sy?”
“Excuse me.” Levin sank into his chair. “I was just going to say—if you’ll pardon me, I realize I’m a stranger—but I don’t see how this situation can go on without weakening us
in the long run. Democracy is in trouble. How are our students supposed to—” His right ear, when he absently touched it, felt on fire. Levin ceased speaking and gnawed his beard at the lip.
Gilley, lifting his leg off the chair, sat back. “I like your enthusiasm, Sy, but I think you’ll understand the situation better after you’ve been here a year or two. Frankly, though I agree with some of the things you just said, Cascadia is a conservative state, and we usually take a long look around before we commit ourselves to any important changes in our way of life. You might keep in mind that education for an agrarian society, which is what we are—the majority of our state legislators come from rural areas—is basically a ‘how to work’ education. And if you’ve been keeping up on your reading on the subject, more and more liberal arts colleges in America are going in for more and more vocational subjects.”
“I think they’re making a serious mistake—”
“That’s not to say that we won’t be making some changes here, but most of us at Cascadia agree there’s no sense hurrying any faster than most people want to go. If you push too hard you arouse resentment and resistance, and the result is the changes you are pushing for are resisted too. We’ve seen that happen too often in the past. Also keep in mind that a lot of very fine upstanding people in this community don’t give two hoots for the liberal arts.”
The new instructor, though suspecting he ought to drop the subject, said, “Isn’t that where—er—good leadership comes in?”
“I’d say we have just as good leadership here as you people have in the East.”
Levin bit his tongue.
Gilley, after a moment, rose with a smile. “All I can say, Sy, is I hope you didn’t write to the wrong place when you wrote us for a job. Some people get us mixed up with our Gettysburg adjunct, and vice versa.”
Holy mackerel, Levin thought. He had written to both
Cascadia colleges and had probably confused the other, which had turned him down, with this.
“I’m glad to be teaching here,” he said.
“Good,” said Gilley. “Don’t forget Professor Fairchild expects you this afternoon.”
They shook hands and Gilley left by the outside stairs.
Levin sat long in his chair, tormenting himself for being the man he was. Why am I always committing myself before I know what it’s all about? What’s my fantastic big hurry?
“Anyway,” he muttered as he began to unpack his bags, “it’s a start.”
Considering that he had just got his M.A. at thirty, and had only high school teaching experience to offer, Levin felt it was the greatest good luck that he had landed an instructorship in any college. Here if he watched his step and picked up two years of experience—the director of the N.Y.U. employment office had advised—and a couple of good recommendations, he shouldn’t find it too hard to move on to a department where he could teach some literature, particularly if he began his Ph.D. work next summer. Wondering what Gilley would say if he knew his newly hired hand had been turned down, not only by the University at Gettysburg, but by at least fifty other colleges across the country, Levin felt a surge of gratitude to him for having given him, after so many failures and frustrations, an opportunity to begin his chosen career.
After a pleasant hour of wandering on the campus, Levin located Humanities Hall across the street from the Student Union at the corner of the college quadrangle. H-H, as it was designated in the catalogue, was a large gray clapboard structure with a huge leafy maple tree on its north lawn; it had been a women’s dormitory before World War I, then had been converted into a “Museum of Pioneer Artifacts.” After World War II it had been cleared out and rebuilt and now housed the English, speech and philosophy departments; English on the second and half of the third floors, according to the catalogue.
Shortly before two, Levin went up the bannistered steps of the small, pediment-roofed porch, and slowly up a flight of creaking inside stairs. He dreaded interviews.
The long-halled second floor was divided into classrooms on one side of the stairs, and facing rows of offices on the other. Levin found the secretary’s office but she wasn’t there although a cup of hot coffee steamed on her desk. He waited five impatient minutes, then looked around to see if he could find her. Diagonally across the hall, at the very end of the building, he peeked through an open door and discovered Gerald Gilley. The director of composition was sitting in shirt sleeves behind an enormous cluttered desk in the center of a large green room loaded with bookcases and filing cabinets. He was cutting pictures out of
Life
with a pair of shears with blades a foot long.
Gilley glanced up at Levin absent-mindedly, placed him, and said pleasantly, “Come for your appointment, Sy?”
“I was wondering whether to go right into Professor Fairchild’s office? The secretary seems to have stepped out a minute.”
Gilley clipped a picture from the magazine, snipped four sides, and filed it in a thick folder.
“Future book,” he told Levin.
“Illustrations?”
“Picture book of American lit.” He cut into another page. “Like the idea?”
“Fine,” said Levin.
“I thought the students would want to see what some of our writers looked like, the houses they lived in and such. Most of them can’t tell Herman Melville from the Smith Brothers on the cough drop box.”
Levin smoothed his beard. “Great stuff.”
“Milly probably went to the ladies’ room. She’s been having trouble with her kidney. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
He started directly across the broad corridor but in midstream changed his mind and asked Levin to follow him. Gilley tapped lightly on a door a bit farther up the hall, waited
thirty seconds, then shook his head. “Guess he’s not back yet. I had an airmail letter saying he might make it today from Carmel. This is George Bullock’s office. He’s a very sociable chap, city type like you, only he was born in L.A. George makes things happen instead of waiting for them to. He also has private means, which does no harm if you can manage it. You’ll like Jeannette too, that’s his wife, originally from Las Vegas, a real stunner. They give some lively parties.”
He knocked again, to make sure.
“A dozen of our crew is up on the third floor,” Gilley said, “instructors like yourself, most of them in their twenties. I like to keep them together because they have a lot in common, but everybody usually visits in the coffee room sometime during the day. Come on, I’ll show you where it is.”
They went across the hall to a doorless room that looked like a kitchen.
“Very convenient,” Levin murmured.
In the open cupboard a long line of white coffee mugs hung from hooks, each cup with a name written on it in India ink.