“Sir,” I said.
“And, just by the merest happenstance, I have also had occasion to come upon a monograph written by Alan Dudley Severence of Amherst College, which is — how shall I put this? — remarkably similar to yours.”
I was silent.
“And, well, to be frank, Van Tassel, there is, I am afraid, a question of plagiarism.”
The word singed my ears and made my mouth go dry. “Sir, you cannot suggest …” I said.
“But I’m afraid I do,” he said.
“It cannot have happened,” I said.
Fitch fiddled with the gold chain of his pocket watch. “Certain phrases do seem, shall we say, remarkably coincidental.”
“But coincidence, sir, is not a crime.”
“Not if it is unintentional.”
“It is, sir. It is. I cannot think. I have had an impeccable —”
“Yes, yes, so you have.”
Fitch regarded me for some time. The fire in the grate popped suddenly, startling both of us. He rolled himself closer to the desk and set his elbows upon it.
“I confess I was most surprised,” he said. “You are, after all, a man of extraordinary discipline.”
“I am, sir.”
“You possess a scholarship that rises well above the average.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“There should have been no need.”
“There was no need.”
“Yes, well.”
Fitch studied me at great length, and I forced myself to return his scrutiny.
“Perhaps you would like to take this monograph of Severence’s with you to your rooms to review the coincidences for yourself,” he said. “Certain phrases are, as you shall see…Here, I have marked them: ‘a fey man, living in a remote world of pain.’ And this one: ‘swift, competent and careless narrative.’ And this here: ‘marching fatality unbroken by the awkwardness of invention.’ Need I go on?”
It was some seconds before I found my voice. “But, sir, are not certain phrases, such as if we admit and we make no sufficient allowance and at first sight built into common discourse?”
“Yes, certainly, but I am afraid those are not these.”
“But the principle is the same, is it not?”
Fitch swiveled in his chair, nearly putting his back to me, and gazed for some time into the fire. I guessed that he was pondering his dilemma and making judgments. I groped wildly for a subject that I might introduce to distract him from the matter at hand, but my thoughts were too confused. I longed for an open window, a hint of light in that gloomy room. The silence was so profound that one could hear each tick of the clock over the mantel. After a time (after an agony of time, it seemed to me), Fitch turned around.
“Well, Van Tassel.”
“Sir.”
My nerves had pitched my voice embarrassingly high. I cleared my throat.
Fitch sighed once. A decision had been made.
“I should not like to lose you after all this time,” he said. “But I shall be forced to if there is a second offense.”
“There was no first offense.”
“You seem firm in your denial.”
“I must. There was no crime.”
“I shall have to pay great attention to your work.”
“I hope you have been doing so all along,” I said.
“We shall say no more about this now,” he said, making a small notation on a piece of paper in the folder. I strained to see what he had written but could not in the darkened room.
“No, sir.” I sought to hide my considerable relief (not to mention my trembling hands) by crossing my arms and once again clearing my throat.
Fitch folded his fingers under his nose and regarded me for some time. Beyond the door, I could hear the echo of boot steps making their way along the corridor.
“I hear you have been walking out with a young woman,” he said.
“She is not a young woman,” I said inanely, rattled by the abrupt change in subject. “She is twenty-five.”
“Van Tassel, sometimes you strike me as excessively… accurate.”
“I should hope so, sir.”
“Well, I know the person in question. I have dined with Etna Bliss. You’re a lucky man.”
“Dined with her?”
“Yes. It must have been, let me think, three weeks ago. Bliss had a few of us to dinner.”
Us to dinner? Who exactly were the us? I wondered. And why had I been excluded? The thought rankled.
“A handsome woman, Van Tassel,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said.
Fitch stood. The interview was over. Across the desk, he handed me Severence’s monograph, which I had no choice but to accept. “I believe we have said all there is to say on the subject of coincidence,” he said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“And unless I was absolutely convinced of a deliberate, as opposed to a careless, wrong, I should see no point in discussing the matter with any other person.”
Fitch, I knew, was a man of his word. Perhaps I did then betray some relief, for he fixed me with his gaze, as if in final assessment.
There was a knock upon the door, my own summons to depart. With quickening step, I brushed gratefully past a worried-looking student.
When the door had closed, I leaned against the wall in the corridor. It was the worst infraction I had ever been accused of. I thought of Moxon’s importunate appearance, of my missed chance with Etna on the college path, and of Fitch’s intolerable suspicions; and I imagined the day could not possibly get any worse, until I happened to glance at my pocket watch and saw that I was late for my tutorial with Edward Ferald.
Ferald was waiting for me in my sitting room — leaning with a languid pose against a stool near the window, one foot on the floor, the other on a rung, his hands insouciantly folded upon his thigh. He was looking out at the view and pretended not to notice me when I entered the room.
“Yes, Ferald,” I said. “Sorry for the delay.”
My breath was short and tight, and I was perspiring mightily, which put me at a distinct disadvantage with the preternaturally cool Ferald; but there was little I could do about it beyond sitting down in one of the wing chairs by the fire and unwrapping my muffler.
He turned slowly in my direction.
He was, as always, impeccably dressed in an expertly tailored suit coat with a long pearl silk scarf. His shirtfront was so white and so crisp, I decided it must be new. Ferald had impressive manners as well, though I knew those to be a mask that hid a canny nature.
“No trouble at all, sir.”
The “sir” that I had employed just minutes earlier with what I hoped was true deference to Noah Fitch sounded faintly mocking from Ferald’s lips.
“Have you been here long?” I asked.
“Since five.”
It was now twenty-five minutes after the hour.
“Then I shall simply go overtime,” I said, opening my case.
“Sir, I am afraid I cannot. I have promised myself to Merrit.”
I tried to think. Merrit was a third-year student rumored to be a bookmaker.
“For what purpose?” I inquired.
Ferald hesitated. “I do not wish to seem rude, sir, but is that relevant? The fact of the promise would seem to be the point.”
“Have you read The Bride of Lammermoor? I asked, abruptly changing the subject.
“Yes, sir, but I am having difficulty with your seventh question — that of the historical novel versus the ‘turbid mixture of contemporaneousness,’ as you put it. I cannot see how a work not from one’s own time permits the isolation of essentials from accidentals. It seems to me a false endeavor, since the author cannot know or ever write authentically about the past. We are, of course, referring to Waverly, which is just outside Scott’s period. And which rather begs the question, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps you have not read your text carefully enough,” I said.
“I have done the
work,” he said in an aggrieved tone. “I simply have it all in a muddle and shall need your help in sorting it all out. Indeed, I am looking forward to your commentary.” He took no pains to hide his slight smile. “As ever.”
The gall, I thought.
“Very well,” I said. “Take out the text.”
Ferald’s feigned pedagogical and literary interest irritated me no end, particularly as he had so little need of an education, and I doubted he should ever use it. He would, I knew, shortly come into considerable property nearby and would retire, at a young age, to the life of a gentleman farmer.
I told Ferald to take the seat opposite mine. He did so with a languor that, were he not my student and were I not impatient to be done with him, I should have admired. I reflected then that there would always be a Ferald. Sometimes his name would be Wiles or Mutterson or simply Box, but there would always be one boy who clearly mocked his teachers, though never openly, and by his behavior played at a labyrinthine game of wits, one that would necessarily amuse him greatly, and one that he almost certainly would win.
But in the game of teachers and students, the teacher will always have the last word; and I must confess that as I sat there and watched Ferald take out his Venetian glass pen and his Italian leather notebook (doubtless souvenirs of tours abroad), I began to consider seriously the notion of being unable to find sufficient merit in his final examination and so having perforce to fail the boy.
When Ferald left, I paced in my rooms in an emotionally exhausted state. The monograph Fitch had given me lay on my desk, but I ignored it, having no desire to read it or to compare it to mine, for I knew only too well what I should find. It had been a clerical misstep only, I told myself, a consequence of being preoccupied and overtired and thus somewhat careless. And the sentences were not precisely the same, were they? If there seemed a marked similarity in ideas, were ideas the sole property of one mind, one voice? Might not a brilliant critic arrive at the same conclusion in the same year as another as a result of normal evolution in a field of study? Besides, were not the questionable passages Fitch had referred to but a tiny part of the whole? Nevertheless, I reminded myself, I should have to guard against haste and distraction in the future and return at once to my disciplined ways.
The week did not improve. Etna sent a brief note saying she deeply regretted that she would not be able to see me on Wednesday, as we had planned, since she was otherwise engaged with an unexpected visit from her sister and brother-in-law, but she would be happy to see me the following week. This meant I should have to wait more than a week for an answer to my question, a wait that seemed agonizing. I suffered through an interminable weekend, trying to catch up on all of my course work, which I had much neglected, only to receive a nasty shock at an all-college faculty luncheon on Monday, when William Bliss surprised me at my table in the dining hall.
“Van Tassel,” he said as he passed my table. “I am surprised to see you with such a hearty appetite, considering our sad news.”
I did not understand the man. I noted that he did not seem sad, however.
“What sad news?”
“Did Etna not write you? No, perhaps not. It was very sudden. Her sister and brother-in-law came abruptly to fetch her back to the family house in Exeter. I gather Keep, the brother-in-law, thought it unseemly to have Etna board elsewhere, even though he seems to have snatched the family homestead right out from under her. Quite frankly, I rather think the man has it in mind to make a governess of her for his children.”
“Etna gone?” I asked, stupefied.
“I’m afraid so.”
I stood. “This is not possible,” I said in a voice loud enough that several of our colleagues glanced up at us from their meals.
Bliss put an avuncular hand on my shoulder. “I am afraid that it is so. Forgive me for having informed you in so public a place. I thought you knew.”
Bliss had gone pale. He was a gentle scientist, unused to displays of emotion. “Shall we step outside a minute?” he asked.
I went, as a steer will be nudged toward the abattoir.
“Of course, we were much dismayed ourselves,” Bliss added when we were safely outside the building. “But Keep is formidably persuasive. And my niece apparently made little protest, or if she did, I do not know about it. Doubtless she was glad to see her sister again, and perhaps to return to her home, even if the circumstances are a bit …” (he hesitated) “… compromised.”
I could not absorb the blow. “What is the address?” I demanded. “I must go to see her.”
“Now, now,” said Bliss, again employing the restraining hand on my shoulder. “I shouldn’t want you to get too exercised about this. I am sure she will write you in good time.”
“But I love her!” I blurted. “I wish to have her for a wife! It is all I wish for!”
“Oh, my dear man,” Bliss said, dropping his hand. “Van Tassel, you surprise me.” But I could see that he was surprised only by the occasion and the vehemence of my declaration, not by the fact of it, which he had doubtless anticipated. “Has Etna returned this… this love?” he asked gently.
“Not in so many words,” I said. “But I believe she is not averse to my affection.”
“Have you spoken to her of this?”
“Just five days ago,” I answered.
I spun away from him, my hands in my hair. I could scarcely think. Etna gone?
“You must get ahold of yourself,” Bliss said. “I am sure she is carefully considering your proposal. Allow my niece to write you and explain her abrupt departure for herself. Perhaps in that letter you will have the answer to your question.”
I shook my head, too bewildered to reply.
“Now let us go in to our dinners, which have grown cold in our absence,” he said. “I shall call for some brandy to restore your color.”
But I could not reenter that dining hall, nor converse further with any person, and so I bolted across the lawn, leaving a doubtless much relieved Bliss to return to his Indian pudding. I made it to my rooms without encountering anyone with whom I should have felt compelled to converse. I staggered up the stairs, wanting only privacy. On the hall table just outside my rooms, there was a letter waiting for me.
March 25, 1900
Dear Nicholas,
Please forgive this sudden and abrupt correspondence, but I write to tell you that I have left Thrupp and the household of my kind aunt and uncle to return to my former home in Exeter, now that of my brother-in-law Mr. Josip Keep. The departure was sudden, as Mr. Keep had urgent business at home and could spare only the weekend to come and fetch me. I tell you truthfully that though I had no inkling of his mission prior to his arrival, the choice to leave was mine alone.
I fear I have overstayed my welcome at my uncle’s house, though I assure you they gave me no hint of this at any time. And since I do wish to be useful in my life, and not merely dependent upon the kindness ofothers, I thought it best to take up residence with my sister so that I may help to educate her children. My sister, alas, has no love of learning.
But do not imagine that I have made this decision lightly. I have appreciated your company and have valued your friendship greatly. It was always stimulating for me, and I doubt I should have borne my exile with as much good cheer had I not had the anticipation of your visits and the distraction of the lovely books you lent me. (The Hardy, by the way, is with my uncle. He said that he would have it delivered to your rooms.)
As to your offer of marriage, I cannot consider your proposal at this time, as I am sure you must know. I release you from all commitment whatsoever and shall understand perfectly if you should choose to take my departure for a refusal. I cannot say to what decision I should have come had I remained at Thrupp; I had no time to ponder your grave request and the equally grave responsibility of answering it.
I know that this will not be easy for you, but you must not think it was easy for me either. I shall miss your companionship. I hope you will find solace in you
r work and that the Lord will keep you safe in all your endeavors.
I remain, most sincerely yours,
Etna Bliss
It was fortunate that I had thought to bring the letter into my rooms before opening it, for I then behaved in an unseemly manner that might have made another cringe to behold. How long I was in this state I cannot say, but gradually I calmed myself, and though I was subject to intermittent and brief seizures of both anger and grief, I was finally able to regain my composure. I had not come so far to go down so easily in defeat.
* * *
Perhaps there is some truth to the notion that stars collide or are out of balance in the universe and thus, in disarray, exert an influence upon individuals here on earth. I say this for want of any other explanation for the confluence of unpleasant events that day and the next.
There was at the college a battle brewing between two opposing factions, and I had somewhat unexpectedly found myself the informal leader of one of them. Perhaps this was a consequence of my newfound confidence and popularity during the winter months; more likely, it was because of the passion of my convictions. I could not then (and still cannot) countenance the idea of a department of physical culture at any college of classical learning, nor, moreover, the conferring of degrees in this nondiscipline upon matriculating students.
To give a degree to students whose chief occupation for four years has been employing wood-and-iron dumbbells in rhythmic motions or running circles in a gymnasium, all the while yelling like Rebels, is nothing short of absurd. Perhaps there is a place for physical exercise in the life of an individual — in the private life of the individual, that is, and to be carried out in private, as are other bodily functions — but to make of it an academic discipline with all the same rights and privileges as, say, Mathematics or Biblical History and Interpretation is an idea that would have been laughable had it not been proposed so seriously.
The Tuesday following the Monday of my hideous news, I was scheduled to speak at a meeting of college faculty and administration. I was to debate (and then vote upon) a proposal which would allow Professor Arthur Hallock (who did have, I am bound to say, a degree in medicine from the Medical School of Maine at Bowdoin College and who taught Anatomy and Physiology at Thrupp) to create a department of physical culture, which would elevate its study (what study? I ask) to the status of Literature and History. Worse, all college students would be compelled to take courses in this field and to keep to a regular regimen of physical exercise on pain of forfeiting their degrees. Even now — in this moving compartment and so far removed from the fray — I can work myself up into quite a froth on this subject.