“Good!” Chisholm cried. “That’s fine! But, son, yew been followin’ the wrong track. Ah truly think yore country and mine is headin’ for leadership of the known world! There is no glory on earth that is beyond us. But we got to have a knowledge worthy of that leadership. We got to rely upon strong young men like yew to know somethin’.”
“I study,” David contested.
“But yew know nothin’ about the spirit of man! Yore papers sound as if books were only paper and some ink and some words. But books are the spirit of man! I grant yew, sometimes, they’re purty, like yew said in yore paper, but …” He fumbled for words and put his beer bottle down. “David,” he said, “the spirit of man jes’ plain ain’t purty. Yew can call it magnificent or bewilderin’ or powerful to the point of despair. But it ain’t college-English purty. And yew ought to stop writin’ as if it was.”
When Chisholm left Dedham several other students besides David felt a regretful longing. The roly-poly, bald, red-faced Texan was remembered as a new kind of man. He had a mind that played honestly upon the broad experience of the world. He saw things pretty much as they were, and his vast learning in many fields never seduced him into an Oxford accent nor lured him to the apostasy of alien values. He spoke in a low voice, and many of his songs were vulgar. He spoke through his nose, and he wore sloppy clothes; but he was a free man.
Not even the unpleasant facts uncovered by the head of science after Doc Chisholm had left changed David’s opinion of the Texan. On the very afternoon when the scandal broke David tossed a book through the observatory window and muttered, “To hell with them all! I’d like to be Doc Chisholm.” That was when he decided not to be a mathematician. “I’ll study people!” he pledged. “People, just as they are.” And that was the beginning of his education.
Yet at the very moment when David was most sincerely dedicating himself to the understanding of what was best in American life, he was involving himself more deeply with Mona Meigs. They had reached the point at which she called him at the college to tell him when Klementi would be out of town. Then David would hurry into the city.
For sentimental reasons they met in mid-town and went to the vaudeville at the Earle. Mona carried on a kind of machine-gun comment on the acts: “Look at her legs! She’ll get nowhere. You watch Milton Berle, the way he sort of comes in on the up-beat when you’re already beginning to chuckle. That’s timing, Dave.”
Then, at the apartment, she would revel in the security of locked doors and Klim’s absence. She would skip about the room and cry, “It’s wonderful to have a place all to yourself.”
On the day Doc Chisholm left Dedham David watched Mona dance about the room, her arms high above her head. Overcome with desire for her, he caught her and carried her into Klim’s bedroom. She laughed and kicked vigorously as he tried to take off her stockings. “Nothing to worry about tonight!” she cried. “Make as much noise as you want!” She beat him with pillows, laughed and squealed like a little girl. Again David was impressed by the fact that for Mona sex was nothing but a violent, super-urgent release. She was like the young animals he had seen on the poorhouse farm. When the great urge was upon them neither fences nor barns could restrain them, and when the act was completed they stood in shadows, lowing softly. There was something wild and glorious in those animals, and much of that primitive grandeur Mona exhibited that night when she returned from the shower and sat with a towel about her shoulders, fixing her hair. She took infinite pains with each wastrel lock at the back of her neck.
“Does it look right, Dave?” she asked, turning her head this way and that.
“It looks heavenly,” David replied drowsily.
Mona laughed merrily. “Hair’s very important for a girl.”
“I’m sure it is,” David grunted.
She continued combing her hair and said, “I’m trying out a couple of new styles. Did you notice? I’ll bet you’d never guess why. When I was in Chicago two men flew there to see me. Guess from where? From Hollywood! They took pictures of me until the lipstick melted. I must have kissed one of the fellows in our troupe a hundred times. I knew when they were going to take the profiles, so I asked to be excused and got my other brassiere. You know, the one I told you about. Well, I put that one on, Dave, and when I came back one of the men laughed and said, ‘You’re not so dumb, baby!’ But I made out I didn’t understand. I saw the shots, Dave. I don’t want to boast … My God, I’ve got my fingers crossed until they hurt. But honestly, the shots did look wonderful. Really they did, Dave. One of the men said, ‘You take shots like a professional,’ and I said I’d been planning them for eleven years. Then he said, ‘I’m not president of the company, but I think you’re in!’ That’s just what he said, Dave. I don’t want to gloat, because maybe I’m to be the heartbroken one, but I think I’m going to get a contract. Even if it’s only a small part! What if it is, Dave? All a real actress needs is one chance.” She did not look at the bed on which David lay, but speaking very softly she said, “I’m no fool, Dave. I’ve always known I needed someone like you. With Klim I was all tied up inside. I loved him and I was grateful to him, but that’s not enough. I knew it during the tests. Dave, I was like a queen. So sure of myself! I wasn’t afraid of anything, because I knew my body was no longer important. I could make it move about as I commanded. And you helped. If it had still been Klim I would have been uncertain and afraid. Please, Dave! Don’t think of me as conceited. I’m not. But I’ve wanted this for so long.” She began to cry, softly, and pulled the towel about her naked body. Then slowly she discovered that David was asleep, that he had heard nothing of what she had said; but she would not fully acknowledge this, and so, still not looking at the bed, she continued whispering: “You understand, Dave, that in a test they have real movie cameras. And the make-up is lots heavier than on the stage. I looked in the mirror when I was finally ready, and I was like a queen. Maybe the part won’t be much, but all a girl really needs … If she’s got talent, that is … All she needs is to get her foot in the door …”
The next morning when David left Klementi’s apartment he walked down Walnut Street, and at Forty-ninth he was aware that a long, black Packard had drawn up to the curb beside him. “Psssst, kid!” a quick, eager voice called. David looked into the sleek car and saw Max Volo.
“Hello, Max,” he said.
“Some car, eh?” the little fellow asked. In front rode a driver and a guard. Two extra guards rode in back. Max sat in the middle, well dressed and with his hair pasted down. He wore an extravagant diamond on his left hand. “Well,” he said expansively, waving the diamond, “I should be doing all right. I’m paying protection like you never dreamed.” Then he smiled self-consciously and added, “You no doubt read about it in the papers.”
“I see the headlines,” David replied.
“You!” Max commanded one of his guards. “Fix that seat for the kid.”
The big guard pulled down a folding seat, and somewhat reluctantly David eased himself into the expensive car. The guard asked, “This the kid from the Park?”
“You bet he is!” Volo cried warmly. “See, kid? I tell everybody about you. About how you was a great star in basketball and all that stuff. He goes to college, too.”
“Where you go, kid?” the guard asked.
“Dedham.”
“Hmmmm. My brother he goes to Temple.”
“Keep your mouth shut!” Volo commanded roughly. “This kid don’t have to cheat to pass his exams. Do you, kid? But what I never forget about you, never so long as I live, was when them girls was caught in the fire. You woulda gone right in, wouldn’t you? That’s what I call bravery. I never forget that!” The little man spoke approvingly of that far-off day. It was apparently much more vivid in his mind than in David’s.
“That’s why I was glad to see you just now,” Volo continued. “Kid, you need any money?”
“No,” David replied.
“You need any books or stuff like that? You studyin’ to b
e a doctor?”
“I don’t need anything, Max.”
“Well, if you ever do … Say, listen. How about a girl? You got a steady girl?”
“Well …”
“Just what I thought!” Max cried. “You quiet guys don’t know nothin’. You remember Betty? The one with the gold tooth in front? Well, I never forget a friend. Betty has a very swell house on Race Street. Any time you find you need a girl drop around and see Betty. She often speaks of you. Say … Even better! How you like to come up to the hills with me some week-end? I can get you a girl, you’ll think she’s a movie star!” Quickly he flashed from his inner coat pocket photographs of four girls. They were posed as before, but they were much more beautiful than Nora. “This one,” Max said approvingly. “She’d go for you. She’s crazy about college men. Went to school herself, somewhere.”
Max insisted that David take the girl’s picture, but David grinned and handed it back. “OK!” Max said. “You can drink milk if you like. Because I know that when the chips was down …” He winked happily at his former cashier. “Boy! Did we rape Paradise Park! Kid, do you ever think back on them days?”
Made sentimental by his memories of the old days, Volo impulsively pulled out a roll of bills. He ripped off a hundred-dollar note and stuffed it in David’s pocket. “Remember!” he said. “Any time you want something from me, it’s OK.”
The big car hummed sedately down Walnut Street, as if it were carrying a banker to work, and David felt the hundred dollars in his pocket. Quickly he turned and ran back to the apartment. Mona was in shorts, exercising to keep her hips slim. Awkwardly David thrust Max Volo’s bill into her hand. “You may need this,” he said.
Mona looked at the money and a lovely, relaxed smile possessed her face. “I don’t need money from you, Dave,” she said softly. “I know college kids need dough. You keep it. But when you’re a big name I may come around for help. Let’s wait till then.”
“But didn’t you say something last night about going to have a screen test? Won’t you need lots of clothes and things for that?” He smiled at the actress in great embarrassment. “I could never be happier, Mary,” he said. “I mean, Mona, than if you become a great person!” He looked away from her and said rapidly, “I dream of your success, Mona. You’re bound to be wonderful. So won’t you please let me help you … Even a little bit, on your first test?”
“I’ve already …” Mona began. Then she stopped and took the hundred-dollar bill. “All right,” she said. “For luck.” She kissed him on the nose and said he was a dear and that one of these days he’d grow up and wouldn’t be a dear any longer. Then she shoved him out the door and back to college.
As it is for most able boys, college was an intellectual disappointment to David. With Doc Chisholm gone, only Tschilczynski imbued him with any fire, yet David had already decided not to be a mathematician. The other courses were dreadful. Freshman English had been hopelessly dull. History was pedantic and French sodden. But for the abominable science there was no excuse. Botany and zoology were art courses. No attempt was made to explain the coldly passionate development of life. No great principles were established, nor was the mystery of mutation expounded. No! In morning classes all living cells were classified and in afternoon laboratory periods the same cells were drawn in neat circles and well-spaced dots. David passed his science courses because in geometry he had learned to draw. His precise art work was copied by at least twenty students, each of whom also passed. In an age when science was about to assume command of human destiny the students of Dedham were taught to despise the subject. Along with future Congressmen, editors, business men, and voting housewives, David generated intense disgust for science. It seemed—and was—a trivial, wasteful, unimaginative study, fit only for drones.
Nor was David able to lose himself in basketball, as he had done in high school. The college game was too fast for him, and with many tall, aggressive players available the coach would have been foolish to waste his time with a dead-eye forward who hogged the ball and held back when the game got rough. David was eleventh man on the freshman team, but did not even make the squad in his sophomore year. He therefore felt a twinge of deep disappointment when he read about Harry Moomaugh at Swarthmore. Harry was now six feet tall and a rugged man. He was a star guard, and in the Dedham-Swarthmore game scored eleven points. David did not bother to go to the game.
College would therefore have been a failure for David had not, throughout America, a group of thoughtful men been pondering the future of American education. They saw that most colleges failed to educate the gifted student who did not fit exactly into patterns. At Dedham, Doc Chisholm spurred the introspection by saying to the open faculty: “This yere college is takin’ money under false pretenses! Yore students simply cannot think! Even bright lads like yore Mr. Harper. He’s picked up a fair stock of stray knowledge, but he’s got no critical faculties. What’s a college for?”
The head of science rebelled at such iconoclasm. “Dedham turns out solid young men,” he snorted. “My graduates do top work at Harvard and M.I.T. And who’s this Chisholm, anyway?” he demanded. “I looked him up! Why, he doesn’t even have a Ph.D. They call him Doc because he used to medicine horses on a ranch! The man’s a fraud!”
There was embarrassed laughter over Dedham’s having accepted a gittar-playing horse doctor. Wretched teachers like the head of science—who year after year methodically killed intelligence—took solace in the fact that they had Ph.D.’s whereas Doc Chisholm didn’t. By giggling at the disruptive Texan they avoided reviewing their own incompetence.
“We don’t need prescriptions from a horse doctor!” they chuckled. “A good, average education. That’s what our students need.” And that’s what American college students got.
But a few determined scholars at Dedham fought the mediocrities and finally established a system of Readings. David was elected to join the experiment and the toothy dean talked with him for more than an hour. “Both Tschilczynski and Chisholm nominated you,” he explained. “You’re not forced to accept, because what we propose is frankly a risk. For two years you’ll have no classes and no examinations. You’ll read and argue with professors and write papers. At the end of two years we’ll invite eminent scholars from other colleges and universities to test you. Good luck!”
David was surprised at the difference Readings made. Twice a week he visited his professor and argued for several hours. He came away rededicated and worked long hours over many books, culling information for essays which he wrote on diverse subjects. He was becoming a scholar.
And what a change that was! Now his Dedham professors had to explain things, for they knew that when he was examined they would be examined, too. Now there was no posing, for the professors were eager to share all they knew; and for the first time David began to appreciate the fine and polished minds his small college contained.
He was somewhat ashamed when he had to designate the fields in which he would read. He knew that Dr. Tschilczynski would be hurt, but he nevertheless thought of Klementi Kol’s arguments before the Rembrandt, and he put down: “English and History.” He fell particularly under the spell of the tumultuous Tudor period. He spent months exploring the fascinating fabric of that rich age: Francis, Carlos Quinto, Maximilian, Suleiman the Magnificent, Walsingham, and the Fuggers; but always as he read of the cruel devices by which England became a national state, he thought: “That’s the way America is now. We’re only just beginning, too!”
Finally David had to face Dr. Tschilczynski, and to his surprise the giant Russian did not berate him. “You likink very much Chaucer?” the mathematician inquired.
“Very much,” David replied with embarrassment.
“You givink up the idea, mathematigs, yes?”
David looked up at the big man who had been so good a friend. “I guess so,” he said.
“You lookink like you’re all mixed up wid people, yes?” Tschilczynski continued.
“Yes,” Davi
d replied. He wanted to blurt out that Doc Chisholm and Klementi Kol had seduced him from the rigid path of mathematics. He wanted to say proudly: “I’m dedicating myself to the study of great books and the passions that are imprisoned within them,” but the words sounded phony, and he could not say them.
But the Russian could speak. He tapped his head vigorously. “All day I workink on nuclear physics. I got one good headache!” David noticed that Tschilczynski’s moustache was longer now and drooped a bit. The scar was more pallid and he was becoming noticeably round shouldered. Finally he banged his head twice and said, “Is wery good bright young men start to study human beinks. Soon we rewolutionize the world of science. We profit greatly from a rewolution in human relationships.”
Four days later he showed David a telegram from Chicago. With considerable embarrassment to himself, Tschilczynski had arranged for the graduate scholarship in math to be changed into one for English. David felt extremely humble when he saw the telegram and tried to express his appreciation, but the Russian would have none of it. “Is nothink!” he insisted. “What is any sugzessful scholar? A monument to the love some older scholar had for him. What I have arranged for you! The dean says is OK you keep up a minor in mathematics. I teach you on the side.”
And that was the meaning of Readings! The hard work, the long papers, the arguments, the conflict with adult minds, the symphony tickets, the art galleries, the laboratories, but most of all that sense that had pervaded every decent university since the days of Athens: the fellowship of able and high-thinking spirits.
The more that people did to help David—like Tschilczynski and the graduate scholarship—the more disturbed he became about his own treatment of Klementi Kol. Now, when he was with Mona, they took Uncle Klim for granted: a kindly musician who fortunately had to take long trips. But when David was alone in the observatory he could not keep his mind from Kol. It was all very well for Mona to laugh at Klim’s remarks on honor, but in his Readings David found repeatedly that it has been the strong men of the world and not the weaklings who have stood—at last—upon the grounds of honor. And he, at twenty, had surrendered that strange and precious commodity. Then the shocking Case of the Assy Nude reminded David of what honor was.