The Groves of Academe: A Novel (Transaction Large Print Books) (5 page)

As Mulcahy had more than once said of her, she had the temperament and vocation of a
narodnika.
This was a girl, he estimated, who could very easily throw herself away. He had marked her out for his friendship at the beginning of the term, having watched her go through her paces at a departmental meeting, and sped straight home to describe her, like a man who knows horseflesh who has just clocked a maiden filly at a morning run on the track. His wife concurred in his judgment when he brought her back to supper, approved the girl’s bright eyes, willingness to help with the dishes, aptitude for mimicry of stuffy colleagues in the department, gratitude for being initiated into the inside workings of faculty politics, corroboration of Henry’s assessments of various key individuals, the librarian, the Gestalt psychologist, the secretary of the faculty, the little
Four Quartets
boy who squeaked “tradition” when you pressed him and would cut your throat in an instant for the advancement of Number One. It was not only the incisiveness of the girl’s mind that impressed both Mulcahys so forcibly but the directness of her heart and the current of vitality that ran through her, rare enough in anybody, but perfectly unbelievable at Jocelyn in one of “our” persuasion. Sound her as they would, they had, up to this morning, found nothing false or hollow in Domna; in politics, perhaps, she tended to use somewhat too simplistic an approach, following her compatriots, Tolstoy and Kropotkin; yet she rang true as steel on every immediate issue. The fact that the usual time-servers and trimmers on the campus, including even the wondrous Hoar, appeared to share their admiration put them a little on their guard, but so far they had seen nothing to indicate that these others knew the real Domna; and they laughed to think of what Maynard would think if he could guess what the real Domna thought of him.

Henry, as he hurriedly closed the transom and bolted the door behind him, while the girl’s eyes slowly dilated in wonder and misgiving, had no doubt, he told himself, of Domna’s immediate partisanship. The meals she had eaten in his house, the Canadian Club whiskey he had poured for her, in violation of his custom and budget (for Domna, as he and Catherine had quickly observed, liked to drink three little jiggers of neat whiskey before she ate her dinner), the small presents she was in the habit of bringing them—a dish of Russian kïssel with a white napkin over it, french
chansons
with pictures for the children, a small volume of Heine—the silver lent by Cathy for a party, the Christmas tree with real candles ordered by Domna from abroad, the movies seen, car borrowed, opinions matched, jokes shared, all reassured him of her fealty; she
could
not go back on this. Still, he felt a certain constraint and uneasiness as to where to begin, whether to tackle her first on the academic freedom issue, or to convince her at once of the imminent danger to Cathy, a danger which, only a few moments before, he had been so fuzzy-minded as to regard as merely hypothetical but which, now that he had faced up to it, should make everything else secondary.

And yet there were many, he thought vindictively, on this “liberal” campus who would suppose that Cathy’s condition was something cooked up by himself to ward off being dismissed without so much as a thank-you, many, indeed, not so far off at this moment—he shot a quick barb down the corridor in the direction of Howard Furness’ office—who would want a thorough medical report signed by an “impartial” physician, in fact a coroner’s inquest certifying the cause of death, before they would believe the simple clinical truth, just as, he presumed, they would have to see a Communist Party membership-card (produced by an F.B.I. agent) made out to Henry Mulcahy, before they would be willing to admit that his dismissal was a part of a campaign of organized terror in the universities against men of independent mind. But Domna, he reflected thankfully, was not one of these; she did not require a statistical analysis to see what was under her nose; moreover, as he happened to know, she had lost her mother under circumstances horribly similar to those in which Cathy now stood. That good lady, stigmatized by her family as a
malade imaginaire,
had died of typhoid on a freighter en route from Lisbon to Buenos Aires, so Domna’s aunt, her sister, had informed him, while he drove her around the campus to spell Domna, who was teaching a class; and the family, for a long time, she assured him, held Domna very much responsible, both for instigating the trip (“Why not put up with the Germans, I ask you, Mr. Mulhall?”) and for not calling the ship’s doctor sooner (“A girl of fifteen is for us already a woman, Mr. Mullaly, especially when she mixes in politics”). It did not need Freud’s insights or Madame Repina’s intimation (“A little nervous breakdown, you understand what I mean, eh?”) to sympathize with the youngster who carried such a memory about with her, a veritable nightmare of fantasied aggression and punishment, and to calculate that of all things in the world that Domna would not risk again, the death of an older woman would surely figure first.

Indeed, had there been anybody else to turn to whom he could count on as he could count on Domna, he would gladly have spared her these next moments, which might very well reactivate the traumatic experience; for, desperate and harried as he was, he did not deceive himself as to what Catherine meant to her, what their long morning talks and endless cups of black coffee had done to make Jocelyn habitable for this lonely, affection-starved child. (And the fact that Cathy had given herself always without stint, not ever letting Domna guess that her health was not up to such demands on it, would no doubt add a belated remorse to the poor girl’s other feelings.)

Silently, he took the letter from his breast pocket and handed it across the desk. While she unfolded it, he dropped into the side-chair still warm from the student’s bottom and affected to study his fingernails while watching her beneath his granulated lashes. Truth to tell, he was quite curious to trap her first reaction, not because he doubted her at all, but merely from professional interest: would Hoar’s move come as a surprise to a fellow-member of the teaching caste or had they all been quietly anticipating it while only he had been gulled? But the girl’s eyes, moving across the typescript, betrayed nothing, really. She turned white, he thought, for an instant, and then a light flush that might have been anger reddened her pointed cheekbones. “No!” she finally whispered in a shocked and scarified voice, as she passed the letter back to him—from which he was able to glean that rumors of his debts and generally poor prospects had reached her; she knew, then, that this was the end for Henry Mulcahy and Co. They sat and stared at each other without a word. Mechanically, she took a package of cigarettes from her smock pocket and offered it to him, as a warden offers a smoke to a condemned prisoner, and he silently waved it aside.

They heard the bell ring for the next class before she roused herself to speak and then she only said, absently, “When did you get it? This morning?” That she made no other inquiry struck him at once as peculiar. Was her mind already busy with the next step, with remedies and recourses, or had she somehow known all along? Had the department been consulted?
Was
it a departmental decision, taken without his knowledge? Could she, even, have concurred in it? “But appointments are not made until spring,” she suddenly objected, just as he was giving up hope of any spontaneous response from her. He drew a quick breath of satisfaction; she too, then, like himself, was simply stunned by the irregularity of these proceedings. Relieved, he decided to take the bull by the horns. “Domna,” he said, hurriedly, “I have something to tell you, in confidence. But first I must be able to trust you. Answer me honestly, is this the first word you have heard of this dismissal?” She nodded swiftly twice. “On my word of honor.” “There’s been no criticism of me in the department?” “Absolutely not. I swear it.” Her tone had grown very positive, yet he thought he had heard, deep down, a little wavering in it, as of some qualification quickly overridden…. He waited. A faint, lurking smile appeared at the corners of her lips. “Some think you go too far,” she murmured, “on the Buildings and Grounds question. Your scrambled eggs….” A crinkle of laughter was in her voice, half-apologetic, as if inviting him to join in this belittling view of his activities. He stiffened. “Who thinks this?” he demanded, eyes narrowing. Domna flushed. “All of us. No one in particular. I, if you want, for one.” Having made this confession, Domna obviously grew confused and began to let out more than she had intended. “But nobody,” she explained, “takes a strict view of it, not even Maynard.” Henry raised his eyebrows. “You’ve discussed it with him?” he cried. “Of course,” she answered, self-justificatory, and would plainly have said more but he raised his hand to forestall it—it was evident that the girl had betrayed him, but the point was academic now. He got up, thoughtfully, from his chair and strolled over to the window, his hands plunged into his pockets, and stared out over the snow.

“Domna,” he said, turning suddenly, “there’s something I have to tell you. Cathy is ill, dangerously ill. She doesn’t know it herself; nobody knows it but the doctor and myself and two other persons—Esther and Maynard Hoar.” The girl gave a frightened gasp and her hand flew out in sympathy; she half rose from her seat, as though to comfort him. But he held her off and commenced to pace rapidly up and down. “It’s a heart and kidney condition brought about by Stephen’s birth. Nothing that she won’t recover from, given freedom from worry. There’s low blood pressure too and a secondary anemia, a syndrome, as they call it, embracing the whole system.” Her lips moved tensely, following him; plainly, she was trying to relate the fearsome clinical terminology to the handsome, flesh-and-blood woman who was her friend, always eager to lay down mop or carpet-sweeper for a cosy cigarette or a final mid-morning cup of coffee. “The doctors agree,” he consoled her, “that a normal life, in the circumstances, is the very best thing for her. Recreation, fresh air, light housework, even driving the car—the point is to spare her knowledge of her condition, which might affect her like any other sudden shock, that is, induce a coma or syncope that might or might not prove fatal.” The effort of pronouncing the last words in a tone of detached objectivity brought tears unexpectedly to his eyes; with a strangled sound and wry gesture, he sank into the chair, removed his bifocals, and sobbed into his handkerchief, while Domna stroked his frayed sleeve and uttered words of comfort and hope. “What am I to do, Domna?” he suddenly cried, from the depths of his extremity, pulling himself bolt upright in his chair and transfixing her with his eyes, half blind and crazily staring. “You tell me,” he demanded. “What am I to do?”

Truly, he realized with astonishment, he had lost all control of himself. To cry brokenly before a girl nearly twenty years his junior had been no part of his intention; the utter misery of his situation had sprung on him, as he was speaking, from cover, like an animal at the throat. He wept hopelessly from sheer hatred of the universe, including the girl who was watching him and who could do nothing, of course, to help him, as he now for the first time clearly saw and admitted to himself. To his surprise, in the midst of his tears, Domna got up and left the room, locking the door behind her, coming back in a few minutes with an aspirin, a benzedrine tablet, a glass of water, and a clean handkerchief wrung out in cold water. “I’ve phoned Cathy,” she said, “to tell her you’re staying to lunch at the college. If you’d like a drink of whiskey, I’ll take you home to my house in my car.” Henry shook his head. He accepted the pills and put on his glasses, carefully, adjusting the wires over his ears. “Now,” she said, “what did you mean when you said that Esther and Maynard knew that Cathy was dangerously ill?”

Henry bit his lips. He had added this detail on impulse and now he must make up his mind to tell her the whole squalid story, sparing neither the Hoars or himself, or forfeit the support she could give him; no half-measures would do. If Domna were satisfied that Maynard, knowing of Cathy’s condition, had determined in cold blood to fire him for shabby political motives, she would fight for his reinstatement straight up to the board of trustees; even so, he frankly hesitated, being sharp enough to see that the knife cut two ways. If Cathy’s condition or the knowledge of it imposed on Maynard Hoar the moral obligation not to fire him, should it not have imposed on her husband an even stronger obligation not to behave in such a way as to get himself fired? A man with a sick wife did not receive
carte blanche
to abuse the responsibilities of his position, but if a man with a sick wife was
unreasonably
discharged from his position, then the wife’s health could become a significant factor in arguing for his retention. In short, the more he pondered on it, leaving his own feelings aside, the more clearly he saw that the case was and must be one of academic freedom. In which event, it behooved him to tread warily with Domna, who was capable of subordinating all other issues, dramatically, to the single life-or-death issue, in the manner of Dostoievsky and other Russian sentimentalists who opposed capital punishment and were fond of asserting categorically the absolute sacredness of the individual life. There was no question but that this would alienate from him certain older men on the faculty who, disliking Hoar, would probably be open to conviction on a purely professional argument. On the other hand, there was no doubt that Domna, pleading for another woman’s life, would have behind her many of the women of the faculty who would not dream of enlisting their sympathies in an academic freedom case.

And the more he envisioned this prospect, the more he was of two minds about it: could Domna be trusted to keep this side of the affair in perspective? “I told Esther,” he answered wearily, “a long time ago, under circumstances I don’t like to remember.” He rested his cheek in his palm. “Before your day, little Domna.” Memories of that epoch disturbed him; he had almost forgotten the time when he and the Hoars had been like a single family, before Maynard unaccountably—yes, even now unaccountably, for all that he now knew of Maynard—showed him the cold shoulder. “Yes?” Domna urged with a little whet of curiosity. Henry suddenly laughed. “Very funny, Domna. Last spring, less than a year ago, when I brought Cathy and the children here, I had Maynard’s word that the appointment was to run for two years, at the minimum. Nothing on paper, of course. A gentlemen’s agreement. ‘Jocelyn doesn’t part with good men, Hen; frankly, between ourselves, she can’t afford to.’” He laughed again, more harshly. Domna frowned. “A pity you didn’t get it on paper,” she murmured.