Emerald Aisle (6 page)
Phil might have been flattered when Primero vetoed notifying the police. “I don't want publicity. I have every confidence in your ability to retrieve what has been taken.”
“Is your library insured?”
Incredibly, it was not. “No money could compensate for the loss of the collection. I could not replace it. I entrust it to Providence.”
“God permits evil to happen,” Roger said.
Primero nodded, as if this was an endorsement of his views.
Phil advised Primero to change the locks on the doors of the Lake of the Isles home. Primero understood immediately and
clearly accepted the implied accusation. Roger and Philip flew home first class to Chicago and took a commuter to South Bend. Phil had the sense of being toyed with. He had grown skeptical that a theft had occurred, a real theft.
clearly accepted the implied accusation. Roger and Philip flew home first class to Chicago and took a commuter to South Bend. Phil had the sense of being toyed with. He had grown skeptical that a theft had occurred, a real theft.
“Can a wife steal from her husband?”
“It doesn't matter if he chooses not to bring in the police.”
The day after their return, Roger gave Father Carmody a report of what had transpired in the Twin Cities.
“A woman scorned?” Father Carmody asked.
“Both Primeros said they had no children.”
“None living,” the priest said.
“Ah.”
A son had died while Joseph was in the navy. Roger had the sense that they blamed one another for the loss. It seemed significant that she had referred to his books as her husband's children.
“He never got over it,” the priest said. “Neither of them did.”
A MYSTERIOUS PACKAGE ARRIVED at the Notre Dame Archives, brought by Federal Express, and Greg Whelan signed for it. What is more enticing than a newly arrived package, its contents undisclosed and mysterious? Greg lifted the cardboard container in his hands as on a scale; it was not light though not as heavy as he might have wished, whatever it contained. He shook it, carefully, but no sound fed his excited imagination. He got up from his desk and closed the door of his office.
The sender was Primero and although the package was not addressed to him, simply to “Archives, Notre Dame, Indiana.” Greg worked in the Archives. He was, in fact, assistant director, but this was a title held by several others as well. One of the sacred perks of the director was to open or supervise the opening of any such package as this, and Wendy was rightly jealous of her prerogatives. As it happened she was at the moment enjoying a long lunch in the University Club, trying to get a clearer picture of the future location of the Archives from an enigmatic administrator. In the circumstances, it seemed to Greg Whelan that he had not only a right but an obligation to open the package.
When he had done so, slowly, following the instructions on the colorful container, and got his first glimpse of the contents, he rose as if in reverence. Was it possible? He slid the ancient pages from the container onto his desk, and there before his eyes were holograph letters written by Cardinal Newman himself. More accurately
the drafts of which fair copies had been sent. Without touching them, using the eraser ends of several pencils as instruments, he arranged them on his desk and stared down reverently at the handwriting of John Henry Cardinal Newman. It was a breathless moment. He was suddenly filled with that feeling captured in the scholastic maxim
bonum est diffusivum sui.
He wanted to share the moment, let other eyes than his own enjoy the vision of this treasure that had dropped unexpectedly from the sky. A fellow worker in the Archives? He shook the thought away as he reached for the phone. Who better than Roger Knight could appreciate what had arrived at the Archives?
the drafts of which fair copies had been sent. Without touching them, using the eraser ends of several pencils as instruments, he arranged them on his desk and stared down reverently at the handwriting of John Henry Cardinal Newman. It was a breathless moment. He was suddenly filled with that feeling captured in the scholastic maxim
bonum est diffusivum sui.
He wanted to share the moment, let other eyes than his own enjoy the vision of this treasure that had dropped unexpectedly from the sky. A fellow worker in the Archives? He shook the thought away as he reached for the phone. Who better than Roger Knight could appreciate what had arrived at the Archives?
Roger did not answer his office phone, and Greg chose not to leave a recorded message. He called the apartment of the Knight brothers and was told by Philip that Roger was on campus. Despite the difficulty with which he got around, Roger could be anywhere. And then, scarcely believing his ears, he heard Roger's voice outside his door. He sprang across the office and pulled open his door, startling Roger Knight who was about to knock.
“I have been trying to reach you. Come in, come in.”
Inside, with the door closed, Greg led his visitor to his own desk chair, the only one remotely capable of containing the Huneker Chair of Catholic Studies. Roger settled into the chair, by stages, and then looked expectantly at Greg. The archivist pointed wordlessly at what lay upon his desk, and soon Roger was leaning over them. He did touch one of the letters, as one might touch a first-class relic. Then he looked up at Greg and spoke softly. “How did you come into possession of these?”
Greg handed him the FedEx envelope in which the items had arrived. This was not at all the reaction he had hoped for. Roger studied the package. He put a pudgy index finger on the sender's
name, Primero. Just Primero. But the address was in Highland Village, Saint Paul.
name, Primero. Just Primero. But the address was in Highland Village, Saint Paul.
“These are from the Primero Collection, Greg.”
“Why would he have sent these now?”
“Greg, he has reported a theft.”
Greg reacted as to a blasphemy. Roger promised him a full account. For the present, he suggested that Greg record the reception of the package and itemize its contents, then leave it on Wendy's desk. Meanwhile the two of them would go off and ponder the mystery.
Roger, Greg learned, had been with Phil to Minneapolis, summoned by Primero in their guise as detectives, where they had been told of missing items from the Primero Collection.
“He suspects Waldo Hermes.”
Greg found this preposterous and said so. He had been working closely, if electronically, with Waldo Hermes ever since the decision had been made by Primero that the eventual destination of his Newman Collection was the Notre Dame Archives. Greg had recognized in Waldo the essential mark of the custodian of treasures amassed by another but destined for the common good. Daily traffic with such priceless collectibles strengthened the instinctive belief that they belonged to everyone, not to one alone. They were part of the common patrimony destined to be available, in principle, to all. From patron, to private collector, to museum or archiveâthat was the trajectory described by items destined to play a role in the common culture. To be a custodian was to be a trustee of the race, present and future; and in his dealings with Waldo Hermes, Greg Whelan had recognized a kindred spirit. To steal items in one's care was tantamount to seeking to appropriate the common air that all must breathe. Theft was unthinkable. Theft suggested that the common
could be private property. The Maecenas, the private collector, eventually came to realize this himself. But for the custodian it was a self-evident principle.
could be private property. The Maecenas, the private collector, eventually came to realize this himself. But for the custodian it was a self-evident principle.
“Of course this can hardly be regarded as theft if someone sent them to their intended eventual destination.”
“It seems to have been Mrs. Primero who sent them.”
“Even so.”
Greg was glad that it was Roger he had informed of the receipt of these priceless items. Whatever shenanigans in Minneapolis explained the surprising and premature transfer of these items from the Primero Collection, it was important that the university and the Archivesâas well as his own reputationânot be tainted.
“I think I understand what happened,” Roger said.
“Which is?”
“I want to talk to my brother first.”
“It seems a kind of joke.”
“Yes, but on whom?”
After Roger left, Greg kept the treasure for a time, once more laying out on his desk the letters written in a hand familiar to the archivist because he had seen so many reproductions of it. But he had never before seen an actual holograph, the very page the cardinal had had before him and on which he had formed those inky words, fully legible now a century and a half later. These of course were first drafts, fair copies of which would have been made and posted. The amount of time spent on correspondence then, the need to draft and then copy, involved much labor-intensive effort. In an age when the mere tapping of fingers sufficed to bring upon the monitor a string of words, the whole corrigible in a quince, the approved version printed out simply by pressing a key, the method Newman and others had to use seemed at once both primitive and more personal. How much more thoughtful a letter must have have
been under those circumstances than when one's fingers flew across the keys and then flashed the result across the telephone wires. Multiple exchanges between E-mail correspondents could take place in the course of a few minutes. It was doubtful that any such message would retain any literary interest. The process had become merely functional. But a nineteenth-century letter was a work of art, roughed out first and then polished, the better to express the thought and feeling of its author. Newman had dedicated hours of each day to his correspondence. And here on Greg Whelan's desk were a few items of the mountain of letters Newman had written, the printed volumes of which marched across the library shelves.
been under those circumstances than when one's fingers flew across the keys and then flashed the result across the telephone wires. Multiple exchanges between E-mail correspondents could take place in the course of a few minutes. It was doubtful that any such message would retain any literary interest. The process had become merely functional. But a nineteenth-century letter was a work of art, roughed out first and then polished, the better to express the thought and feeling of its author. Newman had dedicated hours of each day to his correspondence. And here on Greg Whelan's desk were a few items of the mountain of letters Newman had written, the printed volumes of which marched across the library shelves.
One of the letters was to Orestes Brownson, on the occasion of his negative review of
An Essay on the Development of Christian Doctrine;
there were several to an editor in Ireland. But there were two letters that particularly fascinated Whelan, the first addressed to Gerard Manley Hopkins.
An Essay on the Development of Christian Doctrine;
there were several to an editor in Ireland. But there were two letters that particularly fascinated Whelan, the first addressed to Gerard Manley Hopkins.
Hopkins was one of those who had become a Roman Catholic under the influence of Newman and then entered the Jesuit order, ultimately assigned to teach in Dublin where some of his most anguished poems had been penned. Newman's letter to the young man antedated all that of course, and neither correspondent could have known what lay ahead. Whelan had a sudden image of the condition of man, whether by thought or deed or writing, pushing against the membrane of the present in search of a glimpse of what the future held, the future that soon enveloped one by becoming the present and pointing beyond itself to a further future. At whatever pace one livedâthe seemingly glacial pace of the nineteenth-century correspondent or the computer speed of the presentâthe image was fundamentally the same. We move like a cursor across the page of time ⦠.
Greg Whelan felt an impulse to write that down. Once he had
longed to be a poet, but he had never succeeded in separating himself from the academic world. Having gained a doctorate in English, his speech impairment, in the contemporary phraseâhe stutteredâhad precluded employment. Interview after interview ended with Greg trying to stammer an answer to a question asked by a member of the interviewing committee. He had gone to law school in the mad hope that therapy and determination would loosen his tongue so that he might become a master of forensic oratory. But he was as incapable of public speech at the end of law school as he had been in the beginning. In near despair he had trained as a librarian and, as if God had intended it all along, was hired as an archivist at Notre Dame. Here he had been ever since, his contentment with his lot immeasurably increased when Roger Knight was appointed Huneker Chair of Catholic Studies. The two men became friends, linked by many intellectual interests. But there still lurked in the breast of Gregory Whelan the ambition to be a poet. And here was a letter addressed by Newman to one of Greg's favorite poets.
longed to be a poet, but he had never succeeded in separating himself from the academic world. Having gained a doctorate in English, his speech impairment, in the contemporary phraseâhe stutteredâhad precluded employment. Interview after interview ended with Greg trying to stammer an answer to a question asked by a member of the interviewing committee. He had gone to law school in the mad hope that therapy and determination would loosen his tongue so that he might become a master of forensic oratory. But he was as incapable of public speech at the end of law school as he had been in the beginning. In near despair he had trained as a librarian and, as if God had intended it all along, was hired as an archivist at Notre Dame. Here he had been ever since, his contentment with his lot immeasurably increased when Roger Knight was appointed Huneker Chair of Catholic Studies. The two men became friends, linked by many intellectual interests. But there still lurked in the breast of Gregory Whelan the ambition to be a poet. And here was a letter addressed by Newman to one of Greg's favorite poets.
Another letter was to Anthony Trollope, written in August 1875, concerning the depiction of the Catholic priest, Father Barham, in
The Way We Live Now.
Newman had much praise for the novel but took umbrage at charges against the priesthood that he himself had faced from Charles Kingsley and had answered in the
Apologia.
The novel was one in which Trollope lamented the conditions of the time, and with few exceptions, the characters represented the decline of standards of morality as well as common courtesy. Newman acknowledged that but hoped that Trollope would reconsider his view that the Roman clergy were shady types for whom the end justified the means.
The Way We Live Now.
Newman had much praise for the novel but took umbrage at charges against the priesthood that he himself had faced from Charles Kingsley and had answered in the
Apologia.
The novel was one in which Trollope lamented the conditions of the time, and with few exceptions, the characters represented the decline of standards of morality as well as common courtesy. Newman acknowledged that but hoped that Trollope would reconsider his view that the Roman clergy were shady types for whom the end justified the means.
How he envied Waldo Hermes, who had access to such items as
these. Once he had considered Waldo a threat to his own job, but when Waldo came to campus with Primero, that fear was lifted.
these. Once he had considered Waldo a threat to his own job, but when Waldo came to campus with Primero, that fear was lifted.
Joseph Primero had brought his archivist to campus with him, and Wendy had arranged a meeting between the benefactor and a man named Hannan in the Office of Notre Dame Development. The topic was the proposed building that would house the Primero Collection. It was this that had filled Greg Whelan with apprehension. He was sure that the university would parlay the need for an adequate setting for Primero's books into a new building large enough to accommodate the entire university archival holdings. And what if Waldo Hermes was included in the package?
Whelan's speech impediment would have made him useless at the meeting, even if he had been asked, as he had not. How easy it was to imagine Wendy offering him up in sacrifice for the generous gift of Joseph Primero. Even if Hermes was brought in simply to care for the Primero things and Whelan retained for other lesser work in the Archives, it would be the dashing of hopes that had been nurtured for years.
“My fate is in the balance,” Whelan had said to Roger Knight at the time. They were lunching in the University Club, whose acoustics had the properties of Saint Paul's in London, a whisper audible across the room, a shout all but inaudible across the table. Greg's stammer mysteriously left him whenever he conversed with Roger Knight, as if the professor's colossal weight balanced out his own impediment.
“How so?”
“Primero's custodian could be part of the deal.”
“That would be cruel.”
“But it would make sense. He has been working with the collection for years. First hand.”
“But you expected to have it delivered into your hands.”
“No one promised me that.”
The morality of institutions is a topic worthy of inquiry. What would be a vice in an individual becomes accepted institutional practice. For a scholar to call attention to his own achievements, tout and trumpet them to the world, would be a cause for embarrassment among his colleagues, a clear flaw of character. But universities have huge bureaucracies dedicated to just such trumpeting. The faculty is required to send in lists of grants, publications, talks and presentations, and these are collectively shouted to the four winds by the university's Office of Public Relations and Information. Was it the public as opposed to private that was thought to justify such vanity?
A theory that Roger had encountered among colleagues who shared his own surprise at the university's practice of publicizing the achievements of its faculty was that this is the mark of an institution on the rise, one without confidence in its own worth. Why should it be taken almost as a surprise that members of the faculty wrote, that they were invited here and there because of what they knew? It was like the applause that sometimes burst out at the end of transatlantic flights, the passengers cheering for the successful landing. But the age of Lindbergh had long since passed. Arriving at its destination should not be a cause for surprise in an airliner. So too, a productive faculty should be a given, understood, not drawn attention to as if it were a prodigy.
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