Читать книгу Runagates in Scarceness - O.C. Edwards - Страница 7

Roderick Bothwell removed his handkerchief to wipe chalk dust from his hands, hating not only the gritty feel of it on his fingers but also the awareness that he dare not touch anything for fear of leaving a white smudge. Turning to the lectern at his desk, he grasped the lapels of his gown. New students at Chase had to learn from oral tradition that his was not the robe of someone holding an American Master’s degree, but instead what Cambridge doctors wore for occasions not considered ceremonial. Faculty at the seminary still wore gowns for class and chapel from their Anglophile inheritance as Episcopalians, even though the students wore them only in chapel, one of the fruits so far of the student protest movement at the Clergy Training College.

He was nearing the end of his lecture, sketching in the various contemporary schools of historiography. Some still practiced “the great man” interpretation while others went in for social history. Some historians understood everything in terms of the categories of Freud, while others used those of Marx. Collingwood had said that events must be credible as the acts of human agents. Now there were many who called themselves “revisionists” who satirized the work of those they called “Whig” historians, scholars who viewed evolution in society from authoritarian monarchies to the rise of the modern democratic state as progress. The revisionists called attention to the dark side of American history, arguing that its past was devoted unrelentingly to the exploitation of blacks, Indians, native peoples in its colonial empire, the poor, and women.

“There have been contributions of undoubted worth from all of these schools,” the Canon concluded, “but I must confess that I have serious questions about any method that tries to impose a pattern on the shape of history. This seems to me like knowing what your research will prove before you begin your investigation. Or, to change the metaphor, it seems like a detective’s understanding his task to be proving the guilt of a certain suspect rather than finding out who committed the crime. Why bother to go to all the trouble if you know in advance where you are going to end up?

“While we have lost much of our naive confidence in the objectivity of facts, I am nevertheless convinced that there is such a thing as historical evidence, and that if we make our facts fit our theories rather than let our interpretation emerge from our data, we are doomed to willful self-delusion. Collingwood may be right in saying that we have to understand events as the acts of human agents, but often the only access we have to the motives of people is through their external behavior. To return to the analogy of criminal investigation—an analogy that many historians have used to explain their work—no amount of guesswork about motive can ever make up for a lack of material evidence that links the suspect to the crime.

“We ignore physical evidence to our peril. In my courses, therefore, you may expect more respect to be paid to the careful gathering of data than to fashionable theories about what history ought to prove. I hope that this word to the wise will be sufficient for all of you. Now, are there any questions?”

After he clarified the points students knew they had misunderstood, Bothwell retrieved his watch from the lectern and restored it to the lower right pocket of his gray flannel vest, draping the narrow gold watch chain across his dignified midsection and sticking the penknife and Phi Beta Kappa key on its end into the left pocket. Clasping his lecture notes and tucking reference books under his arm, he turned to leave, but a voice from behind stopped him.

“Canon Bothwell, I need to talk to you about that term paper. I’ve never written one before.” It was Seth Clarke.

Bothwell paused, put notes and books back on the lectern, and consulted his datebook. “Are you free this afternoon at three, Mr. Clarke? I could see you then.”

“I’ll be there. Thank you, sir.”

Bothwell headed out the door and toward the stairs at the end of the hall. Students released from class clogged the stairwell. Immediately in front of him was a student draped in a white Mexican poncho with black stripes. The garment had a ceremonial appearance between that of a vestment and a monastic habit. From this costume and his long, wavy, golden hair, Bothwell recognized Sebastian Seymour, the incoming class’s self-appointed candidate for guru status. Seymour was saying to a nearby classmate who did not appear particularly interested, “I should have known that simply because it was a class in church history, I could not expect to hear anything spiritual. No one around here seems to recognize that Christianity is a religion, and its history therefore might include something about human efforts to experience the divine.”

Bothwell saw the elbow aimed at Seymour’s ribs and heard the hiss: “Shut up, you fool! Don’t you know he’s right behind us?” There was the sound of a sharp intake of breath, and the Canon was gratified to see on the face that jerked around to stare at him an expression other than its customary saccharine simper. The day Seymour had arrived at the school, Bothwell had decided he looked like the pictures of the Sacred Heart seen on pine slabs in dime stores. Saying nothing, Bothwell moved on past him.

When Katrina ushered Seth into his study that afternoon, Bothwell seated him in a leather wingchair facing his own. A cheery fireplace was on one side of them and a leather sofa on the other. These seating accommodations were disposed around a low, square table displaying magazines. The room stretched behind Bothwell to a bay window twelve feet away into which was fitted an enormous roll-top desk of walnut that incorporated a veritable columbarium of pigeonholes. All the wall space not occupied with windows was given over to bookcases, except above the mantle where a colored steel engraving showed The General Theological Seminary as it must have looked when its Hebrew professor, Clement Clarke Moore, was writing A Visit From St. Nicholas as a Christmas present for his children. Shields hung on either side of the mantle, one from the University of the South and the other from Jesus College, Cambridge. The only object on the mantle itself was a seventeenth-century Spanish crucifix, an ivory corpus suspended from an ebony cross.

“Sit down, Mr. Clarke, sit down. May I offer you some refreshment? My housekeeper can give you coffee or a soft drink.”

“Thank you, sir, but I won’t take anything. That sort of thing cuts down on my wind.”

Passing over to him a large flint glass compote on which were stacked apples, oranges, bananas, and grapes, Bothwell said, “Then have some fruit. That should be healthful enough for you.” After Seth had selected a banana, Bothwell returned the compote to the table and took an orange for himself. Then he removed the penknife from his vest pocket and pulled the longer of the two blades from the thin gold handle. With precision he incised the orange top and bottom, the incisions of the top half offsetting the bottom half incisions. Then with the tip of the blade he began to loosen the skin from the fruit, the skin coming away in one piece in a zig-zag pattern.

Fascinated, Seth said that he had never seen anyone peel an orange that way. Bothwell replied that he had peeled all of his oranges that way since his fifth-grade teacher had described Mercator projection maps as misleading since the earth’s surface is spherical. To represent it on a flat page, some maps in their geography book laid it out like an orange peel. He could hardly wait to get home and try it.

“But,” he continued, “You did not come to learn about my peculiar orange-peeling habits. You want to discuss term papers.”

“Yes, sir. You see, I graduated from Purdue with a major in forestry, and the only history course I had was on the history of forestry. And we did not have to write term papers.”

Bothwell thought for a moment. “Was that course only about the attitudes toward the forests and the methods of conservation in the various societies, or did you deal with the economic impact of the kinds of lumber available in various periods? I had a student once who had studied engineering, and the only history course he had taken was the history of science, and the only thing he remembered from it was the name of the inventor of the flush toilet, Sir John Harrington, one of the brightest lights at the court of Queen Elizabeth I.”

Seth smiled. “Oh, we dealt with the economic implications, all right. It gave me a new way of looking at trees. I went into forestry because I like the woods. I knew that most of my fellow students were going into one end of the lumber business or another, but I wanted to go into conservation. I spent my summers at Turkey Run State Park as a Junior Ranger, and I hoped to go back permanently after graduation.”

“Then you had not yet decided to study for the ministry?”

“No, sir. I received my call when I was in ‘Nam. But being a forestry major was not the best seminary preparation imaginable. The guys who majored in liberal arts have a much easier time of it here.”

“Well, that may be, but don’t despair. You bring to your work a background they lack. Would you like to work on a term paper in which you use what you know about the impact of forestry on an economy to explore how the church in that society was influenced by that economic situation?”

“That sounds like something maybe I could do, and that I would find very interesting.”

“Good. You don’t happen to read French, do you?”

Seth looked surprised. “I do. My mother believed that knowing French was one of the accomplishments of a gentleman, and she made me start as soon as possible in junior high school. I thought it was sissy stuff and drug my heels on it until three-quarters of the way through the first year, when I discovered that it came easy to me, and I actually liked it. It was one of the things that got me into the Special Forces.”

“Wonderful, because there is a school of French historians called the Annalistes who believe that history grows out of geography, demography, and economics. One of them, Fernand Braudel, has written a two-volume study on the Mediterranean area in the sixteenth century. We won’t be dealing with that period until next year, but his geography holds true for earlier periods. Perhaps you can take his work along with that of Rostovsteff on the social and economic history of the Roman Empire and write about how some economic condition connected with forestry affected the early history of the church. How does that sound?”

“That sounds great, sir. You really have taken a load off my mind. Thanks a lot.”

“Oh, you’re most welcome. It’s what I’m here for. But, if you don’t mind, perhaps you can help me.”

“I’d be glad to do anything I can.”

“I would appreciate your reaction to the discussion in class this morning. It helps me to know what questions are of concern to a number of students, and which are merely the private interests of the individuals asking.”

“Well, from various bull sessions and from what I’ve heard said in courses in the fall semester, I’d say those responses were typical. What really got me angry was Sebastian’s remark after class. I was coming along behind you on the way down the stairs, and I heard him. That creep! I would love to take him out and give him a little judo instruction.”

“Perhaps he was a little injudicious in his expression or at least in the occasion of it, but you seem to feel strongly about my honor. Is there perhaps some personal animus involved that contributes to the intensity of your response?”

“Yes, sir, there is. I hadn’t meant to say anything about this—to you or anyone else—but I guess I got caught off guard and showed what I really feel about him. He seems to think that he is more spiritual than anyone else, and some people believe him. A few of the wives treat him like a spiritual director, and he teaches them how to meditate. I don’t know too much about it, but it doesn’t seem to me to have much to do with Jesus. And it’s hard for somebody who has been in Vietnam to be dumped on by a prissy creep like him who pretends to be so superior. He wouldn’t last five minutes on a patrol.”

“I see. I didn’t mean to pry into your personal affairs. But if you ever want to talk about this anymore or about anything else, either I or any other member of the faculty would be available. Don’t hesitate to call on us.”

“Thank you, sir. I imagine it’ll all blow over, but I do appreciate the offer. Well, I better get going. I’ve got some theology to read before Evensong. Thanks again for the help.”

Bothwell sat Buddha-wise on one of the gym mats, managing to maintain his dignity unabated in these ungraceful circumstances. In spite of the aroma of ancient sweat, stale air, and liniment that proclaimed the normal function of the large basement room in the Green Building, the bachelor students had managed to create a festive air by the greenery they had draped around. Epiphany was a big day at the Clergy Training College. Since most students were home for the holidays when Christmas occurred, and strict adherence to the liturgical seasons kept the seminary from doing anything so Protestant as to have a Christmas party in Advent, January 6 was the great annual feast of the Incarnation. It was also when the single students went all out to repay the married ones for their hospitality throughout the year. First, there was a party for the children after school, with a tree and small presents. The Dean kept volunteering to don a cope and beard and appear as St. Nicholas a month overdue, but the bachelors always put him off; and Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar would appear year after year, slightly Hoosier in their accents despite their journey from the Eastern mountains. Then some of the single students served turkey dinner to the married couples and faculty in the refectory, while others were in the Hutches sitting with the kids who had already broken their toys from the afternoon’s party.

After dinner they all trooped downstairs to see what new costumes the ingenuity of the bachelors had been able to devise, along with the new talent from this year’s Juniors. Once everyone had been served wassail and taken what seating was available, they sang carols, the selections limited to the more esoteric ones in the hymnal, the ones not rendered unbearable by constant repetition from radio and public speaker systems since Thanksgiving. Then the entertainment began. It started off slowly and did not build momentum until Pete Whiston began to play the fiddle. A music major from Bloomington who had almost “fried his brain” with acid when he was exploring what an electronic violin could contribute to rock, Whiston had been converted while listening to a Salvation Army band a few Christmases before. He then lived in a commune of charismatic Christians who were better at spouting Bible verses than helping the earth bring forth its increase. No one knew what had drawn him to an Episcopal seminary, but they all knew Whiston played the fiddle like someone possessed by spirits. Clean-shaven with large blue eyes that seemed focused on a distant object, Pete had a face surprisingly unlined by all he had been through. His hair was blonde and fine as corn silk, and he combed it back totally straight, only to have it flop across his face during his ecstatic translation of the music of the spheres into bluegrass abandon.

Pete was followed by John Strong, dressed as most of his classmates in jeans and carrying a Martin guitar aged to perfection. In his granny glasses and drooping moustache, Strong looked like what he was, one of the most committed anti-war activists on campus. What was not so obvious was that he had one of the best minds that had appeared on campus for years. Tonight he was there to imitate Woody’s boy by doing all nineteen minutes of “Alice’s Restaurant.” Bothwell had not heard the piece before and found it very amusing, but noticing Seth across the room, he realized that his amusement was not shared by everyone. Seth had a frown on his face, and although visibly attempting to exercise self-control, his feet tapped impatiently, while he constantly shifted positions.

The final entertainer of the evening was Sebastian Seymour. He had traded his poncho for a close-fitting embroidered gauze shirt that gave him more freedom of bodily movement. The need for this freedom became quickly apparent when he began his act, one of mime mimicry. Without saying a word and only by subtle alteration of posture and gait, he could conjure up the image of other members of the community. A few self-important strides informed everyone that he was doing the Dean. Next Dr. Jethro, the bearded Old Testament professor the students called Yahweh, was evoked with little effort. There was great wit in the caricatures, but Bothwell also recognized an element of malice. When he himself was next to be imitated, however, he was too charmed by seeing himself as others saw him to take any offence. For his last impersonation, Seymour seemed to grow taller. His delicate frame became robust, and he slung out newly long legs in a woodsman’s stride. The stride became close order drill and the drill a goosestep. Sheila Clarke’s gleeful laughter sounded shrill in the heavy air. Her amusement went unshared as the cavorting figure suddenly was carrying an insubstantial rifle. The figure stalked with stealth and attacked with energy. Bothwell felt he was seeing not only the bayonet, but also the bodies of unarmed civilians into which it was plunged.