“Gordon,” Stoner said uncomfortably, “I hope you’re not—”
Finch held up his hand. “Wait,” he said. “I wish I had told you this before. But then it wasn’t supposed to be let out, and it wasn’t really official. It’s still supposed to be confidential, but—do you remember a few weeks back our talking about the chairmanship?”
Stoner nodded.
“Well, it’s Lomax. He’s the new head. It’s finished, settled. The suggestion came from upstairs, but I ought to tell you that I went along with it.” He laughed shortly. “Not that I was in a position to do anything else. But even if I had been I would have gone along with it—then. Now I’m not so sure.”
“I see,” Stoner said thoughtfully. After a few moments he continued, “I’m glad you didn’t tell me. I don’t think it would have made any difference, but at least it wasn’t there to cloud the issue.”
“God damn it, Bill,” Finch said. “You’ve got to understand. I don’t give a damn about Walker, or Lomax, or—but you’re an old friend. Look. I think you’re right in this. Damn it, I know you’re right. But let’s be practical. Lomax is taking this very seriously, and he’s not going to let it drop. And if it comes to a fight it’s going to be awkward as hell. Lomax can be vindictive; you know that as well as I do. He can’t fire you, but he can do damn near everything else. And to a certain extent I’ll have to go along with him.” He laughed again, bitterly. “Hell, to a large extent I’ll have to go along with him. If a dean starts reversing the decisions of a department head he has to fire him from his chairmanship. Now, if Lomax got out of line, I could remove him from the chairmanship; or at least I could try. I might even get away with it, or I might not. But even if I did, there would be a fight that would split the department, maybe even the college, wide open. And, God damn it—” Finch was suddenly embarrassed; he mumbled, “God damn it, I’ve got to think of the college.” He looked directly at Stoner. “Do you see what I’m trying to say?”
A warmth of feeling, of love and fond respect for his old friend, came over Stoner. He said, “Of course I do, Gordon. Did you think I wouldn’t understand?”
“All right,” Finch said. “And there’s one more thing. Somehow Lomax has got his finger in the president’s nose, and he leads him around like a cut bull. So it may be even rougher than you think. Look, all you’d have to do is say you’d reconsidered. You could even blame it on me—say I made you do it.”
“It isn’t a matter of my saving face, Gordon.”
“I know that,” Finch said. “I said it wrong. Look at it this way. What does it matter about Walker? Sure, I know; it’s the principle of the thing; but there’s another principle you ought to think of.”
“It’s not the principle,” Stoner said. “It’s Walker. It would be a disaster to let him loose in a classroom.”
“Hell,” Finch said wearily. “If he doesn’t make it here, he can go somewhere else and get his degree; and despite everything he might even make it here. You could lose this, you know, no matter what you do. We can’t keep the Walkers out.”
“Maybe not,” Stoner said. “But we can try.”
Finch was silent for several moments. He sighed. “All right. There’s no use keeping Lomax waiting any longer. We might as well get it over with.” He got up from his desk and started for the door that led to the small anteroom. But as he passed Stoner, Stoner put his hand on his arm, delaying him for a moment.
“Gordon, do you remember something Dave Masters said once?”
Finch raised his brows in puzzlement. “Why do you bring Dave Masters up?”
Stoner looked across the room, out of the window, trying to remember. “The three of us were together, and he said—something about the University being an asylum, a refuge from the world, for the dispossessed, the crippled. But he didn’t mean Walker. Dave would have thought of Walker as—as the world. And we can’t let him in. For if we do, we become like the world, just as unreal, just as ... The only hope we have is to keep him out.”
Finch looked at him for several moments. Then he grinned. “You son-of-a-bitch,” he said cheerfully. “We’d better see Lomax now.” He opened the door, beckoned, and Lomax came into the room.
He came into the room so stiffly and formally that the slight hitch in his right leg was barely noticeable; his thin handsome face was set and cold, and he held his head high, so that his rather long and wavy hair nearly touched the hump that disfigured his back beneath his left shoulder. He did not look at either of the two men in the room with him; he took a chair opposite Finch’s desk and sat as erect as he could, staring at the space between Finch and Stoner. He turned his head slightly toward Finch.
“I asked for the three of us to meet for a simple purpose. I wish to know whether Professor Stoner has reconsidered his ill-advised vote yesterday.”
“Mr. Stoner and I have been discussing the matter,” Finch said. “I’m afraid that we’ve been unable to resolve it.”
Lomax turned to Stoner and stared at him; his light blue eyes were dull, as if a translucent film had dropped over them. “Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to bring some rather serious charges out in the open.”
“Charges?” Finch’s voice was surprised, a little angry. “You never mentioned anything about—”
“I’m sorry,” Lomax said. “But this is necessary.” He said to Stoner, “The first time you spoke to Charles Walker was when he asked you for admittance to your graduate seminar. Is that right?”
“That’s right,” Stoner said.
“You were reluctant to admit him, were you not?”
“Yes,” Stoner said. “The class already had twelve students.”
Lomax glanced at some notes he held in his right hand. “And when the student told you he had to get in, you reluctantly admitted him, at the same time saying that his admission would virtually ruin the seminar. Is that right?”
“Not exactly,” Stoner said. “As I remember, I said one more in the class would—”
Lomax waved his hand. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just trying to establish a context. Now, during this first conversation, did you not question his competence to do the work in the seminar?”
Gordon Finch said tiredly, “Holly, where’s all this getting us? What good do you—”
“Please,” Lomax said. “I have said that I have charges to bring. You must allow me to develop them. Now. Did you not question his competence?”
Stoner said calmly, “I asked him a few questions, yes, to see whether he was capable of doing the work.”
“And did you satisfy yourself that he was?”
“I was unsure, I believe,” Stoner said. “It’s difficult to remember.”
Lomax turned to Finch. “We have established, then, first that Professor Stoner was reluctant to admit Walker to his seminar; second, that his reluctance was so intense that he threatened Walker with the fact that his admission would ruin the seminar; third, that he was at least doubtful that Walker was competent to do the work; and fourth, that despite this doubt and these strong feelings of resentment, he allowed him in the class anyway.”
Finch shook his head hopelessly. “Holly, this is all pointless.”
“Wait,” Lomax said. He glanced hastily at his notes and then looked up shrewdly at Finch. “I have a number of other points to make. I could develop them by ‘cross examination’ “—he gave the words an ironic inflection—”but I am no attorney. But I assure you I am prepared to specify these charges, if it becomes necessary.” He paused, as if gathering his strength. “I am prepared to demonstrate, first, that Professor Stoner allowed Mr. Walker into his seminar while holding incipiently prejudiced feelings against him; I am prepared to demonstrate that this prejudicial feeling was intensified by the fact that certain conflicts of temperament and feeling came out during the course of this seminar, that the conflict was aided and intensified by Mr. Stoner himself, who allowed, and indeed at times encouraged, other members of the class to ridicule and laugh at Mr. Walker. I a
m prepared to demonstrate that on more than one occasion this prejudice was manifested by statements by Professor Stoner, to students and others; that he accused Mr. Walker of ‘attacking’ a member of the class, when Mr. Walker was merely expressing a contrary opinion, that he admitted anger about this so-called ‘attack’ and that he moreover indulged in loose talk about Mr. Walker’s ‘behaving foolishly.’ I am prepared to demonstrate, too, that without provocation Professor Stoner, out of this prejudice, accused Mr. Walker of laziness, of ignorance, and of dishonesty. And, finally, that of all the thirteen members of the class, Mr. Walker was the only one—the only one—that Professor Stoner singled out for suspicion, asking him alone to hand in the text of his seminar report. Now I call upon Professor Stoner to deny these charges, either singly or categorically.”
Stoner shook his head, almost in admiration. “My God,” he said. “How you make it sound! Sure, everything you say is a fact, but none of it is true. Not the way you say it.”
Lomax nodded, as if he had expected the answer. “I am prepared to demonstrate the truth of everything I have said. It would be a simple matter, if necessary, to call the members of that seminar, individually, and question them.”
“No!” Stoner said sharply. “That is in some ways the most outrageous thing you’ve said all afternoon. I will not have the students dragged into this mess.”
“You may have no choice, Stoner,” Lomax said softly. “You may have no choice at all.”
Gordon Finch looked at Lomax and said quietly, “What are you getting at?”
Lomax ignored him. He said to Stoner, “Mr. Walker has told me that, although he is against doing so in principle, he is now willing to deliver over to you the seminar paper that you cast so many ugly doubts about; he is willing to abide by any decision that you and any other two qualified members of the department may make. If it receives a passing grade from a majority of the three, he will receive a passing grade in the seminar, and he will be allowed to remain in graduate school.”
Stoner shook his head; he was ashamed to look at Lomax. “You know I can’t do that.”
“Very well. I dislike doing this, but—if you do not change your vote of yesterday I shall be compelled to bring formal charges against you.”
Gordon Finch’s voice rose. “You’ll be compelled to do what ?”
Lomax said coolly, “The constitution of the University of Missouri allows any faculty member with tenure to bring charges against any other faculty member with tenure, if there is compelling reason to believe that the charged faculty member is incompetent, unethical, or not performing his duties in accord with the ethical standards laid out in Article Six, Section Three of the Constitution. These charges, and the evidence to support them, will be heard by the entire faculty, and at the end of the trial the faculty will either uphold the charges by a two-thirds vote or dismiss them with a lesser vote.”
Gordon Finch sat back in his chair, his mouth open; he shook his head unbelievingly. He said, “Now, look. This thing is getting out of hand. You can’t be serious, Holly.”
“I assure you that I am,” Lomax said. “This is a serious matter. It’s a matter of principle; and—and my integrity has been questioned. It is my right to bring charges if I see fit.”
Finch said, “You could never make them stick.”
“It is my right, nevertheless, to bring charges.”
For a moment Finch gazed at Lomax. Then he said quietly, almost affably, “There will be no charges. I don’t know how this thing is going to resolve itself, and I don’t particularly care. But there will be no charges. We’re all going to walk out of here in a few minutes, and we’re going to try to forget most of what has been said this afternoon. Or at least we’re going to pretend to. I’m not going to have the department or the college dragged into a mess. There will be no charges. Because,” he added pleasantly, “if there are, I promise you that I will do my damnedest to see that you are ruined. I will stop at nothing. I will use every ounce of influence I have; I will lie if necessary; I will frame you if I have to. I am now going to report to Dean Rutherford that the vote on Mr. Walker stands. If you still want to carry through on this, you can take it up with him, with the president, or with God. But this office is through with the matter. I want to hear no more about it.”
During Finch’s speech, Lomax’s expression had gone thoughtful and cool. When Finch finished, Lomax nodded almost casually and got up from his chair. He looked once at Stoner, and then he limped across the room and went out. For several moments Finch and Stoner sat in silence. Finally Finch said, “I wonder what it is between him and Walker.”
Stoner shook his head. “It isn’t what you’re thinking,” he said. “I don’t know what it is. I don’t believe I want to know.”
Ten days later Hollis Lomax’s appointment as chairman of the Department of English was announced; and two weeks after that the schedule of classes for the following year was distributed among the members of the department. Without surprise Stoner discovered that for each of the two semesters that made up the academic year he had been assigned three classes of freshman composition and one sophomore survey course; his upper-class Readings in Medieval Literature and his graduate seminar had been dropped from the program. It was, Stoner realized, the kind of schedule that a beginning instructor might expect. It was worse in some ways; for the schedule was so arranged that he taught at odd, widely separated hours, six days a week. He made no protest about his schedule and resolved to teach the following year as if nothing were amiss.
But for the first time since he had started teaching it began to seem to him that it was possible that he might leave the University, that he might teach elsewhere. He spoke to Edith of the possibility, and she looked at him as if he had struck her.
“I couldn’t,” she said. “Oh, I couldn’t.” And then, aware that she had betrayed herself by showing her fear, she became angry. “What are you thinking of?” She asked. “Our home—our lovely home. And our friends. And Grace’s school. It isn’t good for a child to be shifted around from school to school.”
“It may be necessary,” he said. He had not told her about the incident of Charles Walker and of Lomax’s involvement; but it became quickly evident that she knew all about it.
“Thoughtless,” she said. “Absolutely thoughtless.” But her anger was oddly distracted, almost perfunctory; her pale blue eyes wandered from their regard of him and rested casually upon odd objects in the living room, as if she were reassuring herself of their continued presence; her thin, lightly freckled fingers moved restlessly. “Oh, I know all about your trouble. I’ve never interfered with your work, but—really, you’re very stubborn. I mean, Grace and I are involved in this. And certainly we can’t be expected to pick up and move just because you’ve put yourself in an awkward position.”
“But it’s for you and Grace, partly, at least, that I’m thinking about it. It isn’t likely that I’ll—go much farther in the department if I stay here.”
“Oh,” Edith said distantly, summoning bitterness to her voice. “That isn’t important. We’ve been poor so far; there’s no reason we can’t go on like this. You should have thought of this before, of what it might lead to. A cripple.” Suddenly her voice changed, and she laughed indulgently, almost fondly. “Honestly, things are so important to you. What difference could it make?”
And she would not consider leaving Columbia. If it came to that, she said, she and Grace could always move in with Aunt Emma; she was getting very feeble and would welcome the company.
So he dropped the possibility almost as soon as he broached it. He was to teach that summer, and two of his classes were ones in which he had a particular interest; they had been scheduled before Lomax became chairman. He resolved to give them all of his attention, for he knew that it might be some time before he had a chance to teach them again.
XI
A few weeks after the fall semester of 1932 began, it was clear to William Stoner that he had been unsuccessful i
n his battle to keep Charles Walker out of the graduate English program. After the summer holidays Walker returned to the campus as if triumphantly entering an arena; and when he saw Stoner in the corridors of Jesse Hall he inclined his head in an ironic bow and grinned at him maliciously. Stoner learned from Jim Holland that Dean Rutherford had delayed making the vote of last year official and that finally it had been decided that Walker would be allowed to take his oral preliminaries again, his examiners to be selected by the chairman of the department.
The battle was over then, and Stoner was willing to concede his defeat; but the fighting did not end. When Stoner met Lomax in the corridors or at a department meeting, or at a college function, he spoke to him as he had spoken before, as if nothing had happened between them. But Lomax would not respond to his greeting; he stared coldly and turned his eyes away, as if to say that he would not be appeased.
One day in late fall Stoner walked casually into Lomax’s office and stood beside his desk for several minutes until, reluctantly, Lomax looked up at him, his lips tight and his eyes hard.
When he realized that Lomax was not going to speak Stoner said awkwardly, “Look, Holly, it’s over and done with. Can’t we just drop it?”
Lomax looked at him steadily.
Stoner continued, “We’ve had a disagreement, but that isn’t unusual. We’ve been friends before, and I see no reason—”
“We have never been friends,” Lomax said distinctly.
“All right,” Stoner said. “But we’ve got along at least. We can keep whatever differences we have, but for God’s sake, there’s no need to display them. Even the students are beginning to notice.”
“And well the students might,” Lomax said bitterly, “since one of their own number nearly had his career ruined. A brilliant student, whose only crimes were his imagination, an enthusiasm and integrity that forced him into conflict with you—and, yes, I might as well say it—an unfortunate physical affliction that would have called forth sympathy in a normal human being.” With his good right hand Lomax held a pencil, and it trembled before him; almost with horror Stoner realized that Lomax was dreadfully and irrevocably sincere. “No,” Lomax went on passionately, “for that I cannot forgive you.”