“That as well as others,” said the old professor. “In the meantime he had apologized to me for these contretemps. I had reconsidered and wasn’t going to report him, but Mrs. Feeney telephoned Leona Labhart, and she told the president what had happened at my house. Now Marion is a man with a temper—I’ve heard it blamed on his first name, but be that as it may he’s a disciplinarian of the old school, and he immediately called me for a dossier on Duffy. I had Dr. Gilley compile it, and the very day he read it the president called a college-wide open meeting. The entire staff, more than five hundred strong, crowded into Sheffield Auditorium in the Dairy Building, and heard the president denounce Duffy as a fellow-traveling radical. He read aloud the long list of his indiscretions—which he had had mimeographed and passed out to the audience. It was a terrible indictment. After reading the document, Marion, whose brain literally seems to boil when he’s angered, spoke directly to Duffy, who, although he had not been asked to, had risen from his seat as though hypnotized. The president told him in front of all that he was a disgrace
to the institution and his contract would not be renewed. Duffy was, of course, on a yearly contract—so are you—all new people are; he made no attempt to reply, remained speechless, a broken man, the shadow of himself, quickly abandoned by all.
“After the president had stalked off the platform the audience dispersed, I one of the last to leave. Leo seemed physically exhausted; it was all he could do, after half an hour, to drag himself out of the building. Perhaps he had not foreseen this end for himself, although it is likely he may have, yet was thunderstruck by his fate. I felt sorry for him—the man was obviously a misfit—and I was afraid he would do himself some serious harm; his eyes were turned inward in a frightening way. Yet when I saw him the next afternoon he had recovered a bit of his brashness and even asked me for a letter of recommendation, which I could not bring myself to write, although I did offer some sound advice about the future which he preferred not to hear.”
“So that’s it,” said Levin with a sigh. He had secretly loosened his necktie but the image persisted of Duffy standing alone in the auditorium, the weight of his disgrace on his cracked head.
“More or less. He afterwards raised a fuss in our local chapter of the American Association of Professors, and for a while Dr. Fabrikant, who was chairman of the Academic Freedom sub-committee that year, and a few others on the faculty, were defending him, but in the end they came to their senses and voted against submitting a complaint to the national AAP. Dean Feeney’s last act in office was to write the letter notifying Duffy of his dismissal.”
“Er—Was it true that he was a fellow traveler?” Levin asked.
“What would you say?” The professor looked with interest at the new instructor.
“It’s hard to say from the evidence. As for myself,” he went on hastily, “I am not now, nor have I ever been, a member of the Communist Party.”
Levin laughed brokenly.
“Funny thing,” Professor Fairchild went on, “despite all that had happened, the last time we met he begged me practically on his knees for a last chance—as if I could. He said he had learned from his errors, was a reformed man, had more reason than ever for wanting to stay on. I felt he had grown more attached to this place than he had realized and it was a bitter thing for him to leave. Or perhaps he sensed this was the end of his teaching career, as turned out to be the case. I had to tell him the matter was entirely out of my hands and advised him in that last emotional meeting that he wasn’t truly meant to teach and we were doing him a favor to let him go so that he might find his true place in society. Yet for a while I felt as many fathers do after punishing their children. I had built up some affection for the poor devil, perhaps thinking of him as a sort of prodigal son, except that Leo Duffy never returned to the parental fold, nor was I, when all is said and done, his father. In the end he went his predestined way.”
Levin drew a long breath.
“That’s how these things go.” Professor Fairchild gazed out of a window. “It surprises me how often an evil genius, in one guise or another, will raise his horns on a college campus.”
He looked suddenly bored.
Levin rose to go, but the professor, glancing again at his pad, amiably remarked, “I think the administration would expect me to say something in passing on the subject of sex.”
The new instructor sat down with a throbbing dry throat. “Did you say ‘sex’?”
“Call it what you will. You’re thirty, your application states. Without any intention to pry into your personal affairs, may I ask if you are presently considering marriage?”
“Only vaguely,” Levin replied. “First I have certain plans I would like to carry—”
“Ultimately?”
“Absolutely, sir. I want a home and—”
“Some do, some don’t. Too bad you aren’t married now.
Easchester can be hard on bachelors. If you intend to stay on here I recommend marriage. It would pay to keep your eyes open this fall. Occasionally an eligible woman or two join the staff, but they are usually quickly spoken for so you will have to hustle if someone strikes you as especially fair. My own wife was teaching clothing design in home economics when we first met. I took her out of the hands of a professor of dairy products to whom she was considering engaging herself. However, the point I must make is that we expect you strictly to refrain from dating students, no matter what the provocation.”
“I understand—”
“Nor is prowling among faculty wives tolerated.”
“Yes, sir—”
“You might guess that Duffy would not respect these suggestions.”
“You don’t say?” said Levin, but the professor let it go at that.
He said, after a minute of reflection, “We once had a sad case of a nineteen-year-old student who killed herself when she became pregnant by her instructor—”
“You mean Duffy, sir?”
“No, this was long before his time. He was a young speech instructor, and when he denied responsibility, the poor girl cut her throat under his bedroom window outside the house he roomed in, the room in which he had led her astray. This unhappy incident occurred during the very first year I was here, or perhaps it was the year after—I’m not sure whether I was already married, I believe I was. Yes, I was. People still talk of the tragedy.”
Levin shivered under his new suit. The professor ticked off a last item on the pad. I can go now, Levin thought.
But the head of the English Department, swiveling around so that he looked full in the new instructor’s face, with no transition other than the mark he had made on his pink pad, said, “I trust you don’t drink, Mr. Levin?”
Levin, breaking out in a sweat, answered loudly, “No, sir.”
He had set himself for the question, but the shock of hearing it almost lifted him out of the chair. By an effort of the will he remained seated.
Good God, he thought, have I given myself away? He suspected his face looked ashen, black whiskers sprouting out of marble.
“I’m glad to hear that. You might keep in mind that this community—this part ot the valley—was founded a hundred years ago by missionaries from the East, hard on the heels of the forty-niners; almost overnight they established temperance societies. I met Josephine at an Anti-Liquor League social.”
To appear calm, Levin slowly stroked his beard.
“Mores are mores.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I bring this up,” the professor said, lowering his voice, “because your appearance reminds me somewhat of Father’s.”
“Er-Whose father?”
“Mine. He wore whiskers remarkably like yours and had your color brown eyes. I have a photograph of him among my papers at home; and your beard, black and full, is the spit and image of his at about the time he was your age.”
“Quite a coincidence, sir.”
“Papa was a drinker.”
Levin patted his brow with his handkerchief.
“Not that I am in any way implying that whiskers equate with drinking. One thinks of the Hebrew patriarchs and prophets. And we have our own abstemious Amish Mennonites in this country. All I’m saying is that you happen to remind me of my poor father, who at one time of his life—I make no secret of it—was an incurable drunkard.”
Levin’s handkerchief was by now moist.
“Papa was a harness-maker by trade. In those days we lived above his place of business in a retangular frame house in Kansas City, Missouri. My sister was eleven and I nine—no, we were twelve and ten, I remember detesting my fifth-grade
arithmetic teacher—when Papa began to drink heavily for no reason that my poor mother could understand.
“Mama—a pioneer type—stood it for several years. At length, realizing the situation was not improving, she decided to leave Papa and move to Moscow, in the Idaho panhandle, where her parents were living. Before going she spoke to him in our presence—I still recollect her words. ‘John,’ she said, ‘I’m taking the children to my father’s for reasons you well understand. Nevertheless, I don’t want to cut you off from your family if we mean anything to you. Father sent me fifty dollars to leave with you. I give you my heartfelt invitation to join us as soon as you can. If you will stay sober long enough to locate us, I believe you can conquer drink, and we will all live together again.’
“I recall my father wept. He told Mama that he loved her and the children dearly and would follow us to Moscow as soon as he was thoroughly sober, ‘dried out’ was how he phrased it. When we left he drove us to the train in his horse and wagon. He was, I learned later, true to his word, stayed away from the bottle and wound up his affairs. He sold what was left of his business, put on his Sunday suit, packed a bag, and set out for the railroad station. But he had rarely ridden on trains, and through some unfortunate mixup, was already in Chicago before he, or anyone, discovered he had been going the wrong way. He was so terribly disappointed he made straight for a saloon.”
Levin softly groaned.
“Some kind person put him on the right train and Papa was off again on his journey. He had vowed, I was told, not to touch another drop; however he made the acquaintance of a tipsy drummer aboard the train, who persistently offered him a bottle. Papa said no often enough, but the drummer would not accept his refusal, so when the bottle was down to a mouthful or so, he said yes, apparently thinking he would take a last swallow and be forever done with it. However, his strategy proved impracticable because the drummer had a
half dozen more bottles stored in his suitcases full of samples of ladies’ underthings. The two of them managed to get as far as Omaha, where, because of their carousing they were ejected from the train.
“A few days later, eluding the drummer, Papa got onto another train going west, but he soon discovered he had lost his billfold containing what was left of the money Mama had given him and the sum he had raised from the sale of his harness and leather goods store. Unable to stand his profound disappointment in himself, he left the train at Pocatello, and having sold his gold watch and suitcase for a song, used the money to get impossibly drunk. He stayed in Pocatello for the rest of his life, which was not destined to be long.
“Many years later—it was shortly after the birth of my eldest son-he’s a mining engineer in New Mexico—I set out one summer in search of Papa. Employing a private detective, I traced him first to Omaha, then Pocatello, and a man we located there, a merchant who owned a feed and seed store where Papa was employed for a time, told me what had happened. Papa had in truth sworn off liquor not long after his arrival in Pocatello, but he was, as I understand it, ashamed to face us, penniless. The feed and seed merchant told me that each year of the four he lived in Idaho before he died, both at Christmastime, and in April, a few days before Mama’s birthday, Papa made plans to go to Moscow, but for one reason or another he never got there. I presume he died trying. At any rate, none of us ever saw him again after the day we said goodbye in Kansas City. His life was wasted, but at least it taught me how to use mine.”
Levin rose unsteadily. He got out, “I promise never to touch a”—before he clamped his jaws tight.
Professor Fairchild stood up and warmly shook his hand. “‘I greet you at the beginning of a great career.’”
The sun flared in his hair and he looked like a saintly old man amid his books. Picking out a volume from one of the
shelves, he handed it to Levin.
“The Elements of Grammar,
revised, thirteenth edition.”
Levin at last relaxed. “Thank you. Dr. Gilley is giving me a copy.”
“Keep both, should you lose one.”
“I’m much obliged.”
“Tell your students the book will be very useful to them. Funny thing,” the professor chuckled, “they may hate it in the beginning but they’ll love it in the end. More than one of my former students have returned to tell me that mastering English grammar was the turning point of their lives.”
Levin held a nervous hand on the door knob but the old man was still talking.
“You’ll like it here, Mr. Levin. This is wonderful country. If you don’t mind the rain you’ll like the climate. We have a friendly department—no strife to speak of, although there is sometimes an honest difference of opinion. Gerald Gilley is a good man in composition, you can learn a lot from him. The work is interesting, the students easy to deal with. It’s a blessing to teach. I’ve been at it for nearly forty years and have never regretted my choice of profession. I’m nearing the end of my stewardship here and look back upon my work with satisfaction. I’ve fought the good fight.
The Elements
was born here. The department, in my time, grew from three to twenty-one. Yet the path was not always without thorns: We’ve had hard times, when the administration gave us almost nothing to live on. I scrimped to save. I had to pare down salaries, occasionally causing friction, I confess; still, what had to be done had to be done. The first duty of a good leader is to carry out orders. I did as I was ordered. At one time I ran about the cheapest department on the Coast, and frankly I was proud to help keep the college solvent and functioning during times of crisis. Dean Feeney felt as I did. He’s also a careful man with a dollar. We have to be—we’re not a rich state. The dean and I saw eye to eye. I have in my papers at home a letter from him commending me for my efforts in
the college’s behalf. I’m proud of it. I admit it troubled me to discover later that not every department head always followed the letter of the law. A few, during the Depression, had bought almost no supplies and kept salaries slightly higher—not by much—than some of us were paying. One man did his own secretarial work and divided the secretarial fund among his staff, but he had a very small staff. Maybe I should have tried something of the sort, but it didn’t seem honest to me. At least I gave employment to another mouth. In general, when I think of what I would change if I had my life to live over, I doubt I would change much.”