Tutors' Lane

  XI

  On the morning following the final lecture Tom woke early, and his mindflew to the miracle of the preceding night. He was now ablaze withNancy! It was a dazzling business, but when had it happened? It had notbeen as though he had gazed too boldly into the sun and had fallen down,blinded by the light of it. It had, to date, been altogether painless.He had seen Nancy in various situations, some of them pleasant, some ofthem trying. He had liked the way she had met them; and then it dawnedupon him that her behaviour was consistently good; and next he knew thatit would always be so. This was a stupendous discovery, the more sosince he was not aware of any such consistency in his own character. Hadhe not learned in elementary physics that unlike poles attract oneanother? He could even now picture a diagram in the book showing thehearty plus pole in happy affinity with the retiring minus pole, afigure which proved the thing beyond a doubt. Science, when made toserve as handmaiden to the arts, has its uses, after all, and Tom tookcomfort in its present service.

  Still, Nancy wasn't "cut and dried"; it would be a grave injustice toimagine her so. She was consistent in an ever new and charming way; shenever obtruded her consistency. One would almost certainly never bebored with her; and yet one could depend upon her through thick andthin. He thought of the way the crew on a ferry boat throw their ropesover the great piles as they make fast in the slip. Nancy was such apile--but what an odious figure! He thought of her face as he had firstseen it on the night of the Vernal, when, slightly flushed and smilinglyexpectant, she had peered into the costume closet. A couplet floated outof Freshman English into his mind--something about a countenance whichhad in it sweet records and promises as sweet. He jumped out of bed toverify it, and found:

  "A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet."

  He read on:

  "A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food, For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles."

  There was one more verse, and the last two couplets covered everything.

  "A perfect Woman, nobly planned To warm, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of an angel-light."

  He turned the book down, open at this point, and resolved to memorizethose lines.

  His youth and playtime had now left him for good. The time forhalf-hearted or three-quarters-hearted attempts to forge ahead wereover. He had pledged his heart and shortly hoped to pledge his hand inthe service of the loveliest young lady in the world, none less. Atpresent he was only a young instructor; of promise, perhaps, but stillunproved. The immediate goal in his academic career was an AssistantProfessorship; and although, even under the most favourablecircumstances, it would probably be a matter of at least three yearsbefore he got it, nevertheless he could at least make it plain that hewas indubitably on the way to it, and that (giddy thought) he was evenof the stuff that Full Professors are made on! And no time should belost before this were shown. Dressing feverishly, he corrected someslightly overdue test papers; and when he appeared at breakfast hislandlady's three other guests noted the spirit in his bearing andcommented upon it when he left.

  There was to be a meeting of the Freshman English Department in theafternoon, and Tom found himself looking eagerly forward to it. He hadno idea of the business that was coming up, but he was going to beextremely keen-eyed and watchful about it, whatever it was. The littleslump which he had allowed to creep into his work recently was over. Hewondered if any of his colleagues had noticed it, and in particular hewondered if Professor Dawson, Head of the Department, had noticed it.

  Professor Dawson was Tom's beau ideal of all that a universityinstructor should be. Tom had had him when in college, had takeneverything that he taught; and he looked back upon the hours spent athis feet as among the best of his whole life. To teach like that was tobe doing something indeed; and it was the picture of himself givingformal lectures in the Dawsonian manner that had finally led him intoteaching. That Tom should have imitated as best he could the Dawsonianmanner and method was, therefore, inevitable, but it none the lessexposed him to the smiles of the Department. A member of it, a ProfessorFurbush, found occasion to refer to the Johnsonian anecdote anent spratstalking like whales; and, Tom hearing of it, there was brought intobeing one of the enmities which add zest to collegiate existence.Professor Dawson was a young man to be so celebrated, being only somefifteen years older than Tom himself. He was, of course, a FullProfessor--the only Full Professor in Freshman English.

  Next in rank to him in the Department was Mr. Brainerd, a gentleman whowas nearly as much Professor Dawson's senior as Dawson was Tom's. Mr.Brainerd was, however, only an Assistant Professor, and it was nowunderstood by all that he would never be anything higher. Fifteen yearsago when he produced his chef-d'oeuvre on Smollett his hopes had runhigh. At that time his fate hung in the balance. He could no longer beregarded as one of the "younger men," and his status was to bedetermined once and for all. The crowning glory of a Full Professorshipcould only go to one who had made some significant contribution to hissubject. Would _Tobias Smollett_ be that? Into it had gone all thatBrainerd could give, and it had, after a brief and generally indifferentappearance in the reviews, dropped out of sight. Then it was recognizedthat good old Burt Brainerd would have to putter through life as best hecould. Mr. Brainerd felt no particular bitterness about it, certainly nobitterness towards the College. He had been disappointed in hispublisher. He should have gone to Beeson, Pancoast with it; instead ofto Trull. Trull hadn't pushed it at all: they merely announced it with astring of books on very dull subjects. Then, too, they had used a cursedsmall type. He had protested against this and had been told that alarger type would have made it much more expensive, would probably havenecessitated doing the work in two volumes. They had had the calmassurance to talk to him of expense when he had consented to waive hisroyalties on the first five hundred copies!--an exemption, by the way,which they had not yet succeeded in working off. Well, that had been hismain chance, and he now watched the rise of younger men with equanimity.And it must be confessed that he got a certain amount of cold comfortfrom the remembrance that on three several occasions good things hadcome to him from out of the west, and that he need not have remained"assistant" had he not elected to do so.

  Were it not for his wife, he might have become content. The library wasa strong one, particularly in his field, and what more delightful endfor a scholar than to browse at will in his period and write essays forthe literary magazines? But Mrs. Brainerd chafed. Not having been awoman of means or of any particular position, she had been somewhatself-conscious in mixing with the great ones of the place. She had, atlength, however, after a residence of nearly twenty years, decided thatto live so was nothing; and she had boldly called upon Mrs. RobertLee-Satterlee. She had found the great lady all charm and friendliness;but when, upon leaving, she had expressed the hope that Mrs. RobertLee-Satterlee might be inclined to return her call, Mrs. RobertLee-Satterlee had replied, "Thank you." "Is it 'Thank you, yes' or'Thank you, no'?" the rash woman had persisted. To which Mrs. RobertLee-Satterlee had bowed, "Well, since you insist, I'm afraid it willhave to be 'Thank you, no.'" Mr. Brainerd had felt the snub perhaps morethan his wife, although he was most convincing in reassuring her thatupon trying again, say with some one of the Whitman family, there wouldbe small danger of such a rebuff. Mrs. Brainerd, however, had not triedagain and had, with what stoicism she could command, resigned herself tothe path God had ordered for her feet. So Mr. Brainerd's end atWoodbridge was not a brilliant one, but he did not shrink or cry aloud,and it was generally recognized that dear old Burt Brainerd was a goodsport.

  The other Assistant Professor in Freshman English has already beenmentioned--Jerome Furbush. He was a young man, a classmate of HenryWhitman, and rather intimate in consequence. He was, quite decidedly, astriking figure. Whereas the average member of the Faculty might havebeen taken for an ordinary business man in his working clothes, F
urbushwas obviously a man of temperament. Tall and lean, he had allowed hisbeard to grow into something of patriarchal proportions, or, moreexactly, into one of those healthy spade-like growths which the Frenchknow so well how to develop. That it was a rich red only added to itsdistinction, and to his. He was noted for being a hard worker and a wit,but feeling about him was sharply divided. One could not be neutral;either one hailed him as a prophet and seer, or one hated him as anabandoned cynic, a vicious and arbitrary egoist whose presence in thecommunity was a menace. There appeared to be evidence in support ofeither view. It was true that the Dean's office was frequently absorbedby problems of his making. He had a weakness, to illustrate, for callinghis students liars and cheats upon, frequently, tenuous evidence; andthe discussions that ensued were never amiable. On the other hand, acertain number of the most promising men in the class were invariablydrawn to him and, taking up his battles, defended him against alldetractors. The Permanent Officers had to admit that he got "results,"but they shook their heads. Jerome Furbush was notoriously a "case."

  Phil Meyers, instructor, had been graduated from a small western collegeand had taken his Ph.D. at a large eastern university. He was what isknown as a "monographist," a thesis-writer; and it had become apparentto all that he was not long for the Woodbridge world. Word hadrepeatedly come through the somewhat devious channels of informationthat he was "no good." His classes were doing shockingly bad work andthey were articulate in their disapproval of him. The coming June wouldclose his first appointment, and it had been tactfully broken to himthat he need not expect another.

  Such was the personnel of the meeting in Mr. Dawson's office.

  "I have called you together today, gentlemen," said Mr. Dawson after thepreliminary pleasantries, "to consider the advisability of changing ourcourse next year. It has been brought to my attention that there hasbeen some criticism of the course as it now stands. Although," hecontinued, gazing at the blotter before him, "I could have wished thatthis criticism might have been made first to me, rather than havereached me indirectly, I am grateful for it at any time and welcome thisopportunity for discussing it."

  The air had become electrified. Everyone understood that the criticismreferred to had come from only one source, Furbush, and that Dawson wasadministering to him a public rebuke. Dawson remained staring at hisblotter when he finished, and there was complete silence for severalseconds. "Well?" he asked, raising his eyes. "Don't hesitate, gentlemen.Although the course is largely of my making at present, there is noreason why it should remain so, and I'm sure no one will welcome animprovement more than I." Another pause. "Come, Jerry, won't you leadthe discussion?"

  Furbush, who seemed to be waiting to be thus addressed, rather than topresume to take the floor from his superior, Mr. Brainerd, smiledcharmingly. "I should frankly wish," he said, "that the discussion beopened by one of you gentlemen, for I feel that my judgment in such amatter is possibly not of much value. I confess that I am not in as warmsympathy as any of you"--by singling out Meyers at this point he lent aquietly insulting tone to his remarks--"with the present course. Were itleft to me, I should do away with Wordsworth, substituting, possibly,Swinburne. I have sometimes wondered if we weren't underestimating thepotential strength of the Freshman's mind by feeding him on too muchpap. By the same token I am inclined to think that I should drop Carlyleand Hawthorne for Matthew Arnold and, perhaps, Cardinal Newman."(Furbush was a High Churchman of a militant dye.) "What I should, ofcourse, do would be to divide the present first term between Spenser andMilton, instead of giving it all to Shakespeare." This last was saiddirectly to Dawson. It had been Mr. Dawson's particular joy that hecould give one whole term to Shakespeare.

  Tom was sitting keen-eyed and alert, but it would obviously be madnessworse confounded to risk a contribution to this discussion, which wasfor Titans only. But he was thrilled by the duel before him, even thoughthe outcome was never in doubt, since a show of hands would give aunanimous vote to Dawson whatever the issue. Mr. Dawson, however,declined the gage of battle altogether. He apparently merely wishedFurbush to make public confession of the iniquity that was in him; andafter noting out loud the changes recommended, he abruptly closed themeeting.

  "Well, Jerry, we shall think over what you have said, and a week fromtoday we'd better get together again and act on it. At that time, too, Iwish you people would come prepared with your questions for the finalexamination paper." He looked around pleasantly at the little group. "Iguess that will be all today," he said.

  Tom had been nothing but a spectator at that meeting; but after the nexthe emerged radiant. The discussion of the first one had taken only a fewminutes. It happened that Mr. Furbush was not able to be present; and itwas announced incidentally, that he had been transferred to SophomoreEnglish. Of his proposed changes nothing had been said, although anotherchange was made. It appeared that Mr. Dawson had been teaching _TheWinter's Tale_ for the past six years and that he wished theDepartment's permission to drop it for _Cymbeline_. Mr. Dawson explainedthat he was getting a little stale on _The Winter's Tale_, and thechange was hurriedly made.

  What an object lesson was this for the keen-eyed young instructor! Onthe one hand was the Scylla of Mr. Brainerd and on the other was theCharybdis of Mr. Furbush. Lucky was he who could sail safely past thetwo; and he was a wise young instructor who determined to follow in theDawsonian wake.

  The final examination paper was then discussed; and Tom, who had comefully prepared and was extremely wide-awake, had contributed the "spot"passage in Wordsworth in its entirety--the couplet,

  "A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet,"

  was included--and he had, furthermore, lent a most constructive hand inthe framing of the Carlyle-transcendental question--a performance whichhe retailed to Mrs. Norris at the earliest moment, and which made theAssistant Professorship and Nancy seem definitely within his grasp.