NEWYORKREVIEWBOOKSCLASSICS

STONER

JOHNWILLIAMS(1922-1994)wasbornandraisedinNortheastTexas.Despiteatalentforwritingandacting,Williamsflunkedoutofalocaljuniorcollegeafterhisfirstyear.Hereluctantlyjoinedthewareffort,enlistingintheArmyAirCorps,andmanagingtowriteadraftofhisfirstnovelwhilethere.Oncehome,WilliamsfoundasmallpublisherforthenovelandenrolledattheUniversityofDenver,wherehewas eventually to receivebothhisB.A. andM.A., andwherehewas to return as an instructor in1954.WilliamswastoremainonthestaffofthewritingprogramattheUniversityofDenveruntilhisretirementin1985.Duringtheseyears,hewasanactiveguestlecturerandwriter,publishingtwovolumesofpoetryand threenovels,Butcher'sCrossing (forthcoming fromNYRBClassics),Stoner, and theNationalBookAward--winningAugustus.

JOHNMcGAHERN(1934-2006)wasoneof themostacclaimedIrishwritersofhisgeneration.Hiswork, including six novels and four collectionsof short stories, often centeredon the Irishpredicament,bothpoliticaland temperamental.AmongstWomen,hisbest-knownbook,wasshortlistedfor theBookerPrize and made into a popular miniseries. His last book, the memoir AllWill BeWell, was publishedshortlybeforehisdeath.

STONERJOHNWILLIAMS

IntroductionbyJOHNMcGAHERNNYRBNewYork

THISISANEWYORKREVIEWBOOKPUBLISHEDBYTHENEWYORKREVIEWOFBOOKS435HudsonStreet,NewYork,NY10014

Copyright(c)1965byJohnWilliamsIntroductioncopyright(c)2003byJohnMcGahernAllrightsreserved.

LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationDataWilliams,JohnEdward,1922—Stoner/JohnWilliams.

p.cm.--(NewYorkReviewBooksclassics)ISBN1-59017-199-3(alk.paper)1.Literature--Studyandteaching--Fiction.2.Englishteachers--Fiction.3.Collegeteachers--Fiction.4.Maritalconflict--Fiction.5.MiddleWestFiction.

6.Adultery--Fiction.I.Tide.II.Series.PS3545.I5286S72006813'.54--dc22

2005022751

ISBN978-1-59017-199-8PrintedintheUnitedStatesofAmericaonacid-freepaper.109876

IntroductionIIIIIIVVIVIIVIIIIXXXIXIIXIIIXIVXVXVIXVII

IntroductionOntheopeningpageofthisclassicnovelofuniversitylife,andthelifeofthe

heart and themind, JohnWilliams states bluntly themark Stoner left behind:"Stoner'scolleagues,whoheldhiminnoparticularesteemwhenhewasalive,speakofhimrarelynow;totheolderoneshisnameisareminderoftheendthatawaits them all, and to the younger ones it ismerely a sound that evokes nosense of the past and no identitywithwhich they can associate themselves ortheircareers."Inplainprose,whichseemsabletoreflecteffortlesslyeveryshadeof thought and feeling, Williams proceeds to subvert that familiar worldlyjudgmentbybringingStoner,andeverythinglinkedtohim--thetime,theplace,the people--vividly to life, the passion of thewritingmasked by coolness andclarityofintelligence.

Stoner's origins were as humble as the earth his parents worked. In thebeginning they are shown as hardlymore animate than their own clay, but invividscenes,suchastheirattendanceatStoner'sweddingtoabanker'sdaughter,their innate dignity and gentleness contradict that easy judgment, and towardsthenovel'sendStonerhimselfseemstoacquiretheirmute,patientstrength.

Stoner was an only child, and though good at school had no otherexpectationthantoonedaytakeoverthefieldshewasalreadyhelpingtowork.One evening after the day's toil his father said, "Country agent came by lastweek...SaystheyhaveanewschoolattheUniversityofColumbia.Theycallitacollegeofagriculture.Sayshethinksyououghttogo."

At theuniversityheearnshisbedandboardbyworkingonanearby farmownedbyafirstcousinofhismother.Thisisbareboardandhard,brutalwork,but he gets through it stoically, inmuch the sameway as he gets through thescience courses at the university. "The course in soil chemistry caught hisinterestinageneralway...ButtherequiredsurveyofEnglishliteraturetroubledanddisquietedhiminawaynothinghadeverdonebefore."

TheinstructorArcherSloanechangeshislife.Heabandonssciencetostudyliterature.Atthepromptingofhismentor,hestaysonattheuniversity,laboringon the cousin's farmwhile obtaining hisMaster ofArts.At his graduation hetriestotellhisparentsthathewillnotbereturningtotheirfarmwhentheycometoattend thedegreeceremony. "Ifyou thinkyouought to stayhereand studyyourbooks,thenthat'swhatyououghttodo,"hisfatherconcludestowardstheendofthatmovingscene.

Thenovel thendetails theoutwardlyundistinguishedcareerof anassistantprofessorofEnglishwithinthewallsoftheuniversity:histeaching,hisreadingandhiswriting,hisfriendships,hisfallinginlovewithanidealizedwoman,hisslowandbitterdiscoveryofthatpersononcetheymarry,andhowtheirgentle,

pliabledaughterbecomesthewife'schosenbattleground.Outsidethemarriage,stoner's affair with a young teacher becomes entwined in bitter, vindictiveuniversitypolitics.

Thisloveaffairbetweentwointelligentpeopleisbroughttolifewithararedelicacy.Ahealthysensuality issetagainst theirvulnerabilityas theydiscoverthegloryofthefirstdayoftheworld."Thelifetheyhadtogetherwasonethatneitherof themhadreally imagined.Theygrewfrompassion to lust toadeepsensuality that renewed itself from moment to moment." They study, theyconverse,theyplay."Theylearnedtobetogetherwithoutspeakingandtheygotthehabitofrepose."Notonlydidtheyfindpleasureinoneanotherbutmeaning,which is drawn with playful, affectionate irony. "Like all lovers, they spokemuchofthemselves,asiftheymighttherebyunderstandtheworldwhichmadethempossible."

Integral as it is to the plot, the love affair servesmore importantly in theoverall vision as a source of light in the darkness of Stoner's marriage, apowerfulsuggestionofthehappinessthatmighthavebeen.

Stoner's wife is a type that can be glimpsed in much American writing,through such different sensibilities as O'Neill, Tennessee Williams, Faulkner,Scott Fitzgerald--beautiful, unstable, educated to observe the surfaces of aprivileged and protected society--but never can that type of wife have beenrevealedasremorselesslyashere:

She was educated upon the premise that she would be protectedfrom the gross events that lifemight thrust in herway, andupon thepremise that she had no other duty than to be a graceful andaccomplished accessory to that protection, since she belonged to asocial and economic class to which protection was an almost sacredobligation...Hermoraltrainingbothattheschoolssheattendedandathome,wasnegativeinnature,prohibitiveinintent,andalmostentirelysexual. The sexuality, however, was indirect and unacknowledged;thereforeitsuffusedeveryotherpartofhereducation,whichreceivedmostof itsenergyfromthat recessiveandunspokenmoralforce.Shelearnedthatshewouldhavedutiestowardsherhusbandandfamilyandthat shemust fulfill them...Herneedlepointwasdelicateanduseless,she painted misty landscapes of thin water-color washes, and sheplayedthepianowithaforcelessbutprecisehand;yetshewasignorantofherownbodilyfunctions,shehadneverbeenalonetocareforherownselfonedayofherlife,norcoulditeverhaveoccurredtoherthat

shemightbecomeresponsibleforthewell-beingofanother...UponthatinnerprivacyWilliamStonernowintruded.

Theymarrywithoutknowledgeofoneanotherandwithnothingincommonbutdesire.Theirsexualincompatibilityisdescribedwiththesamechastenessasthedeepsensualityofthelovers:

Whenhereturned,Edithwasinbedwiththecoverspulledtoherchin,herfaceturnedupward,hereyesclosed,athinfrowncreasingherforehead.Silently,asifshewereasleep,Stonerundressedandgotintobedbesideher.Forseveralmoments he lay with his desire, which had become an impersonal thing,belongingtohimselfalone.HespoketoEdith,asiftofindahavenforwhathefelt;shedidnotanswer.Heputhishanduponherandfeltbeneaththethinclothofhernightgownthefleshhehadlongedfor.Hemovedhishanduponher;shedidnot stir; her frowndeepened.Againhe spoke, sayingher name to silence;thenhemovedhisbodyuponher,gentleinhisclumsiness.Whenhetouchedthesoftness of her thighs she turned her head sharply away and lifted her arm tocoverhereyes.Shemadenosound.

Hersexualitythenchangesviolentlywhenshedecidesshewantsachildandceasescompletelyassoonassheispregnant.Soonaftertheirdaughterisborn,thechildbecomesthefocusofthemother'sinnerturmoil,herunresolvedhatredofStoner. If theportraithasa flaw, it is in its remorselessness,yet such is theclarityoftheunderstandingthatwecometoacceptitsimplyasthewaythingsare, in the sameway as the love affair becomes theway thingsought tohavebeen.

In themanyminor portraits the touch is equally sure and psychologicallyastute: "Like many men who consider their success incomplete, he wasextraordinarilyvain and consumedwith a senseof his own importance.Everyten or fifteen minutes he removed a large gold watch from his vest pocket,looked at it, and nodded to himself." There are Stoner's friends, the brilliantDavidMasters,whogivesvoice tosomeofJohnWilliams'sownviewson thenature of a university, goes to the war and is killed in France; the worldlyGordonFinchwhoreturnsfromthewarwithmilitaryhonors to theuniversity,where he rises to be dean of the faculty. Finch remains Stoner's loyal ifsometimes exasperated ally and protector within the university, and hisuncomplicatedfriendshipisthereforthewholeofStoner'slife.Wewitness,too,the slow decline of Stoner's mentor, Archer Sloane, and the rise of hisreplacement,HollisLomax,whobecomesStoner'simplacableenemy.Inanovelof brilliant portraits, that of Hollis Lomax is the most complex. Some of the

scenesofconflictarealmostunbearableintheirintensity.Stonerisalsoanovelaboutwork,thehardunyieldingworkofthefarms;the

work of livingwithin a destructivemarriage and bringing up a daughterwithpatient mutability in a poisoned household; the work of teaching literature tomostlyunresponsivestudents.HowWilliamsmanagestodramatizethisalmostimpossiblematerialisitselfasmallmiracle.

Inarareinterviewgivenlateinlife,JohnWilliamssaysofStoner:

I think he's a real hero.A lot of peoplewho have read the novelthinkthatStonerhadsuchasadandbadlife.Ithinkhehadaverygoodlife.Hehadabetterlifethanmostpeopledo,certainly.Hewasdoingwhathewantedtodo,hehadsomefeelingforwhathewasdoing,hehadsomesenseof the importanceof the jobhewasdoing.Hewasawitnesstovaluesthatareimportant...TheimportantthinginthenoveltomeisStoner'ssenseofajob.Teachingtohimisajob--ajobinthegoodandhonorable senseof theword.His jobgavehimaparticularkindofidentityandmadehimwhathewas...It'stheloveofthethingthat'sessential.Andifyoulovesomething,you'regoingtounderstandit.Andifyouunderstandit,you'regoingtolearnalot.Thelackofthatlovedefinesabadteacher...Youneverknowalltheresultsofwhatyoudo. I think it all boils down towhat Iwas trying to get at inStoner.You'vegottokeepthefaith.Theimportantthingistokeepthetraditiongoing,becausethetraditioniscivilization.

JohnWilliamsisbestknownforhisnovels,NothingButtheNight,Stoner,Butcher'sCrossing,andAugustus,forwhichhewontheNationalBookAwardin1973.HealsopublishedtwovolumesofverseandeditedaclassicanthologyofEnglishRenaissancepoetry.Thenovelsarenotonlyremarkablefortheirstylebutalsoforthediversityoftheirsettings.Notwonovelsarealikeexceptfortheclarityoftheprose;theycouldeasilypassfortheworkoffourdifferentwriters.InthecourseofthelongandfascinatinginterviewthatWilliamsgavetoBrianWooleyfromwhichIhavequotedhisremarksaboutStoner,itgrowsclearthatofthefournovelsStoneristhemostpersonal,inthatitiscloselylinkedtoJohnWilliams'sownlifeandcareer,withoutinanywaybeingautobiographical.Theinterviewwasgiven in1985, theyearWilliamsretiredasProfessorofEnglishfrom the University of Denver where he had taught for thirty years. Pressedtowardstheendoftheinterviewhecomplainsaboutthechangeawayfrompure

studywithintheuniversities,theresultsofwhichcannotbepredicted,towardsapurelyutilitarian,problem-solvingwayofdoingthingsmoreefficiently,bothintheartsandsciences,allofwhichcanbepredicatedandmeasured.Then,morespecifically,Williamscomplainsabout thechanges in the teachingof literatureandtheattitudetothetext"asifanovelorpoemissomethingtobestudiedandunderstoodratherthanexperienced."Wooleythensuggestsplayfully,"It'stobeexegeted,inotherwords.""Yes.Asifitwereakindofpuzzle.""Andliteratureiswrittentobeentertaining?"Wooleysuggestsagain,"Absolutely.MyGod,toreadwithoutjoyisstupid."

There is entertainment of a very high order to be found in Stoner, whatWilliamshimselfdescribesas "anescape into reality" aswell aspainand joy.Theclarityof theprose is in itself anunadulterated joy.Setagenerationbackfrom Williams's own, the novel is distanced not only by this clarity andintelligence but by the way the often unpromising material is so coollydramatized.Thesmallworldof theuniversityopensout towarandpolitics, totheyearsoftheDepressionandthemillionswho"oncewalkederectintheirownidentities,"andthentothewholeoflife.

Ifthenovelcanbesaidtohaveonecentralidea,itissurelythatoflove,themanyformslovetakesandalltheforcesthatopposeit."It[love]wasapassionneitherofthemindnoroftheheart,itwasaforcethatcomprehendedthemboth,asiftheywerebutthematteroflove,itsspecificsubstance."

---JOHNMCGAHERN

STONER

This book is dedicated to my friends and former colleagues in theDepartment of English at the University of Missouri. They will recognize atoncethatit isaworkoffiction--thatnocharacterportrayedinit isbaseduponanyperson,livingordead,andthatnoeventhasitscounterpartintherealityweknew at the University of Missouri. They will also realize that I have takencertainliberties,bothphysicalandhistorical,withtheUniversityofMissouri,sothatineffectit,too,isafictionalplace.

IWilliamStonerenteredtheUniversityofMissouriasafreshmanintheyear

1910,attheageofnineteen.Eightyearslater,duringtheheightofWorldWarI,he receivedhisDoctorofPhilosophydegree and accepted an instructorship atthe sameUniversity,where he taught until his death in 1956.He did not riseabove the rank of assistant professor, and few students remembered himwithany sharpness after they had taken his courses.When he died his colleaguesmade a memorial contribution of a medieval manuscript to the Universitylibrary.ThismanuscriptmaystillbefoundintheRareBooksCollection,bearingthe inscription: "Presented to the Library of the University of Missouri, inmemoryofWilliamStoner,DepartmentofEnglish.Byhiscolleagues."

An occasional student who comes upon the name may wonder idly whoWilliam Stoner was, but he seldom pursues his curiosity beyond a casualquestion.Stoner'scolleagues,whoheldhiminnoparticularesteemwhenhewasalive,speakofhimrarelynow;totheolderones,hisnameisareminderoftheend that awaits them all, and to the younger ones it ismerely a soundwhichevokes no sense of the past and no identity with which they can associatethemselvesortheircareers.

Hewasbornin1891onasmallfarmincentralMissourinearthevillageofBooneville, some forty miles from Columbia, the home of the University.Thoughhisparentswereyoungat the timeofhisbirth--his father twenty-five,hismotherbarelytwenty--Stonerthoughtofthem,evenwhenhewasaboy,asold.Atthirtyhisfatherlookedfifty;stoopedbylabor,hegazedwithouthopeatthearidpatchof land that sustained the family fromoneyear to thenext.Hismother regardedher lifepatiently,as if itwerea longmoment that shehad toendure.Hereyeswerepaleandblurred,andthetinywrinklesaroundthemwereenhancedbythingrayinghairwornstraightoverherheadandcaughtinabunattheback.

Fromtheearliesttimehecouldremember,WilliamStonerhadhisduties.Attheageofsixhemilkedthebonycows,sloppedthepigsinthestyafewyardsfromthehouse,andgatheredsmalleggsfromaflockofspindlychickens.Andevenwhenhe startedattending the rural school eightmiles from the farm,hisday, from before dawn until after dark, was filled with work of one sort oranother.Atseventeenhisshoulderswerealreadybeginningtostoopbeneaththeweightofhisoccupation.

Itwasalonelyhousehold,ofwhichhewasanonlychild,anditwasboundtogetherbythenecessityofitstoil.Intheeveningsthethreeofthemsatinthesmallkitchen lightedbyasinglekerosene lamp,staring into theyellowflame;oftenduringthehourorsobetweensupperandbed,theonlysoundthatcouldbe

heardwasthewearymovementofabodyinastraightchairandthesoftcreakofatimbergivingalittlebeneaththeageofthehouse.

The house was built in a crude square, and the unpainted timbers saggedaroundtheporchanddoors.Ithadwiththeyearstakenonthecolorsofthedryland--grayandbrown,streakedwithwhite.Ononesideofthehousewasalongparlor, sparsely furnished with straight chairs and a few hewn tables, and akitchen,wherethefamilyspentmostofitslittletimetogether.Ontheothersidewere two bedrooms, each furnished with an iron bedstead enameled white, asinglestraightchair,andatable,withalampandawashbasinonit.Thefloorswere of unpainted plank, unevenly spaced and crackingwith age, up throughwhichduststeadilyseepedandwassweptbackeachdaybyStoner'smother.

At school he did his lessons as if they were chores only somewhat lessexhausting than those around the farm.When he finished high school in thespring of 1910, he expected to take over more of the work in the fields; itseemed to him that his father grew slower and more weary with the passingmonths.

Butoneeveninginlatespring,afterthetwomenhadspentafulldayhoeingcorn, his father spoke to him in the kitchen, after the supper dishes had beenclearedaway.

"Countyagentcomebylastweek."Williamlookedupfromthered-and-white-checkedoilclothspreadsmoothly

overtheroundkitchentable.Hedidnotspeak."Saystheyhaveanewschoolat theUniversityinColumbia.Theycall ita

CollegeofAgriculture.Sayshethinksyououghttogo.Ittakesfouryears.""Fouryears,"Williamsaid."Doesitcostmoney?""Youcouldworkyourroomandboard,"hisfathersaid."Yourmahasafirst

cousinownsaplacejustoutsideColumbia.Therewouldbebooksandthings.Icouldsendyoutwoorthreedollarsamonth."

Williamspreadhishandson the tablecloth,whichgleameddullyunder thelamplight.HehadneverbeenfartherfromhomethanBooneville,fifteenmilesaway.Heswallowedtosteadyhisvoice.

"Thinkyoucouldmanagetheplaceallbyyourself?"heasked."Yourma andme couldmanage. I'd plant the upper twenty inwheat; that

wouldcutdownthehandwork."Williamlookedathismother."Ma?"heasked.Shesaidtonelessly,"Youdowhatyourpasays.""Youreallywantmetogo?"heasked,asifhehalfhopedforadenial."You

reallywantmeto?"His father shifted hisweight on the chair.He looked at his thick, callused

fingers,intothecracksofwhichsoilhadpenetratedsodeeplythatitcouldnotbewashed away.He laced his fingers together and held them up from the table,almostinanattitudeofprayer.

"I never had no schooling to speak of," he said, looking at his hands. "Istartedworkinga farmwhenI finishedsixthgrade.NeverheldwithschoolingwhenIwasayoung 'un.ButnowIdon'tknow.Seems like the landgetsdrierandhardertoworkeveryyear;itain'trichlikeitwaswhenIwasaboy.Countyagent says they got new ideas, ways of doing things they teach you at theUniversity.Maybe he's right. Sometimes when I'm working the field I get tothinking." He paused. His fingers tightened upon themselves, and his claspedhands dropped to the table. "I get to thinking--"He scowled at his hands andshookhishead. "Yougoon to theUniversitycome fall.Yourmaandmewillmanage."

It was the longest speech he had ever heard his fathermake. That fall hewenttoColumbiaandenrolledintheUniversityasafreshmanintheCollegeofAgriculture.

He came to Columbia with a new black broadcloth suit ordered from thecatalogueofSears&Roebuckandpaidforwithhismother'seggmoney,aworngreatcoatthathadbelongedtohisfather,apairofbluesergetrousersthatonceamonthhehadworntotheMethodistchurchinBooneville,twowhiteshirts,twochangesofworkclothing,andtwenty-fivedollarsincash,whichhisfatherhadborrowed from a neighbor against the fall wheat. He started walking fromBooneville,whereintheearlymorninghisfatherandmotherbroughthimonthefarm'sflat-bed,mule-drawnwagon.

Itwasahotfallday,andtheroadfromBoonevilletoColumbiawasdusty;hehadbeenwalkingfornearlyanhourbeforeagoodswagoncameupbesidehimandthedriveraskedhimifhewantedaride.Henoddedandgotuponthewagonseat.Hissergetrouserswereredwithdust tohisknees,andhissunandwind-brownedfacewascakedwithdirt,wheretheroaddusthadmingledwithhis sweat.During the long ridehekeptbrushingathis trouserswithawkwardhandsandrunninghisfingersthroughhisstraightsandyhair,whichwouldnotHeflatonhishead.

Theygot toColumbiainthelateafternoon.Thedriver letStoneroffat theoutskirtsoftownandpointedtoagroupofbuildingsshadedbytallelms."That'syourUniversity,"hesaid."That'swhereyou'llbegoingtoschool."

For severalminutes after theman had driven off, Stoner stood unmoving,staring at the complex of buildings. He had never before seen anything so

imposing.Theredbrickbuildingsstretchedupwardfromabroadfieldofgreenthatwasbrokenbystonewalksandsmallpatchesofgarden.Beneathhisawe,hehadasuddensenseofsecurityandserenityhehadneverfeltbefore.Thoughitwas late, he walked for many minutes about the edges of the campus, onlylooking,asifhehadnorighttoenter.

Itwasnearlydarkwhenheaskedapasser-bydirectionstoAshlandGravel,theroadthatwouldleadhimtothefarmownedbyJimFoote,thefirstcousinofhismotherforwhomhewastowork;anditwasafterdarkwhenhegottothewhitetwo-storiedframehousewherehewastolive.HehadnotseentheFootesbefore,andhefeltstrangegoingtothemsolate.

Theygreetedhimwithanod,inspectinghimclosely.Afteramoment,duringwhichStonerstoodawkwardlyin thedoorway,JimFootemotionedhimintoasmall dim parlor crowded with overstuffed furniture and bric-a-brac on dullygleamingtables.Hedidnotsit.

"Etsupper?"Footeasked."No,sir,"Stoneranswered.Mrs.Footecrookedanindexfingerathimandpaddedaway.Stonerfollowed

her through several rooms into a kitchen,where shemotioned him to sit at atable. She put a pitcher ofmilk and several squares of cold cornbread beforehim.Hesippedthemilk,buthismouth,dryfromexcitement,wouldnottakethebread.

Footecameintotheroomandstoodbesidehiswife.Hewasasmallman,notmorethanfivefeetthreeinches,withaleanfaceandasharpnose.Hiswifewasfour inches taller,andheavy; rimless spectacleshidhereyes,andher thin lipsweretight.Thetwoofthemwatchedhungrilyashesippedhismilk.

"Feed and water the livestock, slop the pigs in the morning," Foote saidrapidly.

Stonerlookedathimblankly."What?""That'swhatyoudointhemorning,"Footesaid,"beforeyouleaveforyour

school.Thenin theeveningyoufeedandslopagain,gather theeggs,milk thecows. Chop firewood when you find time. Weekends, you help me withwhateverI'mdoing."

"Yes,sir,"Stonersaid.Footestudiedhimforamoment."College,"hesaidandshookhishead.So for nine months' room and board he fed and watered the livestock,

slopped pigs, gathered eggs, milked cows, and chopped firewood. He alsoplowedandharrowed fields,dug stumps (in thewinterbreaking through threeinchesoffrozensoil),andchurnedbutterforMrs.Foote,whowatchedhimwithherheadbobbingingrimapprovalasthewoodenchurnersplashedupanddown

throughthemilk.Hewasquarteredonanupperfloorthathadoncebeenastoreroom;hisonly

furniturewas a black iron bedsteadwith sagging frames that supported a thinfeathermattress,abroken table thatheldakerosene lamp,astraightchair thatsatunevenlyonthefloor,andalargeboxthatheusedasadesk.Inthewintertheonlyheathegotseepedupthroughthefloorfromtheroomsbelow;hewrappedhimselfinthetatteredquiltsandblanketsallowedhimandblewonhishandssothattheycouldturnthepagesofhisbookswithouttearingthem.

HedidhisworkattheUniversityashedidhisworkonthefarm--thoroughly,conscientiously,withneitherpleasurenordistress.AttheendofhisfirstyearhisgradeaveragewasslightlybelowaB;hewaspleasedthatitwasnolowerandnotconcernedthatitwasnohigher.Hewasawarethathehadlearnedthingsthathehadnotknownbefore,butthismeanttohimonlythathemightdoaswellinhissecondyearashehaddoneinhisfirst.

Thesummerafterhisfirstyearofcollegehereturnedtohisfather'sfarmandhelpedwith thecrops.Oncehis fatheraskedhimhowhe likedschool, andhereplied that he liked it fine.His fathernoddedanddidnotmention thematteragain.

ItwasnotuntilhereturnedforhissecondyearthatWilliamStonerlearnedwhyhehadcometocollege.

Byhissecondyearhewasafamiliarfigureonthecampus.Ineveryseasonhewore the same black broadcloth suit, white shirt, and string tie; his wristsprotrudedfromthesleevesofthejacket,andthetrousersrodeawkwardlyabouthislegs,asifitwereauniformthathadoncebelongedtosomeoneelse.

Hishoursofworkincreasedwithhisemployers'growingindolence,andhespentthelongeveningsinhisroommethodicallydoinghisclassassignments;hehadbegunthesequencethatwouldleadhimtoaBachelorofSciencedegreeintheCollegeofAgriculture,andduringthisfirstsemesterofhissecondyearhehadtwobasicsciences,acoursefromtheschoolofAgricultureinsoilchemistry,andacoursethatwasratherperfunctorilyrequiredofallUniversitystudents--asemestersurveyofEnglishliterature.

After the first fewweeks he had little difficulty with the science courses;there was somuchwork to be done, somany things to be remembered. Thecourseinsoilchemistrycaughthisinterestinageneralway;ithadnotoccurredtohim that thebrownish clodswithwhichhehadworked formostofhis lifewereanythingotherthanwhattheyappearedtobe,andhebeganvaguelytoseethat his growing knowledge of themmight be usefulwhen he returned to his

father's farm. But the required survey of English literature troubled anddisquietedhiminawaynothinghadeverdonebefore.

The instructorwas amanofmiddle age, inhis early fifties; his namewasArcherSloane,andhecametohistaskofteachingwithaseemingdisdainandcontempt, as if he perceived between his knowledge andwhat he could say agulf so profound that hewouldmake no effort to close it.Hewas feared anddisliked by most of his students, and he responded with a detached, ironicamusement. He was a man of middle height, with a long, deeply lined face,cleanly shaven;hehadan impatientgestureof runninghis fingers through theshockofhisgraycurlinghair.Hisvoicewasflatanddry,anditcamethroughbarelymoving lipswithout expression or intonation; but his long thin fingersmovedwithgraceandpersuasion,asifgivingtothewordsashapethathisvoicecouldnot.

Away from the classroom, doing his chores about the farm or blinkingagainstthedimlamplightashestudiedinhiswindowlessatticroom,Stonerwasoftenawarethattheimageofthismanhadrisenupbeforetheeyeofhismind.He had difficulty summoning up the face of any other of his instructors orrememberinganythingveryspecificaboutanyotherofhisclasses;butalwaysonthethresholdofhisawarenesswaitedthefigureofArcherSloane,andhisdryvoice, and his contemptuously offhand words about some passage fromBeowulf,orsomecoupletofChaucer's.

He found that he could not handle the survey as he did his other courses.Though he remembered the authors and their works and their dates and theirinfluences,henearlyfailedhisfirstexamination;andhedidlittlebetteronhissecond.Hereadandrereadhisliteratureassignmentssofrequentlythathisworkin other courses began to suffer; and still the words he read were words onpages,andhecouldnotseetheuseofwhathedid.

AndheponderedthewordsthatArcherSloanespokeinclass,asifbeneaththeir flat,drymeaninghemightdiscoveraclue thatwould leadhimwherehewasintendedtogo;hehunchedforwardoverthedesk-toponachairtoosmalltohold him comfortably, grasping the edges of the desk-top so tightly that hisknuckles showed white against his brown hard skin; he frowned intently andgnawedathisunderlip.ButasStoner'sandhisclassmates'attentiongrewmoredesperate, Archer Sloane's contempt grew more compelling. And once thatcontempteruptedintoangerandwasdirectedatWilliamStoneralone.

TheclasshadreadtwoplaysbyShakespeareandwasendingtheweekwithastudyof thesonnets.Thestudentswereedgyandpuzzled,half frightenedatthetensiongrowingbetweenthemselvesandtheslouchingfigurethatregardedthemfrombehind the lectern.Sloanehad readaloud to themtheseventy-third

sonnet; his eyes roved about the room and his lips tightened in a humorlesssmile.

"What does the sonnet mean?" he asked abruptly, and paused, his eyessearchingtheroomwithagrimandalmostpleasedhopelessness."Mr.Wilbur?"Therewasnoanswer."Mr.Schmidt?"Someonecoughed.SloaneturnedhisdarkbrighteyesuponStoner."Mr.Stoner,whatdoesthesonnetmean?"

Stonerswallowedandtriedtoopenhismouth."It is a sonnet,Mr. Stoner," Sloane said dryly, "a poetical composition of

fourteenlines,withacertainpatternIamsureyouhavememorized.ItiswrittenintheEnglishlanguage,whichIbelieveyouhavebeenspeakingforsomeyears.Its author isWilliam Shakespeare, a poet who is dead, but who neverthelessoccupies a position of some importance in theminds of a few."He looked atStoner for a moment more, and then his eyes went blank as they fixedunseeingly beyond the class.Without looking at his book he spoke the poemagain; and his voice deepened and softened, as if the words and sounds andrhythmshadforamomentbecomehimself:

"ThattimeofyearthoumaystinmebeholdWhenyellowleaves,ornone,orfew,dohangUponthoseboughswhichshakeagainstthecold,Bareruin'dchoirswherelatethesweetbirdssang.Inmethousee'stthetwilightofsuchdayAsaftersunsetfadethinthewest;Whichbyandbyblacknightdothtakeaway,Death'ssecondself,thatsealsupallinrest.Inmethousee'sttheglowingofsuchfire,Thatontheashesofhisyouthdothlie,Asthedeath-bedwhereonitmustexpire,Consumedwiththatwhichitwasnourishtby.Thisthouperceivest,whichmakesthylovemorestrong,Tolovethatwellwhichthoumustleaveerelong."

In a moment of silence, someone cleared his throat. Sloane repeated thelines,hisvoicebecomingflat,hisownagain.

"Thisthouperceivest,whichmakesthylovemorestrong,Tolovethatwellwhichthoumustleaveerelong."

Sloane's eyes came back to William Stoner, and he said dryly, "Mr.Shakespearespeakstoyouacrossthreehundredyears,Mr.Stoner;doyouhearhim?"

WilliamStoner realized that for severalmoments he had been holding hisbreath.He expelled it gently,minutely awareof his clothingmovinguponhisbodyashisbreathwentoutofhislungs.HelookedawayfromSloaneabouttheroom.Lightslantedfromthewindowsandsettleduponthefacesofhisfellowstudents,sothattheilluminationseemedtocomefromwithinthemandgooutagainstadimness;astudentblinked,andathinshadowfelluponacheekwhosedown had caught the sunlight. Stoner became aware that his fingers wereunclenchingtheirhardgriponhisdesk-top.Heturnedhishandsaboutunderhisgaze,marvelingattheirbrownness,attheintricatewaythenailsfitintohisbluntfinger-ends;hethoughthecouldfeelthebloodflowinginvisiblythroughthetinyveins and arteries, throbbing delicately and precariously from his fingertipsthroughhisbody.

Sloanewas speaking again. "What does he say to you,Mr. Stoner?Whatdoeshissonnetmean?"

Stoner's eyes lifted slowly and reluctantly. "Itmeans," he said, andwith asmallmovementraisedhishandsuptowardtheair;hefelthiseyesglazeoverastheysoughtthefigureofArcherSloane."Itmeans,"hesaidagain,andcouldnotfinishwhathehadbeguntosay.

Sloanelookedathimcuriously.Thenhenoddedabruptlyandsaid,"Classisdismissed."Withoutlookingatanyoneheturnedandwalkedoutoftheroom.

William Stoner was hardly aware of the students about him who rosegrumbling and muttering from their seats and shuffled out of the room. Forseveralminutes after they left he sat unmoving, staring out before him at thenarrowplankedflooringthathadbeenwornbareofvarnishbytherestlessfeetofstudentshewouldneverseeorknow.Heslidhisownfeetacross the floor,hearingthedryraspofwoodonhissoles,andfeelingtheroughnessthroughtheleather.Thenhetoogotupandwentslowlyoutoftheroom.

Thethinchillofthelatefalldaycutthroughhisclothing.Helookedaroundhim,atthebaregnarledbranchesofthetreesthatcurledandtwistedagainstthepalesky.Students,hurryingacrossthecampustotheirclasses,brushedagainsthim; he heard themutter of their voices and the click of their heels upon thestonepaths,andsawtheir faces, flushedby thecold,bentdownwardagainstaslightbreeze.Helookedatthemcuriously,asifhehadnotseenthembefore,andfeltverydistantfromthemandveryclosetothem.Heheldthefeelingtohimas

hehurried tohisnextclass,andheld it through the lecturebyhisprofessor insoil chemistry, against the droning voice that recited things to be written innotebooks and remembered by a process of drudgery that even now wasbecomingunfamiliartohim.

InthesecondsemesterofthatschoolyearWilliamStonerdroppedhisbasicscience courses and interrupted hisAg School sequence; he took introductorycoursesinphilosophyandancienthistoryandtwocoursesinEnglishliterature.Inthesummerhereturnedagaintohisparents'farmandhelpedhisfatherwiththecropsanddidnotmentionhisworkattheUniversity.

When he was much older, he was to look back upon his last twoundergraduate years as if theywere an unreal time that belonged to someoneelse,atimethatpassed,notintheregularflowtowhichhewasused,butinfitsandstarts.Onemomentwasjuxtaposedagainstanother,yetisolatedfromit,andhehadthefeelingthathewasremovedfromtime,watchingasitpassedbeforehimlikeagreatunevenlyturneddiorama.

He became conscious of himself in a way that he had not done before.Sometimeshe lookedathimself inamirror,at the longfacewith its thatchofdrybrownhair, and touchedhis sharp cheekbones;he saw the thinwrists thatprotruded inches out of his coat sleeves; and he wondered if he appeared asludicroustoothersashedidtohimself.

Hehadnoplansforthefuture,andhespoketonooneofhisuncertainty.HecontinuedtoworkattheFootes'forhisroomandboard,buthenolongerworkedthe long hours of his first two years at the University. For three hours everyafternoonandforhalfadayontheweekendsheallowedhimselftobeusedasJimandSerenaFootedesired;therestofthetimeheclaimedashisown.

SomeofthistimehespentinhislittleatticroomatoptheFootehouse;butasoftenashecould,afterhisclasseswereoverandhisworkattheFootes'done,hereturnedtotheUniversity.Sometimes,intheevenings,hewanderedinthelongopen quadrangle, among couples who strolled together and murmured softly;thoughhedidnotknowanyof them,andthoughhedidnotspeakto them,hefeltakinshipwiththem.Sometimeshestoodinthecenterofthequad,lookingatthefivehugecolumnsinfrontofJesseHallthatthrustupwardintothenightoutofthecoolgrass;hehadlearnedthatthesecolumnsweretheremainsoftheoriginal main building of the University, destroyed many years ago by fire.Grayishsilverinthemoonlight,bareandpure,theyseemedtohimtorepresentthewayoflifehehadembraced,asatemplerepresentsagod.

In the University library he wandered through the stacks, among the

thousandsofbooks,inhalingthemustyodorofleather,cloth,anddryingpageasifitwereanexoticincense.

Sometimeshewouldpause,removeavolumefromtheshelves,andholditforamomentinhislargehands,whichtingledatthestillunfamiliarfeelofspineandboardandunresistingpage.Thenhewouldleafthroughthebook,readingaparagraphhereandthere,hisstifffingerscarefulastheyturnedthepages,asifin their clumsiness theymight tear and destroy what they took such pains touncover.

He had no friends, and for the first time in his life he became aware ofloneliness.Sometimes,inhisatticroomatnight,hewouldlookupfromabookhewas readingandgaze in thedarkcornersofhis room,where the lamplightflickered against the shadows. If he stared long and intently, the darknessgathered into a light,which took the insubstantial shape ofwhat he had beenreading.Andhewould feel thathewasoutof time,ashehad felt thatday inclass when Archer Sloane had spoken to him. The past gathered out of thedarknesswhereitstayed,andthedeadraisedthemselvestolivebeforehim;andthepastandthedeadflowedintothepresentamongthealive,sothathehadforanintenseinstantavisionofdensenessintowhichhewascompactedandfromwhichhecouldnot escape, andhadnowish to escape.Tristan, Iseult the fair,walkedbeforehim;PaoloandFrancescawhirledintheglowingdark;HelenandbrightParis, their facesbitterwithconsequence, rose from thegloom.Andhewaswiththeminawaythathecouldneverbewithhisfellowswhowentfromclass to class,who found a local habitation in a large university inColumbia,Missouri,andwhowalkedunheedinginamidwesternair.

InayearhelearnedGreekandLatinwellenoughtoreadsimpletexts;oftenhis eyes were red and burning from strain and lack of sleep. Sometimes hethoughtofhimselfashehadbeenafewyearsbeforeandwasastonishedbythememoryofthatstrangefigure,brownandpassiveastheearthfromwhichithademerged.Hethoughtofhisparents,andtheywerenearlyasstrangeasthechildtheyhadborne;hefeltamixedpityforthemandadistantlove.

NearthemiddleofhisfourthyearattheUniversity,ArcherSloanestoppedhimonedayafterclassandaskedhimtodropbyhisofficeforachat.

It was winter, and a low dampmidwesternmist floated over the campus.Even at midmorning the thin branches of the dogwood trees glistened withhoarfrost,andtheblackvinesthattrailedupthegreatcolumnsbeforeJesseHallwererimmedwithiridescentcrystalsthatwinkedagainstthegrayness.Stoner'sgreatcoat was so shabby and worn that he had decided not to wear it to seeSloaneeventhoughtheweatherwasfreezing.HewasshiveringashehurriedupthewalkandupthewidestonestepsthatledintoJesseHall.

Afterthecold,theheatinsidethebuildingwasintense.Thegraynessoutsidetrickledthroughthewindowsandglasseddoorsoneithersideofthehall,sothattheyellow tiled floors glowedbrighter than thegray light upon them, and thegreat oaken columns and the rubbedwalls gleamed from their dark. Shufflingfootstepshisseduponthefloors,andamurmurofvoiceswasmutedbythegreatexpanse of the hall; dim figuresmoved slowly,mingling and parting; and theoppressiveairgatheredthesmelloftheoiledwallsandthewetodorofwoolenclothing. Stonerwent up the smoothmarble stairs toArcher Sloane's second-flooroffice.Heknockedonthecloseddoor,heardavoice,andwentin.

Theofficewaslongandnarrow,lightedbyasinglewindowat thefarend.Shelvescrowdedwithbooks rose to thehighceiling.Near thewindowadeskwaswedged, and before this desk, half turned and outlined darkly against thelight,satArcherSloane.

"Mr.Stoner,"Sloanesaiddryly,halfrisingandindicatingaleather-coveredchairfacinghim.Stonersatdown.

"Ihavebeenlookingthroughyourrecords."Sloanepausedandliftedafolderfrom his desk, regarding itwith detached irony. "I hope you do notmindmyinquisitiveness."

Stonerwethislipsandshiftedonthechair.Hetriedtofoldhislargehandstogethersothattheywouldbeinvisible."No,sir,"hesaidinahuskyvoice.

Sloanenodded."Good.Inotethatyoubeganyourcourseofstudieshereasan agriculture student and that sometime during your sophomore year youswitchedyourprogramtoliterature.Isthatcorrect?"

"Yes,sir,"Stonersaid.Sloaneleanedbackinhischairandgazedupatthesquareoflightthatcame

in from the high small window. He tapped his fingertips together and turnedbacktotheyoungmanwhosatstifflyinfrontofhim.

"Theofficialpurposeofthisconferenceistoinformyouthatyouwillhavetomakeaformalchangeofstudyprogram,declaringyourintentiontoabandonyour initial course of study and declare your final one. It's a matter of fiveminutesorsoattheregistrar'soffice.Youwilltakecareofthat,won'tyou?"

"Yes,sir,"Stonersaid."Butasyoumayhaveguessed,thatisnotthereasonIaskedyoutodropby.

DoyoumindifIinquirealittleaboutyourfutureplans?""No, sir," Stoner said.He looked at his hands,whichwere twisted tightly

together.Sloane touched the folder of papers that he had dropped on his desk. "I

gatherthatyouwereabitolderthantheordinarystudentwhenyoufirstenteredtheUniversity.Nearlytwenty,Ibelieve?"

"Yes,sir,"Stonersaid."Andatthattimeyourplansweretoundertakethesequenceofferedbythe

schoolofAgriculture?""Yes,sir."Sloaneleanedbackinhischairandregardedthehighdimceiling.Heasked

abruptly,"Andwhatareyourplansnow?"Stoner was silent. This was something he had not thought about, had not

wantedtothinkabout.Hesaidatlast,withatouchofresentment,"Idon'tknow.Ihaven'tgivenitmuchthought."

Sloane said, "Are you looking forward to the daywhen you emerge fromthesecloisteredwallsintowhatsomecalltheworld?"

Stonergrinnedthroughhisembarrassment."No,sir."Sloane tapped the folder of papers on his desk. "I am informed by these

recordsthatyoucomefromafarmingcommunity.Itakeitthatyourparentsarefarmpeople?"

Stonernodded."Anddoyouintendtoreturntothefarmafteryoureceiveyourdegreehere?""No, sir," Stoner said, and the decisiveness of his voice surprised him.He

thoughtwithsomewonderofthedecisionhehadsuddenlymade.Sloanenodded. "I should imaginea serious studentof literaturemight find

hisskillsnotpreciselysuitedtothepersuasionofthesoil.""Iwon't go back," Stoner said as if Sloane had not spoken. "I don't know

what I'll do exactly." He looked at his hands and said to them, "I can't quiterealizethatI'llbethroughsosoon,thatI'llbeleavingtheUniversityattheendoftheyear."

Sloanesaidcasually,"Thereis,ofcourse,noabsoluteneedforyoutoleave.Itakeitthatyouhavenoindependentmeans?"

Stonershookhishead."Youhaveanexcellentundergraduaterecord.Exceptforyour"--heliftedhis

eyebrowsandsmiled--"exceptforyoursophomoresurveyofEnglishliterature,youhaveallA's inyourEnglishcourses;nothingbelowaBelsewhere. Ifyoucouldmaintainyourselfforayearorsobeyondgraduation,youcould,I'msure,successfullycompletetheworkforyourMasterofArts;afterwhichyouwouldprobablybeabletoteachwhileyouworkedtowardyourdoctorate.Ifthatsortofthingwouldinterestyouatall."

Stonerdrewback."Whatdoyoumean?"heaskedandheardsomethinglikefearinhisvoice.

Sloaneleanedforwarduntilhisfacewasclose;Stonersawthelinesonthelong thin face soften, and he heard the drymocking voice becomegentle and

unprotected."But don't you know, Mr. Stoner?" Sloane asked. "Don't you understand

aboutyourselfyet?You'regoingtobeateacher."Suddenly Sloane seemed very distant, and thewalls of the office receded.

Stonerfelthimselfsuspendedinthewideair,andheheardhisvoiceask,"Areyousure?"

"I'msure,"Sloanesaidsoftly."Howcanyoutell?Howcanyoubesure?""It'slove,Mr.Stoner,"Sloanesaidcheerfully."Youareinlove.It'sassimple

asthat."Itwas as simple as that.Hewas aware that he nodded toSloane and said

somethinginconsequential.Thenhewaswalkingoutoftheoffice.Hislipsweretinglingandhisfingertipswerenumb;hewalkedasifhewereasleep,yethewasintensely aware of his surroundings. He brushed against the polishedwoodenwalls in the corridor, andhe thought he could feel thewarmth and ageof thewood;hewentslowlydownthestairsandwonderedat theveinedcoldmarblethatseemedtoslipalittlebeneathhisfeet.Inthehallsthevoicesofthestudentsbecamedistinctandindividualoutof thehushedmurmur,andtheirfaceswerecloseandstrangeandfamiliar.HewentoutofJesseHallintothemorning,andthegraynessno longer seemed tooppress the campus; it ledhis eyesoutwardandupwardintothesky,wherehelookedasiftowardapossibilityforwhichhehadnoname.

InthefirstweekofJune,intheyear1914,WilliamStoner,withsixtyotheryoungmenandafewyoungladies, receivedhisBachelorofArtsdegreefromtheUniversityofMissouri.

Toattendtheceremony,hisparents--inaborrowedbuggydrawnbytheirolddunmare--hadstartedthedaybefore,drivingovernighttheforty-oddmilesfromthe farm,so that theyarrivedat theFootes' shortlyafterdawn, stiff from theirsleeplessjourney.Stonerwentdownintotheyardtomeetthem.Theystoodsidebysideinthecrispmorninglightandawaitedhisapproach.

Stonerandhis father shookhandswitha singlequickpumpingaction,notlookingateachother.

"Howdo,"hisfathersaid.Hismothernodded."Yourpaandmecomedowntoseeyougraduate."Foramomenthedidnotspeak.Thenhesaid,"You'dbettercomeinandget

somebreakfast"Theywerealoneinthekitchen;sinceStonerhadcometothefarmtheFootes

hadgot in thehabitofsleeping late.Butneither thennorafterhisparentshadfinishedbreakfastcouldhebringhimselftotellthemofhischangeofplans,of

hisdecisionnottoreturntothefarm.Onceortwicehestartedtospeak;thenhelooked at the brown faces that rose nakedly out of their new clothing, andthoughtofthelongjourneytheyhadmadeandoftheyearstheyhadawaitedhisreturn.He sat stifflywith themuntil they finished the last of their coffee, anduntiltheFootesrousedthemselvesandcameintothekitchen.ThenhetoldthemthathehadtogoearlytotheUniversityandthathewouldseethemtherelaterintheday,attheexercises.

Hewanderedaboutthecampus,carryingtheblackrobeandcapthathehadhired; they were heavy and troublesome, but he could find no place to leavethem.Hethoughtofwhathewouldhavetotellhisparents,andforthefirsttimerealizedthefinalityofhisdecision,andalmostwishedthathecouldrecallit.Hefelthisinadequacytothegoalhehadsorecklesslychosenandfelttheattractionoftheworldhehadabandoned.Hegrievedforhisownlossandforthatofhisparents,andeveninhisgrieffelthimselfdrawingawayfromthem.

Hecarriedthisfeelingoflosswithhimthroughoutthegraduationexercises;whenhisnamewasspokenandhewalkedacrosstheplatformtoreceiveascrollfrom a man faceless behind a soft gray beard, he could not believe his ownpresence,andtherollofparchmentinhishandhadnomeaning.Hecouldonlythinkofhismotherandfathersittingstifflyanduneasilyinthegreatcrowd.

When the ceremonies were over he drove with them back to the Footes',where they were to stay overnight and start the journey home the followingdawn.

TheysatlateintheFootes'parlor.JimandSerenaFootestayedupwiththemforawhile.Everynowand then JimandStoner'smotherwouldexchange thenameofa relativeand lapse intosilence.His fathersatonastraightchair,hislegsspreadapart,leaningalittleforward,hisbroadhandsclaspinghiskneecaps.Finally theFootes lookedateachotherandyawnedandannouncedthat itwaslate.Theywenttotheirbedroom,andthethreewereleftalone.

There was another silence. His parents, who looked straight ahead in theshadowscastbytheirownbodies,everynowandthenglancedsidewaysattheirson,asiftheydidnotwishtodisturbhiminhisnewestate.

After severalminutesWilliamStoner leaned forward and spoke, his voicelouderandmoreforcefulthanhehadintended."Ioughttohavetoldyousooner.Ioughttohavetoldyoulastsummer,orthismorning."

Hisparents'facesweredullandexpressionlessinthelamplight."WhatI'mtryingtosayis,I'mnotcomingbackwithyoutothefarm."Noonemoved.Hisfathersaid,"Yougotsomethingstofinishuphere,we

cangobackinthemorningandyoucancomeonhomeinafewdays."Stoner rubbed his facewith his open palm. "That's--notwhat Imeant. I'm

tryingtotellyouIwon'tbecomingbacktothefarmatall."Hisfather'shandstightenedonhiskneecapsandhedrewbackinthechair.

Hesaid,"Yougetyourselfinsomekindoftrouble?"Stonersmiled."It'snothinglikethat.I'mgoingontoschoolforanotheryear,

maybetwoorthree."His father shook his head. "I seen you get through this evening. And the

countyagentsaidthefarmschooltookfouryears."Stonertriedtoexplaintohisfatherwhatheintendedtodo,triedtoevokein

himhisownsenseofsignificanceandpurpose.Helistenedtohiswordsfallasiffromthemouthofanother,andwatchedhisfather'sface,whichreceivedthosewordsasastonereceivestherepeatedblowsofafist.Whenhehadfinishedhesatwithhishandsclaspedbetweenhiskneesandhisheadbowed.Helistenedtothesilenceoftheroom.

Finally his fathermoved in his chair. Stoner looked up.His parents' facesconfrontedhim;healmostcriedouttothem.

"Idon'tknow,"hisfathersaid.Hisvoicewashuskyandtired."Ididn'tfigureitwouldtumoutlikethis.IthoughtIwasdoingthebestforyouIcould,sendingyouhere.Yourmaandmehasalwaysdonethebestwecouldforyou."

"I know," Stoner said.He could not look at them longer. "Will you be allright?Icouldcomebackforawhilethissummerandhelp.Icould--"

"Ifyouthinkyououghttostayhereandstudyyourbooks,thenthat'swhatyououghttodo.Yourmaandmecanmanage."

Hismotherwasfacinghim,butshedidnotseehim.Hereyesweresqueezedshut;shewasbreathingheavily,herfacetwistedasifinpain,andherclosedfistswere pressed against her cheeks. With wonder Stoner realized that she wascrying,deeplyandsilently,withtheshameandawkwardnessofonewhoseldomweeps.Hewatchedherforamomentmore;thenhegotheavilytohisfeetandwalkedoutof theparlor.Hefoundhiswayupthenarrowstairs that led tohisatticroom;foralongtimehelayonhisbedandstaredwithopeneyesintothedarknessabovehim.

II

Two weeks after Stoner received his Bachelor of Arts degree, ArchdukeFrancis Ferdinand was assassinated at Sarajevo by a Serbian nationalist; andbefore autumnwarwas general all over Europe. It was a topic of continuinginterestamongtheolderstudents;theywonderedaboutthepartAmericawouldeventuallyplay,andtheywerepleasantlyunsureoftheirownfutures.

ButbeforeWilliamStonerthefuturelaybrightandcertainandunchanging.Hesawit,notasafluxofeventandchangeandpotentiality,butasa territoryaheadthatawaitedhisexploration.Hesawitas thegreatUniversitylibrary, towhichnewwingsmightbebuilt,towhichnewbooksmightbeaddedandfromwhicholdonesmightbewithdrawn,while its truenature remainedessentiallyunchanged. He saw the future in the institution to which he had committedhimselfandwhichhesoimperfectlyunderstood;heconceivedhimselfchanginginthatfuture,buthesawthefutureitselfastheinstrumentofchangeratherthanitsobject.

Near the end of that summer, just before the beginning of the autumnsemester,hevisitedhisparents.Hehadintendedtohelpwiththesummercrop;but he found that his father had hired aNegro field handwhoworkedwith aquiet, fierce intensity, accomplishing by himself in a day nearly as much asWilliam and his father together had once done in the same time. His parentswerehappytoseehim,andtheyseemednottoresenthisdecision.Buthefoundthathehadnothingtosaytothem;already,herealized,heandhisparentswerebecoming strangers; and he felt his love increased by its loss. He returned toColumbiaaweekearlierthanhehadintended.

He began to resent the time he had to spend at work on the Foote farm.Having come to his studies late, he felt the urgency of study. Sometimes,immersedinhisbooks,therewouldcometohimtheawarenessofallthathedidnotknow,ofallthathehadnotread;andtheserenityforwhichhelaboredwasshattered ashe realized the little timehehad in life to read somuch, to learnwhathehadtoknow.

He finishedhiscoursework for theMasterofArtsdegree in the springof1915 and spent the summer completing his thesis, a prosodie study of one ofChaucer'sCanterburyTales.BeforethesummerwasouttheFootestoldhimthattheywouldnotneedhimanylongeronthefarm.

Hehadexpectedhisdismissalandinsomewayshewelcomedit;butforamoment after it happened he had a twinge of panic. It was as if the last tiebetweenhimself and the old life hadbeen cut.He spent the lastweeks of the

summerathisfather'sfarm,puttingthefinishingtouchesonhisthesis.Bythattime Archer Sloane had arranged for him to teach two classes of beginningEnglish to incoming freshmen,while he started towork toward his Ph.D. Forthishereceivedfourhundreddollarsayear.HeremovedhisbelongingsfromtheFootes'tinyatticroom,whichhehadoccupiedforfiveyears,andtookanevensmallerroomneartheUniversity.

Thoughhewastoteachonlythefundamentalsofgrammarandcompositiontoagroupofunselectedfreshmen,helookedforwardtohistaskwithenthusiasmandwith a strong sense of its significance. He planned the course during theweekbeforetheopeningoftheautumnsemester,andsawthekindsofpossibilitythatoneseesasonestruggleswiththematerialsandsubjectsofanendeavor;hefelt the logicofgrammar,andhe thoughtheperceivedhowitspreadout fromitself, permeating the language and supporting human thought. In the simplecompositional exercises he made for his students he saw the potentialities ofproseanditsbeauties,andhelookedforwardtoanimatinghisstudentswiththesenseofwhatheperceived.

Butinthefirstclasseshemet,after theopeningroutinesofrollsandstudyplans,whenhebegantoaddresshimselftohissubjectandhisstudents,hefoundthathissenseofwonderremainedhiddenwithinhim.Sometimes,ashespoketohis students, it was as if he stood outside himself and observed a strangerspeakingtoagroupassembledunwillingly;heheardhisownflatvoicerecitingthematerialshehadprepared,andnothingofhisownexcitementcamethroughthatrecitation.

Hefoundhisreleaseandfulfillmentintheclassesinwhichhehimselfwasastudent.Therehewasabletorecapturethesenseofdiscoveryhehadfeltonthatfirst day, when Archer Sloane had spoken to him in class and he had, in aninstant, become someone other than who he had been. As his mind engageditselfwith itssubject,as itgrappledwith thepowerof the literaturehestudiedand tried to understand its nature, he was aware of a constant change withinhimself;andashewasawareof that,hemovedoutwardfromhimself into theworldwhichcontainedhim,so thatheknew that thepoemofMilton 'sthatheread or the essay ofBacon's or the dramaofBen Jonson's changed theworldwhich was its subject, and changed it because of its dependence upon it. Heseldomspokeinclass,andhispapersrarelysatisfiedhim.Likehislecturestohisyoungstudents,theydidnotbetraywhathemostprofoundlyknew.

Hebegantobeonfamiliartermswithafewofhisfellowstudentswhowerealsoactinginstructorsinthedepartment.Amongthoseweretwowithwhomhebecamefriendly,DavidMastersandGordonFinch.

Masterswasa slightdarkyouthwitha sharp tongueandgentleeyes.Like

Stoner,hewasjustbeginninghisdoctoralprogram,thoughhewasayearorsoyounger than Stoner. Among the faculty and the graduate students he had areputationforarroganceandimpertinence,anditwasgenerallyconcededthathewouldhavesomedifficulty infinallyobtaininghisdegree.Stoner thoughthimthemostbrilliantmanhehadeverknownanddeferredtohimwithoutenvyorresentment.

GordonFinchwaslargeandblond,andalready,at theageof twenty-three,beginning to run to fat. He had taken an undergraduate degree from acommercialcollegeinSt.Louis,andattheUniversityhadmadevariousstabsatadvanceddegreesinthedepartmentsofeconomics,history,andengineering.Hehadbegunworkonhisdegreeinliteraturelargelybecausehehadbeenable,atthe last minute, to get a small instructing job in the English Department. Hequickly showed himself to be the most nearly indifferent student in thedepartment.Buthewaspopularwiththefreshmen,andhegotalongwellwiththeolderfacultymembersandwiththeofficersoftheadministration.

Thethreeofthem--Stoner,Masters,andFinch--gotinthehabitofmeetingonFriday afternoons at a small saloon in downtown Columbia, drinking largeschooners of beer and talking late into the night. Though he found the onlysocial pleasure he knew in these evenings, Stoner often wondered at theirrelationship.Thoughtheygotalongwellenoughtogether,theyhadnotbecomeclosefriends;theyhadnoconfidencesandseldomsaweachotheroutsidetheirweeklygatherings.

Noneofthemeverraisedthequestionofthatrelationship.Stonerknewthatit had not occurred to Gordon Finch, but he suspected that it had to DavidMasters.Once, lateintheevening,astheysatatareartableinthedimnessofthe saloon, Stoner and Masters talked of their teaching and study with theawkwardfacetiousnessoftheveryserious.Masters,holdingaloftahard-boiledeggfromthefree lunchas if itwereacrystalball, said,"Haveyougentlemenever considered thequestionof the truenature of theUniversity?Mr.Stoner?Mr.Finch?"

Smiling,theyshooktheirheads."I'llbetyouhaven't.Stoner,here,Iimagine,seesitasagreatrepository,like

a library or a whorehouse, wheremen come of their freewill and select thatwhichwillcompletethem,whereallworktogetherlikelittlebeesinacommonhive.TheTrue, theGood, theBeautiful.They're just around thecorner, in thenextcorridor; they're inthenextbook, theoneyouhaven'tread,or inthenextstack,theoneyouhaven'tgotto.Butyou'llgettoitsomeday.Andwhenyoudo--whenyoudo--"Helookedattheeggforamomentmore,thentookalargebiteofitandturnedtoStoner,hisjawsworkingandhisdarkeyesbright.

Stonersmileduncomfortably,andFinchlaughedaloudandslappedthetable."He'sgotyou,Bill.He'sgotyougood."

Masters chewed for a moment more, swallowed, and turned his gaze toFinch."Andyou,Finch.What'syouridea?"Hehelduphishand."You'llprotestyouhaven't thoughtof it.Butyouhave.Beneath thatbluffandheartyexteriorthereworksasimplemind.Toyou,theinstitutionisaninstrumentofgood--totheworld at large, of course, and just incidentally to yourself.You see it as akindofspiritual sulphur-and-molasses thatyouadministerevery fall toget thelittle bastards through another winter; and you're the kindly old doctor whobenignlypatstheirheadsandpocketstheirfees."

Finch laughed again and shook his head. "I swear, Dave, when you getgoing--"

Masters put the rest of the egg in his mouth, chewed contentedly for amoment,andtookalongswallowofbeer."Butyou'rebothwrong,"hesaid."Itisanasylumor--whatdo theycall themnow?--aresthome,for the infirm, theaged,thediscontent,andtheotherwiseincompetent.Lookatthethreeofus--weare the University. The stranger would not know that we have so much incommon,butweknow,don'twe?Weknowwell."

Finchwaslaughing."What'sthat,Dave?"Interested now in what he was saying,Masters leaned intently across the

table."Let'stakeyoufirst,Finch.BeingaskindasIcan,Iwouldsaythatyouarethe incompetent. As you yourself know, you're not really very bright--thoughthatdoesn'thaveeverythingtodowithit."

"Here,now,"Finchsaid,stilllaughing."But you're bright enough--and just bright enough--to realize what would

happentoyouintheworld.You'recutoutforfailure,andyouknowit.Thoughyou'recapableofbeingason-of-a-bitch,you'renotquiteruthlessenoughtobeso consistently. Though you're not precisely the most honest man I've everknown,neitherareyouheroicallydishonest.Ontheonehand,you'recapableofwork, but you're just lazy enough so that you can'twork as hard as theworldwouldwant you to. On the other hand, you're not quite so lazy that you canimpressupontheworldasenseofyour importance.Andyou'renot lucky--notreally.Noaurarisesfromyou,andyouwearapuzzledexpression.Intheworldyouwouldalwaysbeonthefringeofsuccess,andyouwouldbedestroyedbyyourfailure.Soyouarechosen,elected;providence,whosesenseofhumorhasalwaysamusedme,hassnatchedyoufromthejawsoftheworldandplacedyousafelyhere,amongyourbrothers."

Still smiling and ironically malevolent, he turned to Stoner. "Nor do youescape,my friend.No indeed.Whoareyou?A simple sonof the soil, as you

pretend to yourself? Oh, no. You, too, are among the infirm--you are thedreamer, the madman in a madder world, our own midwestern Don Quixotewithout his Sancho, gamboling under the blue sky. You're bright enough--brighteranyhowthanourmutualfriend.Butyouhavethetaint,theoldinfirmity.You think there's somethinghere, something to find.Well, in theworld you'dlearn soon enough. You, too, are cut out for failure; not that you'd fight theworld.You'dletitchewyouupandspityouout,andyou'dlietherewonderingwhat was wrong. Because you'd always expect the world to be something itwasn't,somethingithadnowishtobe.Theweevilinthecotton,theworminthebeanstalk,theborerinthecorn.Youcouldn'tfacethem,andyoucouldn'tfightthem;becauseyou'retooweak,andyou'retoostrong.Andyouhavenoplacetogointheworld."

"Whataboutyou?"Finchasked."Whataboutyourself?""Oh,"Masters said, leaning back, "I'm one of you.Worse, in fact. I'm too

brightfortheworld,andIwon'tkeepmymouthshutaboutit;it'sadiseaseforwhich there is no cure. So I must be locked up, where I can be safelyirresponsible,whereIcandonoharm."Heleanedforwardagainandsmiledatthem."We'reallpoorToms,andwe'rea-cold."

"KingLear,"Stonersaidseriously."ActThree, SceneFour," saidMasters. "And so providence, or society, or

fate,orwhatevernameyouwanttogiveit,hascreatedthishovelforus,sothatwe can go in out of the storm. It's for us that the University exists, for thedispossessed of theworld; not for the students, not for the selfless pursuit ofknowledge,notforanyofthereasonsthatyouhear.Wegiveoutthereasons,andweletafewoftheordinaryonesin,thosethatwoulddointheworld;butthat'sjustprotectivecoloration.LikethechurchintheMiddleAges,whichdidn'tgivea damn about the laity or even aboutGod,we have our pretenses in order tosurvive.Andweshallsurvive--becausewehaveto."

Finchshookhisheadadmiringly."Yousuremakeussoundbad,Dave.""MaybeIdo,"Masterssaid."Butbadasweare,we'rebetter thanthoseon

theoutside,inthemuck,thepoorbastardsoftheworld.Wedonoharm,wesaywhatwewant,andwegetpaidfor it;andthat'sa triumphofnaturalvirtue,orprettydamnclosetoit."

Masters leaned back from the table, indifferent, no longer concernedwithwhathehadsaid.

GordonFinch clearedhis throat. "Well, now,"he said earnestly. "Youmayhavesomethinginwhatyousay,Dave.ButIthinkyougotoofar.Ireallydo."

Stoner andMasters smiled at each other, and they spoke no more of thequestion that evening. But for years afterward, at odd moments, Stoner

rememberedwhatMastershadsaid;andthoughitbroughthimnovisionoftheUniversity towhichhehadcommittedhimself, itdid reveal tohimsomethingabouthisrelationshiptothetwomen,anditgavehimaglimpseofthecorrosiveandunspoiledbitternessofyouth.

OnMay7,1915,aGermansubmarinesanktheBritishlinerLusitania,withahundred and fourteen American passengers on board; by the end of 1916submarinewarfarebytheGermanswasunrestricted,andrelationsbetweentheUnited States and Germany steadily worsened. In February 1917 PresidentWilsonbrokeoffdiplomaticrelations.OnApril6astateofwarwasdeclaredbyCongresstoexistbetweenGermanyandtheUnitedStates.

With that declaration, thousands of young men across the nation, as ifrelieved that the tension of uncertainty had finally been broken, besieged therecruiting stations that had been hastily set up some weeks before. Indeed,hundredsofyoungmenhadnotbeenabletowaitforAmerica'sinterventionandhadas early as1915 signedup fordutywith theRoyalCanadian forcesor asambulance drivers for one of the European allied armies. A few of the olderstudents at the University had done so; and althoughWilliam Stoner had notknownanyof these,heheard their legendarynameswith increasingfrequencyas the months and weeks drew on to the moment that they all knew musteventuallycome.

WarwasdeclaredonaFriday,andalthoughclassesremainedscheduledthefollowingweek, few students or professorsmade a pretense ofmeeting them.They milled about in the halls and gathered in small groups, murmuring inhushedvoices.Occasionallythetensequietnesseruptedintonearviolence;twicethere were general anti-German demonstrations, in which students shoutedincoherently and waved American flags. Once there was a brief-liveddemonstration against one of the professors, an old and bearded teacher ofGermanic languages, who had been born inMunich andwho as a youth hadattended the University of Berlin. But when the professor met the angry andflushedlittlegroupofstudents,blinkedinbewilderment,andheldouthis thin,shakinghandstothem,theydisbandedinsullenconfusion.

During those first days after the declaration ofwar Stoner also suffered aconfusion,but itwasprofoundlydifferentfromthatwhichgrippedmostof theotherson thecampus.Thoughhehad talkedabout thewar inEuropewith theolderstudentsandinstructors,hehadneverquitebelievedinit;andnowthatitwas upon him, upon them all, he discoveredwithin himself a vast reserve ofindifference. He resented the disruption which the war forced upon the

University; but he could find in himself no very strong feelings of patriotism,andhecouldnotbringhimselftohatetheGermans.

But theGermanswere there to be hated.Once Stoner came uponGordonFinchtalkingtoagroupofolderfacultymembers;Finch'sfacewastwisted,andhewasspeakingofthe"Huns"asifhewerespittingonthefloor.Later,whenheapproached Stoner in the large office which half a dozen of the youngerinstructorsshared,Finch'smoodhadshifted;feverishlyjovial,heclappedStonerontheshoulder.

"Can'tletthemgetawaywithit,Bill,"hesaidrapidly.Afilmofsweatlikeoilglistenedonhisroundface,andhisthinblondhair layinlankstrandsoverhisskull."No,sir.I'mgoingtojoinup.I'vealreadytalkedtooldSloaneaboutit,andhesaidtogoahead.I'mgoingdowntoSt.Louistomorrowandsignup."Foran instant he managed to compose his features into a semblance of gravity."We've all got todoourpart."ThenhegrinnedandclappedStoner's shoulderagain."Youbettercomealongwithme."

"Me?"Stonersaid,andsaidagain,incredulously,"Me?"Finch laughed. "Sure. Everybody's signing up. I just talked to Dave--he's

comingwithme."Stonershookhisheadasifdazed."DaveMasters?""Sure.OldDavetalkskindoffunnysometimes,butwhenthechipsaredown

he'snodifferent fromanybodyelse;helldohispart. Just likeyou'lldoyours,Bill."Finchpunchedhimonthearm."Justlikeyou'lldoyours."

Stonerwas silent for amoment. "I hadn't thought about it," he said. 'It allseemstohavehappenedsoquickly.I'llhavetotalktoSloane.I'llletyouknow."

"Sure,"Finchsaid."You'lldoyourpart."Hisvoice thickenedwith feeling."We'reallinthistogethernow,Bill;we'reallinittogether."

Stoner left Finch then, but he did not go to seeArcher Sloane. Instead helookedaboutthecampusandinquiredafterDavidMasters.Hefoundhiminoneofthelibrarycarrels,alone,puffingonapipeandstaringatashelfofbooks.

Stonersatacrossfromhimatthecarreldesk.WhenhequestionedhimabouthisdecisiontojointheArmy,Masterssaid,"Sure.Whynot?"

AndwhenStoneraskedhimwhy,Masterssaid,"Youknowmeprettywell,Bill.Idon'tgiveadamnabouttheGermans.Whenitcomesdowntoit,Idon'treally give a damnabout theAmericans either, I guess."Heknockedhis pipeashesoutonthefloorandsweptthemaroundwithhisfoot."IsupposeI'mdoingitbecause itdoesn'tmatterwhether Ido itornot.And itmightbeamusing topass through the world once more before I return to the cloistered and slowextinctionthatawaitsusall."

Thoughhedidnotunderstand,Stonernodded,acceptingwhatMasters told

him.Hesaid,"Gordonwantsmetoenlistwithyou."Masters smiled. "Gordon feels the first strength of virtue he's ever been

allowedtofeel;andhenaturallywantstoincludetherestoftheworldinit,sothathecankeeponbelieving.Sure.Whynot?Joinupwithus.Itmightdoyougoodtoseewhattheworld'slike."HepausedandlookedintentlyatStoner."Butifyoudo,forChrist'ssakedon'tdoitforGod,country,andthedearoldU.ofM.Doitforyourself."

Stonerwaitedseveralmoments.Thenhesaid,"I'lltalktoSloaneandletyouknow."

He did not know what he expected Archer Sloane's response to be;neverthelesshewassurprisedwhenheconfrontedhiminhisnarrowbook-linedofficeandtoldhimofwhatwasnotquiteyethisdecision.

Sloane,whohadalwaysmaintainedtowardhimanattitudeofdetachedandcourtlyirony,losthistemper.Hislongthinfacewentred,andthelinesoneithersideofhismouthdeepenedinanger;hehalfrosefromhischairtowardStoner,his fists clenched.Thenhe settledbackanddeliberately loosenedhis fists andspreadhis handsuponhis desk; the fingerswere trembling, but his voicewassteadyandharsh.

"Iaskyoutoforgivemysuddendisplay.ButinthelastfewdaysIhavelostnearlyathirdofthemembersofthedepartment,andIseenohopeofreplacingthem.ItisnotyouatwhomIamangry,but--"HeturnedawayfromStonerandlookedupat thehighwindowat the farendofhisoffice.The light struckhisfacesharply,accentuating the linesanddeepening theshadowsunderhiseyes,sothatforamomentheseemedoldandsick."Iwasbornin1860,justbeforetheWarof theRebellion. I don't remember it, of course; Iwas tooyoung. I don'tremembermyfathereither;hewaskilledinthefirstyearofthewar,attheBattleofShiloh."HelookedquicklyatStoner."ButIcanseewhathasensued.Awardoesn'tmerelykilloffafewthousandorafewhundredthousandyoungmen.Itkillsoffsomethinginapeoplethatcanneverbebroughtback.Andifapeoplegoesthroughenoughwars,prettysoonallthat'sleftisthebrute,thecreaturethatwe--youandIandotherslikeus--havebroughtupfromtheslime."Hepausedforalongmoment;thenhesmiledslightly."Thescholarshouldnotbeaskedtodestroywhathehasaimedhislifetobuild."

Stoner cleared his throat and said diffidently, "Everything seems to havehappened so quickly. Somehow it had never occurred tome, until I talked toFinchandMasters.Itstilldoesn'tseemquitereal."

"It's not, of course," Sloane said. Then hemoved restlessly, turning awayfromStoner."I'mnotgoingtotellyouwhattodo.I'llsimplysaythis:it'syourchoicetomake.There'llbeaconscription;butyoucanbeexcepted,ifyouwant

tobe.You'renotafraidtogo,areyou?""No,sir,"Stonersaid."Idon'tbelieveso.""Thenyoudohaveachoice,andyou'llhavetomakeitforyourself.Itgoes

withoutsayingthatifyoudecidetojoinyouwilluponyourreturnbereinstatedinyourpresentposition. Ifyoudecidenot to joinyoucanstayonhere,butofcourseyouwillhavenoparticularadvantage;itispossiblethatyouwillhaveadisadvantage,eithernoworinthefuture."

"Iunderstand,"Stonersaid.Therewasalongsilence,andStonerdecidedatlastthatSloanehadfinished

withhim.ButjustashegotuptoleavetheofficeSloanespokeagain.He said slowly, "You must remember what you are and what you have

chosen tobecome,and thesignificanceofwhatyouaredoing.Therearewarsanddefeatsandvictoriesofthehumanracethatarenotmilitaryandthatarenotrecorded in theannalsofhistory.Remember thatwhileyou're trying todecidewhattodo."

FortwodaysStonerdidnotmeethisclassesanddidnotspeaktoanyoneheknew.Hestayedinhissmallroom,strugglingwithhisdecision.Hisbooksandthe quiet of his room surrounded him; only rarelywas he aware of theworldoutsidehisroom,ofthefarmurmurofshoutingstudents,oftheswiftclatterofabuggy on the brick streets, and the flat chug of one of the dozen or soautomobiles in town. He had never got in the habit of introspection, and hefoundthetaskofsearchinghismotivesadifficultandslightlydistastefulone;hefeltthathehadlittletooffertohimselfandthattherewaslittlewithinhimwhichhecouldfind.

Whenatlasthecametohisdecision,itseemedtohimthathehadknownallalongwhatitwouldbe.HemetMastersandFinchonFridayandtoldthemthathewouldnotjointhemtofighttheGermans.

GordonFinch,sustainedstillbyhisaccessiontovirtue,stiffenedandallowedanexpressionofreproachfulsorrowtosettleonhisfeatures."You're lettingusdown,Bill,"hesaidthickly."You'relettingusalldown."

"Bequiet,"Masterssaid.HelookedkeenlyatStoner."I thoughtyoumightdecidenotto.You'vealwayshadthatlean,dedicatedlookaboutyou.Itdoesn'tmatter,ofcourse;butwhatmadeyoufinallydecide?"

Stonerdidnotspeakforamoment.Hethoughtof thelast twodays,of thesilentstrugglethatseemedtowardnoendandnomeaning;hethoughtofhislifeat theUniversity for the past seven years; he thought of the years before, thedistantyearswithhisparentson the farm,andof thedeadness fromwhichhehadbeenmiraculouslyrevived.

"Idon'tknow,"hesaidatlast."Everything,Iguess.Ican'tsay."

"It'sgoingtobehard,"Masterssaid,"stayinghere.""Iknow,"Stonersaid."Butit'sworthit,youthink?"Stonernodded.Mastersgrinnedandsaidwithhisoldirony,"Youhavetheleanandhungry

look,sureenough.You'redoomed."Finch's sorrowful reproach had turned into a kind of tentative contempt.

"You'lllivetoregretthis,Bill,"hesaidhoarsely,andhisvoicehesitatedbetweenthreatandpity.

Stonernodded."Itmaybe,"hesaid.Hetoldthemgood-bythen,andturnedaway.TheyweretogotoSt.Louis

thenextdaytoenlist,andStonerhadclassestoprepareforthefollowingweek.Hefeltnoguilt forhisdecision,andwhenconscriptionbecamegeneralhe

appliedforhisdefermentwithnoparticularfeelingofremorse;buthewasawareof the looks thathereceivedfromhisoldercolleaguesandof the thinedgeofdisrespectthatshowedthroughhisstudents'conventionalbehaviortowardhim.Heevensuspected thatArcherSloane,whohadatone timeexpressedawarmapproval of his decision to continue at the University, grew colder and moredistantasthemonthsofthewarworeon.

Hefinishedtherequirementsforhisdoctorateinthespringof1918andtookhisdegreeinJuneofthatyear.AmonthbeforehereceivedhisdegreehegotaletterfromGordonFinch,whohadgonethroughOfficer'sTrainingSchoolandhad been assigned to a training camp just outside New York City. The letterinformedhimthatFinchhadbeenallowed,inhissparetime,toattendColumbiaUniversity,wherehe,too,hadmanagedtofulfilltherequirementsnecessaryforadoctorate,whichhewouldtakeinthesummerfromTeachersCollegethere.

Italso toldhimthatDaveMastershadbeensent toFranceand thatalmostexactlyayearafterhisenlistment,withthefirstAmericantroopstoseeaction,hehadbeenkilledatChateau-Thierry.

III

Aweekbeforecommencement,atwhichStonerwastoreceivehisdoctorate,Archer Sloane offered him a full-time instructorship at theUniversity. Sloaneexplained that it was not the policy of the University to employ its owngraduates, but because of the wartime shortage of trained and experiencedcollege teachers he had been able to persuade the administration to make anexception.

Somewhat reluctantly Stoner had written a few letters of application touniversities and colleges in the general area, abruptly setting forth hisqualifications;whennothingcamefromanyofthem,hefeltcuriouslyrelieved.Hehalfunderstoodhis relief;hehadknownat theUniversityatColumbia thekindofsecurityandwarmththatheshouldhavebeenabletofeelasachildinhishome,andhadnotbeenableto,andhewasunsureofhisabilitytofindthoseelsewhere.HeacceptedSloane'sofferwithgratitude.

AndashedidsoitoccurredtohimthatSloanehadagedgreatlyduringtheyearofthewar.Inhislatefifties,helookedtenyearsolder;hishair,whichhadoncecurledinanunrulyiron-grayshock,nowwaswhiteandlayflatandlifelessabouthisbonyskull.Hisblackeyeshadgonedull,asiffilmedoverwithlayersofmoisture;hislong,linedface,whichhadoncebeentoughasthinleather,nowhadthefragilityofancient,dryingpaper;andhisflat,ironicalvoicehadbegunto develop a tremor.Looking at him, Stoner thought:He is going to die--in ayear,ortwoyears,orten,hewilldie.Aprematuresenseoflossgrippedhim,andheturnedaway.

His thoughts were much upon death that summer of 1918. The death ofMastershadshockedhimmorethanhewishedtoadmit;andthefirstAmericancasualtylistsfromEuropewerebeginningtobereleased.Whenhehadthoughtofdeathbefore,hehadthoughtofiteitherasaliteraryeventorastheslow,quietattritionoftimeagainstimperfectflesh.Hehadnotthoughtofitastheexplosionofviolenceuponabattlefield,asthegushofbloodfromtherupturedthroat.Hewondered at the difference between the two kinds of dying, and what thedifferencemeant; andhe foundgrowing inhimsomeof thatbitternesshehadglimpsedonceinthelivingheartofhisfriendDavidMasters.

His dissertation topic had been "The Influence of the Classical TraditionupontheMedievalLyric."HespentmuchofthesummerrereadingtheclassicalandmedievalLatinpoets,andespeciallytheirpoemsupondeath.Hewonderedagainattheeasy,gracefulmannerinwhichtheRomanlyricistsacceptedthefactof death, as if thenothingness they facedwere a tribute to the richnessof the

yearstheyhadenjoyed;andhemarveledatthebitterness,theterror,thebarelyconcealed hatred he found in some of the later Christian poets of the Latintraditionwhen they looked to that deathwhich promised, however vaguely, arichandecstaticeternityoflife,asifthatdeathandpromisewereamockerythatsouredthedaysoftheirliving.WhenhethoughtofMasters,hethoughtofhimasaCatullusoramoregentleandlyricalJuvenal,anexileinhisowncountry,andthoughtofhisdeathasanotherexile,morestrangeandlastingthanhehadknownbefore.

When thesemesteropened in theautumnof1918 itwasclear toeveryonethatthewarinEuropecouldnotgoonmuchlonger.Thelast,desperateGermancounteroffensivehadbeenstoppedshortofParis,andMarshalFochhadordereda general allied counterattack that quickly pushed the Germans back to theiroriginalline.TheBritishadvancedtothenorthandtheAmericanswentthroughthe Argonne, at a cost that was widely ignored in the general elation. ThenewspaperswerepredictingacollapseoftheGermansbeforeChristmas.

So the semester began in an atmosphere of tense geniality andwellbeing.Thestudentsandinstructorsfoundthemselvessmilingateachotherandnoddingvigorously in thehalls; outburstsof exuberanceand smallviolenceamong thestudents were ignored by the faculty and administration; and an unidentifiedstudent,whoimmediatelybecameakindoflocalfolkhero,shinnieduponeofthe huge columns in front of JesseHall and hung from its top a straw-stuffedeffigyoftheKaiser.

The only person in the University who seemed untouched by the generalexcitementwasArcherSloane.SincethedayofAmerica'sentranceintothewarhe had begun to withdraw into himself, and the withdrawal became morepronouncedasthewarneareditsend.Hedidnotspeaktohiscolleaguesunlessdepartmental business forced him to do so, and it was whispered that histeachinghadbecomesoeccentricthathisstudentsattendedhisclassesindread;hereaddullyandmechanicallyfromhisnotes,nevermeetinghisstudents'eyes;frequentlyhisvoicetrailedoffashestaredathisnotes,andtherewouldbeone,two,andsometimesasmanyasfiveminutesofsilence,duringwhichheneithermovednorrespondedtoembarrassedquestionsfromtheclass.

WilliamStonersawthelastvestigeofthebright,ironicmanhehadknownas a student when Archer Sloane gave him his teaching assignment for theacademicyear.SloanegaveStonertwosectionsoffreshmancompositionandanupperdivisionsurveyofMiddleEnglishliterature;andthenhesaid,withaflashofhisoldirony,"You,aswellasmanyofourcolleaguesandnotafewofourstudents,willbepleased toknowthat Iamgivingupanumberofmyclasses.Among these is one that has been my rather unfashionable favorite, the

sophomoresurveyofEnglishliterature.Youmayrecallthecourse?"Stonernodded,smiling."Yes," Sloane continued, "I rather thought youwould. I am asking you to

takeitoverforme.Notthatit'sagreatgift;butIthoughtitmightamuseyoutobegin your formal career as a teacherwhere you started as a student." Sloanelookedathimforamoment,hiseyesbrightandintentastheyhadbeenbeforethewar. Then the film of indifference settled over them, and he turned awayfromStonerandshuffledsomepapersonhisdesk.

SoStonerbeganwherehehadstarted,atall,thin,stoopedmaninthesameroominwhichhehadsatasatall,thin,stoopedboylisteningtothewordsthathadledhimtowherehehadcome.Heneverwentintothatroomthathedidnotglanceattheseathehadonceoccupied,andhewasalwaysslightlysurprisedtodiscoverthathewasnotthere.

On November 11 of that year, two months after the semester began, theArmistice was signed. The news came on a class day, and immediately theclasses broke up; students ran aimlessly about the campus and started smallparades that gathered, dispersed, and gathered again, winding through halls,classrooms, and offices.Half against hiswill, Stonerwas caught up in one ofthese which went into Jesse Hall, through corridors, up stairs, and throughcorridorsagain.Sweptalonginasmallmassofstudentsandteachers,hepassedtheopendoorofArcherSloane'soffice;andhehadaglimpseofSloanesittinginhischairbeforehisdesk,hisfaceuncoveredandtwisted,weepingbitterly,thetearsstreamingdownthedeeplinesoftheflesh.

For a moment more, as if in shock, Stoner allowed himself to be carriedalongbythecrowd.Thenhebrokeawayandwenttohisroomnearthecampus.He sat in the dimness of his room and heard outside the shouts of joy andrelease,andthoughtofArcherSloanewhoweptatadefeatthatonlyhesaw,orthoughthe saw; andheknew thatSloanewas abrokenmanandwouldneveragainbewhathehadbeen.

LateinNovembermanyofthosewhohadgoneawaytowarbegantoreturntoColumbia,andthecampusattheUniversitywasdottedwiththeolivedrabofarmy uniforms. Among those who returned on extended leaves was GordonFinch.HehadputonweightduringhisyearandahalfawayfromtheUniversity,and the broad, open face that had been amiably acquiescent now held anexpressionoffriendlybutportentousgravity;heworethebarsofacaptainandspokeoftenwithapaternalfondnessof"mymen."HewasdistantlyfriendlytoWilliamStoner,andhetookexaggeratedcaretobehavewithdeferencetoward

theoldermembersofthedepartment.Itwastoolateinthefallsemestertoassignhim any classes, so for the rest of the academic year hewas givenwhatwasunderstoodtobeatemporarysinecureasadministrativeassistanttothedeanofArtsandSciences.Hewassensitiveenoughtobeawareoftheambiguityofhisnew position and shrewd enough to see its possibilities; his relationswith hiscolleaguesweretentativeandcourteouslynoncommittal.

ThedeanofArtsandSciences,JosiahClaremont,wasasmallbeardedmanof advanced age, several years beyond the point of compulsory retirement; hehadbeenwith theUniversityever since its transition, in theearly seventiesoftheprecedingcentury,fromanormalcollegetoafullUniversity,andhisfatherhadbeenoneofitsearlypresidents.Hewassofirmlyentrenchedandsomuchapartof thehistoryof theUniversity thatnoonequitehadthecourageto insistupon his retirement, despite the increasing incompetence with which hemanagedhisoffice.Hismemorywasnearlygone;sometimeshebecamelostinthecorridorsofJesseHall,wherehisofficewaslocated,andhadtobeledlikeachildtohisdesk.

So vague had he become about University affairs that when anannouncement came fromhis office that a reception in honor of the returningveteransonthefacultyandadministrativestaffwouldbeheldathishome,mostofthosewhoreceivedinvitationsfeltthatanelaboratejokewasbeingplayedorthatamistakehadbeenmade.But itwasnota joke,anditwasnotamistake.GordonFinchconfirmedtheinvitations;anditwaswidelyhintedthatitwashewhohadinstigatedthereceptionandwhohadcarriedthroughtheplans.

Josiah Claremont, widowed many years before, lived alone, with threecolored servants nearly as old as himself, in one of the large pre-Civil WarhomesthathadoncebeencommonaroundColumbiabutwerefastdisappearingbeforethecomingofthesmall,independentfarmerandthereal-estatedeveloper.Thearchitectureoftheplacewaspleasantbutunidentifiable;though"Southern"initsgeneralshapeandexpansiveness,ithadnoneoftheneo-classicrigidityofthe Virginia home. Its boards were painted white, and green trim framed thewindowsandthebalustradesofthesmallbalconiesthatprojectedhereandtherefrom the upper story. The grounds extended into a wood that surrounded theplace,and tallpoplars, leafless in theDecemberafternoon, lined thedriveandthewalks.ItwasthegrandesthousethatWilliamStonerhadeverbeennear;andonthatFridayafternoonhewalkedwithsomedreadupthedrivewayandjoinedagroupoffacultywhomhedidnotknow,whowerewaitingatthefrontdoortobeadmitted.

GordonFinch,stillwearinghisarmyuniform,opened thedoor to let themin; the group stepped into a small square foyer, at the end of which a steep

staircasewithpolishedoakenbanistersledupwardtothesecondstory.AsmallFrenchtapestry,itsbluesandgoldssofadedthatthepatternwashardlyvisibleinthedimyellowlightgivenbythesmallbulbs,hungonthestaircasewalldirectlyin front of themenwhohad entered.Stoner stoodgazingup at itwhile thosewhohadcomeinwithhimmilledaboutthesmallfoyer.

"Give me your coat, Bill." The voice, close to his ear, startled him. Heturned. Finchwas smiling and holding his hand out to receive the coatwhichStonerhadnotremoved.

"Youhaven'tbeenherebefore,haveyou?"Finchaskedalmostinawhisper.Stonershookhishead.

Finchturnedtotheothermenandwithoutraisinghisvoicemanagedtocallouttothem."Yougentlemengoonintothemainlivingroom."Hepointedtoadoorattherightofthefoyer."Everybody'sinthere."

HereturnedhisattentiontoStoner."It'safineoldhouse,"hesaid,hangingStoner's coat in a large closet beneath the staircase. "It's one of the realshowplacesaroundhere."

"Yes,"Stonersaid."I'veheardpeopletalkaboutit.""AndDeanClaremont'safineoldman.Heaskedmetokindoflookoutfor

thingsforhimthisevening."Stonernodded.Finchtookhisarmandguidedhimtowardthedoortowhichhehadpointed

earlier."We'llhavetogettogetherforatalklateronthisevening.Yougooninnow.I'llbethereinaminute.TherearesomepeopleIwantyoutomeet."

Stoner started to speak, but Finch had turned away to greet another groupthathadcomeinthefrontdoor.Stonertookadeepbreathandopenedthedoortothemainlivingroom.

Whenhecameintotheroomfromthecoldfoyerthewarmthpushedagainsthim,asiftoforcehimback;theslowmurmurofthepeopleinside,releasedbyhis opening the door, swelled for a moment before his ears accustomedthemselvestoit.

Perhaps two dozen people milled about the room, and for an instant herecognizednoneofthem;hesawthesoberblackandgrayandbrownofmen'ssuits, theolivedrabof armyuniforms, andhereand there thedelicatepinkorblueofawoman'sdress.Thepeoplemovedsluggishlythroughthewarmth,andhemovedwiththem,consciousofhisheightamongtheseatedfigures,noddingtothefaceshenowrecognized.

Atthefarendanotherdoorledintoasittingparlor,whichwasadjacenttothelong, narrowdining hall.The double doors of the hallwere open, revealing amassivewalnutdiningtablecoveredwithyellowdamaskandladenwithwhite

dishes andbowls of gleaming silver. Several peoplewere gathered around thetable,attheheadofwhichayoungwoman,tallandslenderandfair,dressedinagown of blue watered silk, stood pouring tea into gold-rimmed china cups.Stoner paused in the doorway, caught byhis visionof the youngwoman.Herlong,delicatelyfeaturedfacesmiledatthosearoundher,andherslender,almostfragile fingers deftly manipulated urn and cup; looking at her, Stoner wasassailedbyaconsciousnessofhisownheavyclumsiness.

Forseveralmomentshedidnotmovefromthedoorway;heheardthegirl'ssoft, thinvoiceriseabovethemurmuroftheassembledguestssheserved.Sheraised her head, and suddenly hemet her eyes; theywere pale and large andseemed to shinewith a lightwithin themselves. In some confusion he backedfromthedoorwayandturnedintothesittingroom;hefoundanemptychairinaspacebythewall,andhesattherelookingatthecarpetbeneathhisfeet.Hedidnotlookinthedirectionofthediningroom,buteverynowandthenhethoughthefeltthegazeoftheyoungwomanbrushwarmlyacrosshisface.

Theguestsmovedaroundhim,exchangedseats,altered their inflectionsastheyfoundnewpartnersforconversation.Stonersawthemthroughahaze,asifhe were an audience. After a while Gordon Finch came into the room, andStonergotupfromhischairandwalkedacrosstheroomtohim.Almostrudelyhe interruptedFinch's conversationwith anolderman.Drawinghimasidebutnotloweringhisvoice,heaskedtobeintroducedtotheyoungwomanpouringtea.

Finch looked at him for a moment, the annoyed frown that had begun topucker his forehead smoothing as his eyes widened. "Youwhat?" Finch said.ThoughhewasshorterthanStoner,heseemedtobelookingdownonhim.

"Iwantyou to introduceme,"Stonersaid.Hefelthis facewarm."Doyouknowher?"

"Sure,"Finchsaid.Thestartofagrinbegantotugathismouth."She'ssomekindof cousinof thedean's, down fromSt.Louis, visiting an aunt."Thegrinwidened."OldBill.Whatdoyouknow.Sure,I'llintroduceyou.Comeon."

HernamewasEdithElaineBostwick,andshelivedwithherparents inSt.Louis,wherethepreviousspringshehadfinishedatwo-yearcourseofstudyataprivateseminary foryoung ladies; shewasvisitinghermother'soldersister inColumbiaforafewweeks,andinthespringtheyweretomaketheGrandTourofEurope--aneventonceagainpossible,nowthatthewarwasover.Herfather,the president of one of the smaller St. Louis banks, was a transplanted NewEnglander;hehadcomewestintheseventiesandmarriedtheoldestdaughterofawell-to-docentralMissourifamily.Edithhadlivedallher life inSt.Louis;afewyearsbeforeshehadgoneeastwithherparentstoBostonfortheseason;she

hadbeentotheoperainNewYorkandhadvisitedthemuseums.Shewastwentyyearsofage, sheplayed thepiano,andhadartistic leaningswhichhermotherencouraged.

Later,WilliamStonercouldnotrememberhowhelearnedthesethings,thatfirstafternoonandearlyeveningatJosiahClaremont'shouse;forthetimeofhismeetingwasblurredandformal,likethefiguredtapestryonthestairwalloffthefoyer.Heremembered thathespoke toher that shemight lookathim, remainnearhim,andgivehimthepleasureofhearinghersoft,thinvoiceansweringhisquestionsandmakingperfunctoryquestionsinreturn.

Theguestsbegantoleave.Voicescalledgood-bys,doorsslammed,andtherooms emptied. Stoner remained behind after most of the other guests haddeparted; and when Edith's carriage came he followed her into the foyer andhelpedherwithhercoat.Justbeforeshestartedoutsideheaskedherifhemightcallonherthefollowingevening.

As if she had not heard him she opened the door and stood for severalmomentswithoutmoving:thecoldairsweptthroughthedoorwayandtouchedStoner'shot face.She turnedand lookedathimandblinkedseveral times;herpaleeyeswerespeculative,almostbold.Atlastshenoddedandsaid,"Yes.Youmaycall."Shedidnotsmile.

And sohe called,walking across town toher aunt's houseon an intenselycold midwestern winter night. No cloud was overhead; the half-moon shoneupon a light snow that had fallen earlier in the afternoon. The streets weredeserted, and the muffled silence was broken by the dry snow crunchingunderfoot as hewalked.He stood for a longwhile outside the large house towhichhehadcome,listeningtothesilence.Thecoldnumbedhisfeet,buthedidnotmove.Fromthecurtainedwindowsadimlightfellupontheblue-whitesnowlikeayellowsmudge;hethoughthesawmovementinside,buthecouldnotbesure. Deliberately, as if committing himself to something, he stepped forwardandwalkeddownthepathtotheporchandknockedonthefrontdoor.

Edith's aunt (her name, Stoner had learned earlier,wasEmmaDarley, andshehadbeenwidowedforanumberofyears)methimatthedoorandaskedhimto come in. She was a short, plump woman with fine white hair that floatedabout her face; her dark eyes twinkled moistly, and she spoke softly andbreathlesslyasifsheweretellingsecrets.Stonerfollowedherintotheparlorandsat,facingher,onalongwalnutsofa,theseatandbackofwhichwerecoveredwiththickbluevelvet.Snowhadclungtohisshoes;hewatcheditmeltandformdamppatchesonthethickfloralrugunderhisfeet.

"EdithtellsmeyouteachattheUniversity,Mr.Stoner,"Mrs.Darleysaid."Yes,ma'am,"hesaidandclearedhisthroat."It'ssonice tobeable to talk tooneof theyoungprofessors thereagain,"

Mrs.Darley said brightly. "My late husband,Mr.Darley,was on the boardoftrusteesattheUniversityforanumberofyears--butIguessyouknowthat."

"No,ma'am,"Stonersaid."Oh," Mrs. Darley said. "Well, we used to have some of the younger

professors over for tea in the afternoons. But thatwas quite a few years ago,beforethewar.Youwereinthewar,ProfessorStoner?"

"No,ma'am,"Stonersaid."IwasattheUniversity.""Yes,"Mrs.Darleysaid.Shenoddedbrightly."Andyouteach--?""English,"Stonersaid."AndI'mnotaprofessor.I'mjustaninstructor."He

knewhisvoicewasharsh;hecouldnotcontrolit.Hetriedtosmile."Ah,yes,"shesaid."Shakespeare...Browning..."Asilencecamebetweenthem.Stonertwistedhishandstogetherandlooked

atthefloor.Mrs.Darleysaid,"I'llseeifEdithisready.Ifyou'llexcuseme?"Stonernoddedandgottohisfeetasshewentout.Heheardfiercewhispers

inabackroom.Hestoodforseveralminutesmore.SuddenlyEdithwasstandinginthewidedoorway,paleandunsmiling.They

lookedateachotherwithout recognition.Edith tookabackwardstepand thencameforward,herlipsthinandtense.Theyshookhandsgravelyandsattogetheronthesofa.Theyhadnotspoken.

She was even taller than he remembered, andmore fragile. Her face waslongandslender,andshekeptherlipsclosedoverratherstrongteeth.Herskinhad thekindof transparency that shows a hint of color andwarmthupon anyprovocation.Herhairwasalightreddish-brown,andsheworeitpiledinthicktressesuponherhead.Butitwashereyesthatcaughtandheldhim,astheyhaddonethedaybefore.Theywereverylargeandof thepalestbluethathecouldimagine. When he looked at them he seemed drawn out of himself, into amysterythathecouldnotapprehend.Hethoughtherthemostbeautifulwomanhehadeverseen,andhesaid impulsively,"I--Iwant toknowaboutyou."Shedrewbackfromhimalittle.Hesaidhastily,"Imean--yesterday,atthereception,wedidn'treallyhaveachancetotalk.Iwantedtotalktoyou,butthereweresomanypeople.Peoplesometimesgetinyourway."

"Itwas a very nice reception,"Edith said faintly. "I thought everyonewasverynice."

"Oh,yes,ofcourse,"Stonersaid."Imeant..."Hedidnotgoon.Edithwassilent.

Hesaid,"IunderstandyouandyourauntwillbegoingtoEuropeinalittlewhile."

"Yes,"shesaid."Europe..."Heshookhishead."Youmustbeveryexcited."Shenoddedreluctantly."Wherewillyougo?Imean--whatplaces?""England,"shesaid."France.Italy.""Andyou'llbegoing--inthespring?""April,"shesaid."Fivemonths,"hesaid."Itisn'tverylong.Ihopethatinthattimewecan--""I'monlyhereforthreemoreweeks,"shesaidquickly."ThenIgobacktoSt.

Louis.ForChristmas.""Thatisashorttime."Hesmiledandsaidawkwardly,"ThenI'llhavetosee

youasoftenasIcan,sothatwecangettoknoweachother."Shelookedathimalmostwithhorror."Ididn'tmeanthat,"shesaid."Please.

.."Stonerwassilentforamoment."I'msorry,I--ButIdowanttocallonyou

again,asoftenasyou'llletme.MayI?""Oh,"shesaid."Well."Her thinfingerswerelacedtogether inher lap,and

her knuckles were white where the skin was stretched. She had very palefrecklesonthebacksofherhands.

Stoner said, "This is going badly, isn't it?Youmust forgiveme. I haven'tknownanyonelikeyoubefore,andIsayclumsythings.YoumustforgivemeifI'veembarrassedyou."

"Oh,no," shesaid.She turned tohimandpulledher lips inwhatheknewmustbeasmile."Notatall.I'mhavingalovelytime.Really."

He did not know what to say. He mentioned the weather outside andapologizedforhavingtrackedsnowupontherug;shemurmuredsomething.HespokeoftheclasseshehadtoteachattheUniversity,andshenodded,puzzled.Atlasttheysatinsilence.Stonergottohisfeet;hemovedslowlyandheavily,asifheweretired.Edithlookedupathimexpressionlessly.

"Well," he said and cleared his throat. "It's getting late, and I-- Look. I'msorry.MayIcallonyouagaininafewdays?Perhaps..

Itwas as if hehadnot spoken toher.Henodded, said, "Goodnight," andturnedtogo.

EdithBostwicksaidinahighshrillvoicewithoutinflection,"WhenIwasalittlegirlaboutsixyearsoldIcouldplaythepianoandIlikedtopaintandIwasvery shy so my mother sent me toMiss Thorndyke's School for Girls in St.Louis.Iwastheyoungestonethere,butthatwasallrightbecauseDaddywasa

memberoftheboardandhearrangedit.Ididn'tlikeitatfirstbutfinallyIjustlovedit.Theywereallverynicegirlsandwell-to-doandImadesomelifelongfriendsthere,and--"

Stonerhadturnedbackwhenshebegantospeak,andhelookedatherwithanamazementthatdidnotshowonhisface.Hereyeswerefixedstraightbeforeher, her facewas blank, and her lipsmoved as if,without understanding, sheread froman invisible book.Hewalked slowly across the roomand sat downbeside her. She did not seem to notice him; her eyes remained fixed straightahead,andshecontinuedtotellhimaboutherself,ashehadaskedhertodo.Hewantedtotellhertostop,tocomforther,totouchher.Hedidnotmoveorspeak.

She continued to talk, and after a while he began to hear what she wassaying.Years later itwas to occur to him that in that hour and a half on thatDecembereveningoftheirfirstextendedtimetogether,shetoldhimmoreaboutherselfthansheevertoldhimagain.Andwhenitwasover,hefeltthattheywerestrangersinawaythathehadnotthoughttheywouldbe,andheknewthathewasinlove.

EdithElaineBostwickwasprobablynotawareofwhatshesaidtoWilliamStoner that evening, and if she had been she could not have realized itssignificance. But Stoner knewwhat she said, and he never forgot it; what heheardwasakindofconfession,andwhathethoughtheunderstoodwasapleaforhelp.

Ashegottoknowherbetter,helearnedmoreofherchildhood;andhecametorealizethatitwastypicalofthatofmostgirlsofhertimeandcircumstance.Shewaseducateduponthepremisethatshewouldbeprotectedfromthegrossevents that lifemight thrust inherway, andupon thepremise that shehadnootherdutythantobeagracefulandaccomplishedaccessoryto thatprotection,since shebelonged to a social and economic class towhichprotectionwas analmost sacred obligation. She attended private schools for girls where shelearned to read, to write, and to do simple arithmetic; in her leisure she wasencouraged to do needlepoint, to play the piano, to paintwater colors, and todiscusssomeofthemoregentleworksofliterature.Shewasalsoinstructedinmattersofdress,carriage,ladylikediction,andmorality.

Her moral training, both at the schools she attended and at home, wasnegative in nature, prohibitive in intent, and almost entirely sexual. Thesexuality, however, was indirect and unacknowledged; therefore it suffusedeveryotherpartofhereducation,which receivedmostof its energy from thatrecessive and unspoken moral force. She learned that she would have duties

towardherhusbandandfamilyandthatshemustfulfillthem.Her childhood was an exceedingly formal one, even in the most ordinary

moments of family life.Her parents behaved toward each otherwith a distantcourtesy;Edithneversawpassbetweenthemthespontaneouswarmthofeitheranger or love. Anger was days of courteous silence, and lovewas a word ofcourteous endearment. She was an only child, and loneliness was one of theearliestconditionsofherlife.

Soshegrewupwithafrailtalentinthemoregenteelarts,andnoknowledgeofthenecessityoflivingfromdaytoday.

Her needlepointwas delicate and useless, she paintedmisty landscapes ofthinwater-colorwashes, and sheplayed thepianowith a forcelessbutprecisehand; yet she was ignorant of her own bodily functions, she had never beenalonetocareforherownselfonedayofherlife,norcoulditeverhaveoccurredtoherthatshemightbecomeresponsibleforthewellbeingofanother.Herlifewas invariable, like a lowhum; and itwaswatchedover byhermother,who,whenEdithwasachild,wouldsit forhourswatchingherpaintherpicturesorplayherpiano,asifnootheroccupationwerepossibleforeitherofthem.

At the age of thirteenEdithwent through the usual sexual transformation;she alsowent through a physical transformation thatwasmore uncommon. Inthespaceofa fewmonthsshegrewalmosta foot,so thatherheightwasnearthatofagrownman.Andtheassociationbetweentheungainlinessofherbodyand her awkward new sexual estate was one from which she never fullyrecovered.Thesechangesintensifiedanaturalshyness--shewasdistantfromherclassmatesatschool,shehadnooneathometowhomshecouldtalk,andsheturnedmoreandmoreinwarduponherself.

Upon that inner privacy William Stoner now intruded. And somethingunsuspectedwithinher,someinstinct,madehercallhimbackwhenhestartedtogo out the door, made her speak quickly and desperately, as she had neverspokenbefore,andasshewouldneverspeakagain.

Duringthenexttwoweekshesawhernearlyeveryevening.Theywenttoaconcertsponsoredbythenewmusicdepartmentat theUniversity;oneveningswhen itwas not too cold they took slow, solemnwalks through the streets ofColumbia; but more often they sat in Mrs. Darley's parlor. Sometimes theytalked,andEdithplayedforhim,whilehelistenedandwatchedherhandsmovelifelesslyoverthekeys.Afterthatfirsteveningtogethertheirconversationwascuriouslyimpersonal;hewasunabletodrawheroutofherreserve,andwhenhesawthathiseffortstodosoembarrassedher,hestoppedtrying.Yettherewasa

kind of ease between them, and he imagined that they had an understanding.LessthanaweekbeforeshewastoreturntoSt.Louishedeclaredhislovetoherandproposedmarriage.

Though he did not know exactly how she would take the declaration andproposal,hewassurprisedatherequanimity.Afterhespokeshegavehimalonglookthatwasdeliberativeandcuriouslybold;andhewasremindedofthefirstafternoon,afterhehadaskedpermissiontocallonher,whenshehadlookedathim from the doorwaywhere a coldwindwas blowing upon them. Then shedropped her glance; and the surprise that came upon her face seemed to himunreal. She said she had never thought of him that way, that she had neverimagined,thatshedidnotknow.

"YoumusthaveknownIlovedyou,"hesaid."Idon'tseehowIcouldhavehiddenit."

Shesaidwithsomehintofanimation,"Ididn't.Idon'tknowanythingaboutthat."

"ThenImusttellyouagain,"hesaidgently."Andyoumustgetusedtoit.Iloveyou,andIcannotimaginelivingwithoutyou."

She shook her head, as if confused. "My trip to Europe," she said faintly."AuntEmma..."

Hefeltalaughcomeupinhisthroat,andhesaidinhappyconfidence,"Ah,Europe.I'lltakeyoutoEurope.We'llseeittogethersomeday."

Shepulled away fromhimandput her fingertips uponher forehead. "Youmust giveme time to think. And I would have to talk toMother and DaddybeforeIcouldevenconsider..."

Andshewouldnotcommitherselffurtherthanthat.ShewasnottoseehimagainbeforesheleftforSt.Louisinafewdays,andshewouldwritehimfromthereaftershetalkedtoherparentsandhadthingssettledinhermind.Whenheleftthateveninghestoopedtokissher;sheturnedherhead,andhislipsbrushedher cheek. She gave his hand a little squeeze and let him out the front doorwithoutlookingathimagain.

Tendayslaterhegothisletterfromher.Itwasacuriouslyformalnote,anditmentionednothingthathadpassedbetweenthem;itsaidthatshewouldlikehimtomeetherparentsandthattheywerealllookingforwardtoseeinghimwhenhecametoSt.Louis,thefollowingweekendifthatwaspossible.

Edith's parentsmet himwith the cool formality hehad expected, and theytried at once to destroy any sense of ease hemight have had.Mrs. Bostwickwouldaskhimaquestion,anduponhisanswerwouldsay,"Y-e-es," inamostdoubtfulmanner,andlookathimcuriously,asifhisfaceweresmudgedorhisnose were bleeding. She was tall and thin like Edith, and at first Stoner was

startledbyaresemblancehehadnotanticipated;butMrs.Bostwick'sfacewasheavyandlethargic,withoutanystrengthordelicacy,anditborethedeepmarksofwhatmusthavebeenahabitualdissatisfaction.

Horace Bostwick was also tall, but he was curiously and unsubstantiallyheavy, almost corpulent; a fringe of gray hair curled about an otherwise baldskull,andfoldsofskinhunglooselyaroundhisjaws.WhenhespoketoStonerhelookeddirectlyabovehisheadasifhesawsomethingbehindhim,andwhenStoneransweredhedrummedhisthickfingersuponthecenterpipingofhisvest.

Edith greeted Stoner as if he were a casual visitor and then drifted awayunconcernedly, busying herself with inconsequential tasks. His eyes followedher,buthecouldnotmakeherlookathim.

ItwasthelargestandmosteleganthousethatStonerhadeverbeenin.Theroomswereveryhighanddark,andtheywerecrowdedwithvasesofallsizesand shapes, dully gleaming silverwork upon marble-topped tables andcommodes and chests, and richly tapestried furniturewithmost delicate lines.They drifted through several rooms to a large parlor, where, Mrs. Bostwickmurmured, she and her husband were in the habit of sitting and chattinginformally with friends. Stoner sat in a chair so fragile that he was afraid tomoveuponit;hefeltitshiftbeneathhisweight.

Edithhaddisappeared;Stonerlookedaroundforheralmostfrantically.Butshedidnotcomebackdowntotheparlorfornearlytwohours,untilafterStonerandherparentshadhadtheir"talk."

The"talk"was indirectandallusiveandslow, interruptedby longsilences.HoraceBostwicktalkedabouthimselfinbriefspeechesdirectedseveralinchesoverStoner'shead.StonerlearnedthatBostwickwasaBostonianwhosefather,lateinhislife,hadruinedhisbankingcareerandhisson'sfutureinNewEnglandby a series of unwise investments that had closed his bank. ("Betrayed,"Bostwickannouncedtotheceiling,"byfalsefriends")ThusthesonhadcometoMissourishortlyafter theCivilWar, intendingtomovewest;buthehadnevergot farther than Kansas City, where he went occasionally on business trips.Remembering his father's failure, or betrayal, he stayedwith his first job in asmallSt.Louisbank;andinhislatethirties,secureinaminorvice-presidency,hemarried a local girl of good family.From themarriagehad comeonlyonechild; he had wanted a son and had got a girl, and that was anotherdisappointment he hardly bothered to conceal. Like many men who considertheirsuccessincomplete,hewasextraordinarilyvainandconsumedwithasenseof his own importance. Every ten or fifteenminutes he removed a large goldwatchfromhisvestpocket,lookedatit,andnoddedtohimself.

Mrs.Bostwickspokelessfrequentlyandlessdirectlyofherself,butStoner

quicklyhadanunderstandingofher.ShewasaSouthernladyofacertaintype.Of an old and discreetly impoverished family, she had grown up with thepresumptionthatthecircumstancesofneedunderwhichthefamilyexistedwereinappropriate to its quality. She had been taught to look forward to somebetterment of that condition, but the betterment hadnever beenvery preciselyspecified. She had gone into her marriage to Horace Bostwick with thatdissatisfactionsohabitualwithinherthatitwasapartofherperson;andastheyears went on, the dissatisfaction and bitterness increased, so general andpervasive thatnospecificremedymightassuage them.Hervoicewas thinandhigh,anditheldanoteofhopelessnessthatgaveaspecialvaluetoeverywordshesaid.

Itwaslateintheafternoonbeforeeitherof themmentionedthematter thathadbroughtthemtogether.

TheytoldhimhowdearEdithwastothem,howconcernedtheywereforherfuture happiness, of the advantages she had had. Stoner sat in an agony ofembarrassmentandtriedtomakeresponseshehopedwereappropriate.

"Anextraordinarygirl,"Mrs.Bostwicksaid."Sosensitive."Thelinesinherface deepened, and she said with old bitterness, "No man--no one can fullyunderstandthedelicacyof--of--"

"Yes,"HoraceBostwicksaidshortly.Andhebeganto inquire intowhathecalled Stoner's "prospects." Stoner answered as best he could; he had neverthought of his "prospects" before, and he was surprised at how meager theysounded.

Bostwicksaid,"Andyouhaveno--means--beyondyourprofession?""No,sir,"Stonersaid.Mr. Bostwick shook his head unhappily. "Edith has had--advantages--you

know. A fine home, servants, the best schools. I'm wondering--I find myselfafraid, with the reduced standard which would be inevitable with your--ah,condition--that..."Hisvoicetrailedaway.

Stoner felt a sickness rise within him, and an anger. He waited a fewmomentsbeforehereplied,andhemadehisvoiceasflatandexpressionlessashecould.

"Imusttellyou,sir,thatIhadnotconsideredthesematerialmattersbefore.Edith'shappinessis,ofcourse,my--IfyoubelievethatEdithwouldbeunhappy,thenImust..."Hepaused,searchingforwords.HewantedtotellEdith'sfatherofhis love forhisdaughter,ofhiscertaintyof theirhappiness together,of thekind of life they could have. But he did not go on. He caught on HoraceBostwick'sfacesuchanexpressionofconcern,dismay,andsomethinglikefearthathewassurprisedintosilence.

"No," Horace Bostwick said hastily, and his expression cleared. "Youmisunderstand me. I was merely attempting to lay before you certain--difficulties--thatmightariseinthefuture.I'msureyouyoungpeoplehavetalkedthese things over, and I'm sure you know your own minds. I respect yourjudgmentand..."

And it was settled. A few more words were said, and Mrs. BostwickwonderedaloudwhereEdithcouldhavebeenkeepingherselfallthistime.Shecalledout thename inherhigh, thinvoice,and ina fewmomentsEdithcameintotheroomwheretheyallwaited.ShedidnotlookatStoner.

HoraceBostwicktoldher thatheandher"youngman"hadhadanice talkandthattheyhadhisblessing.Edithnodded.

"Well," her mother said, "we must make plans. A spring wedding. June,perhaps."

"No,"Edithsaid."What,mydear?"hermotheraskedpleasantly."Ifit'stobedone,"Edithsaid,"Iwantitdonequickly.""The impatience of youth,"Mr.Bostwick said and clearedhis throat. "But

perhaps your mother is right, my dear. There are plans to be made; time isrequired."

"No,"Edithsaidagain,andtherewasafirmnessinhervoicethatmadethemalllookather."Itmustbesoon."

Therewasasilence.Thenherfathersaidinasurprisinglymildvoice,"Verywell,mydear.Asyousay.Youyoungpeoplemakeyourplans."

Edithnodded,murmuredsomethingaboutataskshehadtodo,andslippedoutoftheroom.Stonerdidnotseeheragainuntildinnerthatnight,whichwaspresidedoverinregalsilencebyHoraceBostwick.AfterdinnerEdithplayedthepiano for them, but she played stiffly and badly, with many mistakes. Sheannouncedthatshewasfeelingunwellandwenttoherroom.

In theguest room thatnight,WilliamStonercouldnot sleep.Hestaredupintothedarkandwonderedatthestrangenessthathadcomeoverhislife,andforthefirsttimequestionedthewisdomofwhathewasabouttodo.HethoughtofEdithandfeltsomereassurance.Hesupposedthatallmenwereasuncertainashesuddenlyhadbecome,andhadthesamedoubts.

HehadtocatchanearlytrainbacktoColumbiathenextmorning,sothathehadlittletimeafterbreakfast.Hewantedtotakeatrolleytothestation,butMr.Bostwickinsistedthatoneoftheservantsdrivehiminthelandau.Edithwastowritehiminafewdaysabouttheweddingplans.HethankedtheBostwicksandbade themgood-by; theywalkedwithhimandEdith to thefrontdoor.Hehadalmostreachedthefrontgatewhenheheardfootstepsrunningbehindhim.He

turned.ItwasEdith.Shestoodverystiffandtall,herfacewaspale,andshewaslookingstraightathim.

"I'lltrytobeagoodwifetoyou,William,"shesaid."I'lltry."Herealized that itwas the first timeanyonehadspokenhisnamesincehe

hadcomethere.

IV

For reasonsshewouldnotexplain,Edithdidnotwant tobemarried inSt.Louis, so the wedding was held in Columbia, in the large drawing room ofEmmaDarley,where they had spent their first hours together. Itwas the firstweekinFebruary,justafterclassesweredismissedforthesemesterbreak.TheBostwickstookthetrainfromSt.Louis,andWilliam'sparents,whohadnotmetEdith,drovedownfromthefarm,arrivingonSaturdayafternoon,thedaybeforethewedding.

Stonerwantedtoputthemupatahotel,buttheypreferredtostaywiththeFootes, even though theFooteshadgrowncold anddistant sinceWilliamhadlefttheiremploy.

"Wouldn't know how to do in a hotel," his father said seriously. "And theFootescanputupwithusforonenight."

ThateveningWilliamrentedagiganddrovehisparentsintotowntoEmmaDarley'shousesothattheycouldmeetEdith.

Theyweremet at the door byMrs.Darley,who gaveWilliam's parents abrief,embarrassedglanceandaskedthemintotheparlor.Hismotherandfathersatcarefully,asifafraidtomoveintheirstiffnewclothes.

"I don't knowwhat can be keeping Edith,"Mrs.Darleymurmured after awhile."Ifyou'llexcuseme."Shewentoutoftheroomtogetherniece.

After a long time Edith came down; she entered the parlor slowly,reluctantly,withakindoffrighteneddefiance.

They rose to their feet, and for several moments the four of them stoodawkwardly,notknowingwhattosay.ThenEdithcameforwardstifflyandgaveherhandfirsttoWilliam'smotherandthentohisfather.

"How do," his father said formally and released her hand, as if afraid itwouldbreak.

Edithglancedathim,triedtosmile,andbackedaway."Sitdown,"shesaid."Pleasesitdown."

Theysat.Williamsaidsomething.Hisvoicesoundedstrainedtohim.Inasilence,quietlyandwonderingly,asifshespokeherthoughtsaloud,his

mothersaid,"My,she'saprettything,isn'tshe?"Williamlaughedalittleandsaidgently,"Yes,ma'am,sheis."Theywereabletospeakmoreeasilythen,thoughtheydartedglancesateach

otherandthenlookedawayintothedistancesoftheroom.Edithmurmuredthatshewasgladtomeetthem,thatshewassorrytheyhadn'tmetbefore.

"Andwhenwegetsettled--"Shepaused,andWilliamwonderedifshewasgoingtocontinue."Whenwegetsettledyoumustcometovisitus."

"Thankyoukindly,"hismothersaid.Thetalkwenton,butitwasinterruptedbylongsilences.Edith'snervousness

increased, becamemore apparent, and once or twice she did not respond to aquestion someone asked her. William got to his feet, and his mother, with anervous look around her, stood also. But his father did not move. He lookeddirectlyatEdithandkepthiseyesonherforalongtime.

Finally he said, "William was always a good boy. I'm glad he's gettinghimselfa finewoman.Amanneedshimselfawoman, todo forhimandgivehimcomfort.NowyoubegoodtoWilliam.Heoughttohavesomeonewhocanbegoodtohim."

Edith'sheadcamebackinakindofreflexofshock;hereyeswerewide,andforamomentWilliam thoughtshewasangry.Butshewasnot.His fatherandEdithlookedateachotherforalongtime,andtheireyesdidnotwaver.

"I'lltry,Mr.Stoner,"Edithsaid."I'lltry."Thenhisfathergottohisfeetandbowedclumsilyandsaid,"It'sgettinglate.

We'dbestbegettingalong."Andhewalkedwithhiswife, shapeless anddarkandsmallbesidehim,tothedoor,leavingEdithandhissontogether.

Edith did not speak to him. But when he turned to bid her good nightWilliamsawthattearswereswimminginhereyes.Hebenttokissher,andhefeltthefrailstrengthofherslenderfingersonhisarms.

Thecoldclear sunlightof theFebruaryafternoonslanted through the frontwindowsoftheDarleyhouseandwasbrokenbythefiguresthatmovedaboutinthe largeparlor.Hisparentsstoodcuriouslyalone inacornerof the room; theBostwicks,who had come in only an hour before on themorning train, stoodnear them, not looking at them; Gordon Finch walked heavily and anxiouslyaround,asifhewereinchargeofsomething;therewereafewpeople,friendsofEdithorherparents,whomhedidnotknow.Heheardhimselfspeakingtothoseabouthim,felthislipssmiling,andheardvoicescometohimasifmuffledby

layersofthickcloth.GordonFinchwasbesidehim;hisfacewassweaty,anditglowedabovehis

darksuit.Hegrinnednervously."Youaboutready,Bill?"Stonerfelthisheadnod.Finchsaid,"Doesthedoomedmanhaveanylastrequests?"Stonersmiledandshookhishead.Finchclappedhimontheshoulder."Youjuststickbyme;dowhatItellyou;

everything'sundercontrol.Edithwillbedowninafewminutes."Hewonderedifhewouldrememberthisafteritwasover;everythingseemed

ablur,asifhesawthroughahaze.HeheardhimselfaskFinch,"Theminister--Ihaven'tseenhim.Ishehere?"

Finchlaughedandshookhisheadandsaidsomething.Thenamurmurcameovertheroom.Edithwaswalkingdownthestairs.

In herwhite dress shewas like a cold light coming into the room. StonerstartedinvoluntarilytowardherandfeltFinch'shandonhisarm,restraininghim.Edithwaspale,butshegavehimasmallsmile.Thenshewasbesidehim,andtheywerewalkingtogether.Astrangerwitharoundcollarstoodbeforethem;hewasshortandfatandhehadavagueface.Hewasmumblingwordsandlookingatawhitebookinhishands.Williamheardhimselfrespondingtosilences.HefeltEdithtremblingbesidehim.

Then there was a long silence, and another murmur, and the sound oflaughter. Someone said, "Kiss the bride!" He felt himself turned; Finch wasgrinning at him.He smiled down atEdith,whose face swambefore him, andkissedher;herlipswereasdryashisown.

Hefelthishandbeingpumped;peoplewereclappinghimonthebackandlaughing;theroomwasmilling.Newpeoplecameinthedoor.Alargecut-glassbowlofpunchseemedtohaveappearedonalongtableatoneendoftheparlor.There was a cake. Someone held his and Edith's hands together; there was aknife;heunderstoodthathewassupposedtoguideherhandasshecutthecake.

Then he was separated from Edith and couldn't see her in the throng ofpeople.Hewastalkingandlaughing,nodding,andlookingaroundtheroomtosee ifhecould findEdith.He sawhismotherand father standing in the samecornerof the room, fromwhich theyhadnotmoved.Hismotherwas smiling,andhisfatherhadhishandawkwardlyonhershoulder.Hestartedtogotothem,buthecouldnotbreakawayfromwhoeverwastalkingtohim.

Thenhe sawEdith. Shewaswith her father andmother andher aunt; herfather,witha slight frownonhis face,wassurveying the roomas if impatientwithit;andhermotherwasweeping,hereyesredandpuffedaboveherheavycheekbones and her mouth pursed downward like a child's. Mrs. Darley and

Edith had their arms about her;Mrs. Darleywas talking to her, rapidly, as iftrying to explain something.But even across the roomWilliam could see thatEdithwas silent; her facewas like amask, expressionless andwhite. After amomenttheyledMrs.Bostwickfromtheroom,andWilliamdidnotseeEdithagainuntil thereceptionwasover,untilGordonFinchwhisperedsomething inhisear,ledhimtoasidedoorthatopenedontoalittlegarden,andpushedhimoutside.Edithwaswaitingthere,bundledagainstthecold,hercollarturnedupabout her face so that he couldnot see it.GordonFinch, laughing and sayingwordsthatWilliamcouldnotunderstand,hustledthemdownapathtothestreet,whereacoveredbuggywaswaitingtocarrythemtothestation.Itwasnotuntilthey were on the train, which would take them to St. Louis for their week'shoneymoon, thatWilliamStonerrealized that itwasalloverand thathehadawife.

Theywentintomarriageinnocent,butinnocentinprofoundlydifferentways.They were both virginal, and they were conscious of their inexperience; butwhereasWilliam,havingbeenraisedonafarm,tookasunremarkablethenaturalprocessesoflife,theyweretoEdithprofoundlymysteriousandunexpected.Sheknewnothingofthem,andtherewassomethingwithinherwhichdidnotwishtoknowofthem.

Andso,likemanyothers,theirhoneymoonwasafailure;yettheywouldnotadmitthistothemselves,andtheydidnotrealizethesignificanceofthefailureuntillongafterward.

They arrived in St. Louis late Sunday night. On the train, surrounded bystrangers who looked curiously and approvingly at them, Edith had beenanimatedandalmostgay.Theylaughedandheldhandsandspokeofthedaystocome.Once in the city, and by the timeWilliamhad found a carriage to takethemtotheirhotel,Edithsgaietyhadbecomefaintlyhysterical.

Hehalfcarriedher,laughing,throughtheentranceoftheAmbassadorHotel,amassivestructureofbrowncutstone.Thelobbywasnearlydeserted,darkandheavy like a cavern;when theygot inside,Edith abruptly quieted and swayeduncertainlybesidehimastheywalkedacrosstheimmensefloortothedesk.Bythetimetheygottotheirroomshewasnearlyphysicallyill;shetrembledasifina fever, and her lipswere blue against her chalk-like skin.Williamwanted tofindheradoctor,butsheinsistedthatshewasonlytired, thatsheneededrest.Theyspokegravelyof thestrainof theday,andEdithhintedatsomedelicacythattroubledherfromtimetotime.Shemurmured,butwithoutlookingathimandwithoutintonationinhervoice,thatshewantedtheirfirsthornstogetherto

beperfect.AndWilliamsaid,"Theyare--theywillbe.Youmustrest.Ourmarriagewill

begintomorrow."Andlikeothernewhusbandsofwhomhehadheardandatwhoseexpensehe

hadatonetimeoranothermadejokes,hespenthisweddingnightapartfromhiswife,hislongbodycurledstifflyandsleeplesslyonasmallsofa,hiseyesopentothepassingnight.

Heawokeearly.Their suite, arrangedandpaid forbyEdith'sparents, as aweddinggift,wason the tenth floor,and itcommandedaviewof thecity.HecalledsoftlytoEdith,andinafewminutesshecameoutofthebedroom,tyingthesashofherdressinggown,yawningsleepily,smilingalittle.Williamfelthisloveforhergriphisthroat;hetookherbythehand,andtheystoodbeforethewindow in their sitting room, looking down. Automobiles, pedestrians, andcarriagescreptonthenarrowstreetsbelowthem;theyseemedtothemselvesfarremoved from the run of humanity and its pursuits. In the distance, visiblebeyondthesquarebuildingsofredbrickandstone,theMississippiRiverwounditsbluish-brownlengthinthemorningsun;theriverboatsandtugsthatcrawledup and down its stiff bendswere like toys, though their stacks gave off greatquantitiesofgraysmoketothewinterair.Asenseofcalmcameoverhim;heputhisarmaroundhiswifeandheldherlightly,andtheybothgazeddownuponaworldthatseemedfullofpromiseandquietadventure.

They breakfasted early. Edith seemed refreshed, fully recovered from herindispositionof thenightbefore; shewasalmostgayagain, and she lookedatWilliamwithan intimacyandwarmth thathe thoughtwerefromgratitudeandlove.Theydidnotspeakofthenightbefore;everynowandthenEdithlookedathernewringandadjusteditonherfinger.

TheywrappedthemselvesagainstthecoldandwalkedtheSt.Louisstreets,which were just beginning to crowd with people; they looked at goods inwindows,theyspokeofthefutureandgravelythoughtofhowtheywouldfillit.Williambegantoregaintheeaseandfluencyhehaddiscoveredduringhisearlycourtshipofthiswomanwhohadbecomehiswife;

Edithclungtohisarmandseemedtoattendtowhathesaidasshehadneverdonebefore.Theyhadmidmorningcoffeeinasmallwarmshopandwatchedthepassers-byscurrythroughthecold.TheyfoundacarriageanddrovetotheArtMuseum. Arm in arm they walked through the high rooms, through the richglowoflightreflectedfromthepaintings.Inthequietness,inthewarmth,intheair that took on a timelessness from the old paintings and statuary, William

Stoner feltanoutrushofaffection for the tall,delicategirlwhowalkedbesidehim,andhe felt aquietpassion risewithinhim,warmand formally sensuous,likethecolorsthatcameoutfromthewallsaroundhim.

When they left there late in the afternoon the sky had clouded and a thindrizzle had started; butWilliamStoner carriedwithin him thewarmth he hadgathered in themuseum.Theygotback to thehotel shortlyafter sunset;Edithwent into the bedroom to rest, andWilliam called downstairs to have a lightdinner sent to their rooms; and on a sudden inspiration, he went downstairshimselfintothesaloonandaskedforabottleofchampagnetobeicedandsentupwithinthehour.Thebartendernoddedglumlyandtoldhimthatitwouldnotbeagoodchampagne.BythefirstofJuly,Prohibitionwouldbenational;alreadyitwasillegaltobrewordistillliquors;andtherewerenomorethanfiftybottlesof champagne of any sort in the cellars of the hotel. And he would have tochargemore than the champagnewasworth. Stoner smiled and told him thatwouldbeallright.

Althoughonspecialoccasionsofcelebrationinherparents'homeEdithhadtaken a little wine, she had never before tasted champagne. As they ate theirdinner,setuponasmallsquaretableintheirsittingroom,sheglancednervouslyatthestrangebottleinitsbucketofice.Twowhitecandlesindullbrassholdersglowedunevenlyagainst thedarkness;Williamhadturnedout theother lights.The candles flickered between them as they talked, and the light caught thecurvesof the smoothdarkbottle andglitteredupon the ice that surrounded it.Theywerenervousandcautiouslygay.

Inexpertlyhewithdrew the cork from the champagne;Edith jumpedat theloud report; white froth spurted from the bottle neck and drenched his hand.They laughed at his clumsiness. They drank a glass of the wine, and Edithpretendedtipsiness.Theydrankanotherglass.Williamthoughthesawalanguorcomeoverher,aquietnessfalluponherface,apensivenessdarkenhereyes.Heroseandwentbehindher,whereshesatatthelittletable;heputhishandsuponhershoulders,marvelingat thethicknessandheavinessofhisfingersuponthedelicacyofherfleshandbone.Shestiffenedbeneathhistouch,andhemadehishands go gently to the sides of her thin neck and let thembrush into the finereddish hair; her neckwas rigid, the cords vibrant in their tensity.He put hishandsonherarmsandliftedgently,sothatsherosefromthechair;heturnedherto facehim.Hereyes,wideandpaleandnearly transparent in thecandlelight,lookeduponhimblankly.He felt adistant closeness toher, andapity forherhelplessness;desirethickenedinhisthroatsothathecouldnotspeak.Hepulledheralittletowardthebedroom,feelingaquickhardresistanceinherbody,andfeelingatthesamemomentawilledputtingawayoftheresistance.

He left the door to the unlighted bedroom open; the candlelight glowedfeebly in the darkness. Hemurmured as if to comfort and assure her, but hiswordswere smothered and she couldnot hearwhat he said.Heput his handsupon her body and fumbled for the buttons that would open her to him. Shepushedhimawayimpersonally;inthedimnesshereyeswereclosedandherlipstight.Sheturnedawayfromhimandwithaquickmovementloosenedherdressso that it fell crumpled abouther feet.Her arms and shoulderswerebare; sheshudderedasiffromcoldandsaidinaflatvoice,"Gointheotherroom.I'llbereadyinaminute."Hetouchedherarmsandputhislipstohershoulder,butshewouldnotturntohim.

Inthesittingroomhestaredatthecandlesthatflickeredovertheremainsoftheirdinner,inthemidstofwhichrestedthebottleofchampagne,stillmorethanhalf full.Hepoureda littleof thewine intoaglassand tasted it; ithadgrownwarmandsweetish.

Whenhereturned,Edithwasinbedwiththecoverspulledtoherchin,herfaceturnedupward,hereyesclosed,athinfrowncreasingherforehead.Silently,asifshewereasleep,Stonerundressedandgotintobedbesideher.Forseveralmoments he lay with his desire, which had become an impersonal thing,belongingtohimselfalone.HespoketoEdith,asiftofindahavenforwhathefelt;shedidnotanswer.Heputhishanduponherandfeltbeneaththethinclothofhernightgownthefleshhehadlongedfor.Hemovedhishanduponher;shedidnot stir; her frowndeepened.Againhe spoke, sayingher name to silence;thenhemovedhisbodyuponher,gentleinhisclumsiness.Whenhetouchedthesoftness of her thighs she turned her head sharply away and lifted her arm tocoverhereyes.Shemadenosound.

Afterwardhelaybesideherandspoketoherinthequietnessofhislove.Hereyeswere open then, and they stared at him out of the shadow; therewas noexpression on her face. Suddenly she flung the covers from her and crossedswiftlytothebathroom.Hesawthelightgoonandheardherretchloudlyandagonizingly.Hecalledtoherandwentacrosstheroom;thedoortothebathroomwaslocked.Hecalledtoheragain;shedidnotanswer.Hewentbacktothebedandwaited for her.After severalminutes of silence the light in the bathroomwentoffandthedooropened.Edithcameoutandwalkedstifflytothebed.

"Itwasthechampagne,"shesaid."Ishouldn'thavehadthesecondglass."Shepulledthecoversoverherandturnedawayfromhim;inafewmoments

herbreathingwasregularandheavyinsleep.

V

TheyreturnedtoColumbiatwodaysearlierthantheyhadplanned;restlessandstrainedbytheirisolation,itwasasiftheywalkedtogetherinaprison.EdithsaidthattheyreallyoughttogetbacktoColumbiasothatWilliamcouldpreparefor his classes and so that she could begin to get them settled in their newapartment.Stoner agreedatonce--and toldhimself that thingswouldbebetteronce they were in a place of their own, among people they knew and insurroundingsthatwerefamiliar.TheypackedtheirbelongingsthatafternoonandwereonthetraintoColumbiathesameevening.

In thehurried,vaguedaysbefore theirmarriageStonerhadfoundavacantsecond-floorapartmentinanoldbarnlikehousefiveblocksfromtheUniversity.Itwasdark andbare,with a small bedroom, a tinykitchen, and ahuge livingroomwithhighwindows;ithadatonetimebeenoccupiedbyanartist,ateacherat the University, who had been none too tidy; the dark, wide-planked floorswere splotched with brilliant yellows and blues and reds, and the walls weresmudged with paint and dirt. Stoner thought the place romantic andcommodious,andhejudgedittobeagoodplacetostartanewlife.

Edith moved into the apartment as if it were an enemy to be conquered.Thoughunused tophysical labor,shescrapedawaymostof thepaint fromthefloorsandwallsandscrubbedatthedirtsheimaginedsecretedeverywhere;herhands blistered and her face became strained, with dark hollows beneath theeyes.WhenStonertriedtohelphershebecamestubborn,herlipstightened,andsheshookherhead;heneededthetimeforhisstudies,shesaid;thiswasherjob.Whenheforcedhishelpuponher,shebecamealmostsullen,thinkingherselftobehumiliated.Puzzledandhelpless,hewithdrewhisaidandwatchedas,grimly,Edith continued awkwardly to scrub the gleaming floors and walls, to sewcurtainsandhangthemunevenlyfromthehighwindows,torepairandpaintandrepaint the used furniture they had begun to accumulate. Though inept, sheworkedwithasilentandintenseferocity,sothatbythetimeWilliamgothomefromtheUniversityintheafternoonshewasexhausted.Shewoulddragherselftopreparetheeveningmeal,eatafewbites,andthenwithamurmurvanishintothebedroomtosleeplikeonedruggeduntilafterWilliamhadleftforhisclassesthenextmorning.

Within amonth he knew that hismarriagewas a failure;within a year hestoppedhopingthatitwouldimprove.Helearnedsilenceanddidnotinsistuponhislove.Ifhespoketoherortouchedherintenderness,sheturnedawayfromhimwithinherselfandbecamewordless,enduring,andfordaysafterwarddroveherselftonewlimitsofexhaustion.Outofanunspokenstubbornnesstheyboth

had, they shared the same bed; sometimes at night, in her sleep, sheunknowingly moved against him. And sometimes, then, his resolve andknowledge crumbled before his love, and he moved upon her. If she wassufficiently roused from her sleep she tensed and stiffened, turning her headsidewaysinafamiliargestureandburyingitinherpillow,enduringviolation;atsuchtimesStonerperformedhisloveasquicklyashecould,hatinghimselfforhishasteandregrettinghispassion.Lessfrequentlysheremainedhalfnumbedbysleep;thenshewaspassive,andshemurmureddrowsily,whetherinprotestor surprise he did not know. He came to look forward to these rare andunpredictablemoments,forinthatsleep-druggedacquiescencehecouldpretendtohimselfthathefoundakindofresponse.

Andhecouldnotspeaktoherofwhathetooktobeherunhappiness.Whenhe attempted to do so, she accepted what he said as a reflection upon heradequacyandherself,andshebecameasmoroselywithdrawnfromhimasshedidwhenhemadelovetoher.Heblamedhisclumsinessforherwithdrawalandtookuponhimselftheresponsibilityforwhatshefelt.

With a quiet ruthlessness that came fromhis desperation, he experimentedwith small ways of pleasing her. He brought her gifts, which she acceptedindifferently,sometimescommentingmildlyupontheirexpense;hetookheronwalks and picnics in the wooded countryside around Columbia, but she tiredeasilyandsometimesbecameill;hetalkedtoherofhiswork,ashehaddoneintheircourtship,butherinteresthadbecomeperfunctoryandindulgent.

Atlast,thoughheknewhertobeshy,heinsistedasgentlyashecouldthattheybegintoentertain.Theyhadaninformalteatowhichafewoftheyoungerinstructorsandassistantprofessorsinthedepartmentwereinvited,andtheygaveseveralsmalldinnerparties.InnowaydidEdithshowwhethershewaspleasedordispleased;butherpreparationsfortheeventsweresofrenziedandobsessivethat by the time the guests arrived she was half hysterical from strain andweariness,thoughnooneexceptWilliamwasreallyawareofthis.

Shewasagoodhostess.ShetalkedtoherguestswithananimationandeasethatmadeherseemastrangertoWilliamandshespoketohimintheirpresencewithanintimacyandfondnessthatalwayssurprisedhim.ShecalledhimWilly,whichtouchedhimoddly,andsometimesshelaidasofthanduponhisshoulder.

Butwhentheguestsleft,thefacadefelluponitselfandrevealedhercollapse.Shespokebitterlyofthedepartedguests,imaginingobscureinsultsandslights;she quietly and desperately recounted what she thought to be unforgivablefailuresofherown;shesatstillandbroodinginthelittertheguestshadleftandwouldnotberousedbyWilliamandwouldanswerhimbrieflyanddistraughtlyinaflat,monotonousvoice.

Onlyoncehadthefacadecrackedwhenguestswerepresent.Several months after Stoner's and Edith's marriage, Gordon Finch had

becomeengagedtoagirlwhomhehadmetcasuallywhilehewasstationedinNew York and whose parents lived in Columbia. Finch had been given apermanentpostasassistantdean,anditwastacitlyunderstoodthatwhenJosiahClaremontdiedFinchwouldbeamongthefirsttobeconsideredforthedeanshipoftheCollege.Somewhatbelatedly,incelebrationofbothFinch'snewpositionand theannouncementofhisengagement,Stoneraskedhimandhis fiancee todinner.

They came just before dusk on awarm evening in lateMay, in a shiningblacknew touring carwhichgaveoff a seriesof explosions asFinch expertlybroughtit toahaltonthebrickroadinfrontofStoner'shouse.HehonkedthehornandwavedgailyuntilWilliamandEdithcamedownstairs.Asmalldarkgirlwitharound,smilingfacesatbesidehim.

He introduced her asCarolineWingate, and the four of them talked for amomentwhileFinchhelpedherdescendfromthecar.

"Well,howdoyoulikeit?"Finchasked,thumpingthefrontfenderofthecarwithhisclosedfist."Abeauty,isn'tit?BelongstoCaroline'sfather.I'mthinkingofgettingonejustlikeit,so..."Hisvoicetrailedawayandhiseyesnarrowed;heregardedtheautomobilespeculativelyandcoolly,asifitwerethefuture.

Then he became lively and jocular again. With mock secrecy he put hisforefingertohislips,lookedfurtivelyaround,andtookalargebrownpaperbagfromthefrontseatofthecar."Hooch,"hewhispered."Justofftheboat.Coverme,pal;maybewecanmakeittothehouse."

Thedinnerwentwell.Finchwasmoreaffable thanStonerhadseenhiminyears;StonerthoughtofhimselfandFinchandDaveMasterssittingtogetheronthose distant Friday afternoons after class, drinking beer and talking. Thefiancee,Caroline, said little; she smiledhappilyasFinch jokedandwinked. ItcametoStonerasanalmostenviousshocktorealizethatFinchwasgenuinelyfondofthisdarkprettygirl,andthathersilencecamefromaraptaffectionforhim.

EvenEdithlostsomeofherstrainandtenseness;shesmiledeasily,andherlaughterwasspontaneous.FinchwasplayfulandfamiliarwithEdith inaway,Stoner realized, that he, her own husband, could never be; and Edith seemedhappierthanshehadbeeninmonths.

AfterdinnerFinchremovedthebrownpaperbagfromtheicebox,wherehehadplaceditearliertocool,andtookfromitanumberofdarkbrownbottles.Itwasahomebrewthathemadewithgreatsecrecyandceremonyintheclosetofhisbachelorapartment.

"No room formy clothes," he said, "but aman's got to keep his sense ofvalues."

Carefully,withhiseyessquinted,withthelightglisteninguponhisfairskinandthinningblondhair,likeachemistmeasuringararesubstance,hepouredthebeerfromthebottlesintoglasses.

"Gottobecarefulwiththisstuff,"hesaid."Yougetalotofsedimentatthebottom,andifyoupouritofftooquick,yougetitintheglass."

Theyeachdrankaglassofthebeer,complimentingFinchuponits taste.Itwas, indeed, surprisingly good, dry and light and of a good color.EvenEdithfinishedherglassandtookanother.

They became a little drunk; they laughed vaguely and sentimentally; theysaweachotheranew.

Holdinghis glass up to the light, Stoner said, "Iwonder howDavewouldhavelikedthisbeer."

"Dave?"Finchasked."DaveMasters.Rememberhowheusedtolovebeer?""DaveMasters,"Finchsaid."GoodoldDave.It'sadamnedshame.""Masters," Edith said. She was smiling fuzzily. "Wasn't he that friend of

yoursthatwaskilledinthewar?""Yes,"Stonersaid."That'stheone."Theoldsadnesscameoverhim,buthe

smiledatEdith."GoodoldDave,"Finchsaid."Edie,yourhusbandandIandDaveused to

reallylapitup--longbeforeheknewofyou,ofcourse.GoodoldDave..."TheysmiledatthememoryofDavidMasters."Hewasagoodfriendofyours?"Edithasked.Stonernodded."Hewasagoodfriend.""Chateau-Thierry." Finch drained his glass. "War's a hell of a thing." He

shookhishead. "ButoldDave.He'sprobably somewhere laughingat us rightnow.Hewouldn'tbefeelingsorryforhimself.IwonderifheeverreallygottoseeanyofFrance?"

"Idon'tknow,"Stonersaid."Hewaskilledsosoonafterhegotover.""Beashameifhedidn't.Ialwaysthoughtthatwasoneofthemainreasons

hejoinedup.ToseesomeofEurope.""Europe,"Edithsaiddistinctly."Yeah,"Finchsaid."OldDavedidn'twanttoomanythings,buthedidwant

toseeEuropebeforehedied.""I was going to Europe once," Edith said. Shewas smiling, and her eyes

glitteredhelplessly."Doyouremember,Willy?IwasgoingwithmyAuntEmmajustbeforewegotmarried.Doyouremember?"

"Iremember,"Stonersaid.Edithlaughedgratinglyandshookherheadasifshewerepuzzled."Itseems

likealongtimeago,butitwasn't.Howlonghasitbeen,Willy?""Edith--"Stonersaid."Let's see,wewere going inApril.And then a year.And now it'sMay. I

wouldhavebeen. . ."Suddenlyhereyesfilledwithtears, thoughshewasstillsmilingwithafixedbrightness."I'llnevergettherenow,Iguess.AuntEmmaisgoingtodieprettysoon,andI'llneverhaveachanceto..

Then, with the smile still tightening her lips and her eyes streaming withtears,shebegantosob.StonerandFinchrosefromtheirchairs.

"Edith,"Stonersaidhelplessly."Oh,leavemealone!"Withacurioustwistingmotionshestooderectbefore

them,hereyesshuttightandherhandsclenchedathersides."Allofyou!Justleavemealone!"Andsheturnedandstumbledintothebedroom,slammingthedoorbehindher.

For amoment noone spoke; they listened to themuffled soundofEdith'ssobbing.ThenStonersaid,"You'llhavetoexcuseher.Shehasbeentiredandnottoowell.Thestrain--"

"Sure, I know how it is, Bill." Finch laughed hollowly. "Women and all.Guess I'll be getting used to it pretty soon myself." He looked at Caroline,laughedagain, and loweredhisvoice. "Well,wewon't disturbEdie rightnow.You just thankher for us, tell her itwas a finemeal, andyou folks'll have tocomeovertoourplaceafterwegetsettledin."

"Thanks,Gordon,"Stonersaid."I'lltellher.""Anddon'tworry,"Finchsaid.HepunchedStoneronthearm."Thesethings

happen."After Gordon and Caroline had left, after he heard the new car roar and

sputter away into the night,William Stoner stood in themiddle of the livingroomand listened toEdith'sdryandregularsobbing. Itwasasoundcuriouslyflatandwithoutemotion,anditwentonasifitwouldneverstop.Hewantedtocomforther;hewanted to sootheher;buthedidnotknowwhat to say.Sohestoodandlistened;andafterawhileherealizedthathehadneverbeforeheardEdithcry.

After the disastrous partywithGordonFinch andCarolineWingate, Edithseemed almost contented, calmer than she had been at any time during theirmarriage.Butshedidnotwanttohaveanyonein,andsheshowedareluctanceto go outside the apartment. Stoner didmost of their shopping from lists that

Edithmadeforhiminacuriously laboriousandchildlikehandwritingon littlesheetsofbluenotepaper.Sheseemedhappiestwhenshewasalone;shewouldsitforhoursworkingneedlepointorembroidering tableclothsandnapkins,withatiny indrawn smile on her lips.Her auntEmmaDarley beganmore andmorefrequentlytovisither;whenWilliamcamefromtheUniversityintheafternoonheoftenfoundthetwoofthemtogether,drinkingteaandconversingintonessolowthattheymighthavebeenwhispers.Theyalwaysgreetedhimpolitely,butWilliam knew that they saw him with regret; Mrs. Darley seldom stayed formorethanafewminutesafterhearrived.HelearnedtomaintainanunobtrusiveanddelicateregardfortheworldinwhichEdithhadbeguntolive.

Inthesummerof1920hespentaweekwithhisparentswhileEdithvisitedher relatives in St. Louis; he had not seen his mother and father since thewedding.

Heworked in the fields foradayor two,helpinghis fatherand theNegrohiredhand;butthegiveofthewarmmoistclodsbeneathhisfeetandthesmellof the new-turned earth in his nostrils evoked in him no feeling of return orfamiliarity. He came back to Columbia and spent the rest of the summerpreparingforanewclassthathewastoteachthefollowingacademicyear.Hespent most of each day in the library, sometimes returning to Edith and theapartmentlateintheevening,throughtheheavysweetscentofhoneysucklethatmoved in the warm air and among the delicate leaves of dogwood trees thatrustled and turned, ghost-like in the darkness. His eyes burned from theirconcentrationupondimtexts,hismindwasheavywithwhatitobserved,andhisfingerstinglednumblyfromtheretainedfeelofoldleatherandboardandpaper;buthewasopen to theworld throughwhich for amomenthewalked, andhefoundsomejoyinit.

A few new faces appeared at departmental meetings; some familiar oneswerenotthere;andArcherSloanecontinuedtheslowdeclinewhichStonerhadbeguntonoticeduringthewar.Hishandsshook,andhewasunabletokeephisattentionuponwhathesaid.Thedepartmentwentonwiththemomentumithadgatheredthroughitstraditionandthemerefactofitsbeing.

Stonerwentabouthisteachingwithanintensityandferocitythatawedsomeofthenewermembersofthedepartmentandthatcausedasmallconcernamongthecolleagueswhohadknownhimforalongertime.Hisfacegrewhaggard,helostweight,andthestoopofhisshouldersincreased.Inthesecondsemesterofthatyearhehadachancetotakeateachingoverloadforextrapay,andhetookit; also for extrapay,he taught in thenewsummer school thatyear.Hehadavaguenotionofsavingenoughmoneytogoabroad,sothathecouldshowEdiththeEuropeshehadgivenupforhissake.

Inthesummerof1921,searchingforareferencetoaLatinpoemthathehadforgotten,heglancedathisdissertationforthefirsttimesincehehadsubmitteditforapprovalthreeyearsearlier;hereaditthroughandjudgedittobesound.Alittle frightened at his presumption, he considered reworking it into a book.Thoughhewas again teaching the full summer session, he rereadmost of thetextshehadusedandbegantoextendhisresearch.LateinJanuaryhedecidedthatabookwaspossible;byearlyspringhewasfarenoughalongtobeabletowritethefirsttentativepages.

Itwas in the springof the sameyear that, calmlyandalmost indifferently,Edithtoldhimthatshehaddecidedshewantedachild.

Thedecisioncamesuddenlyandwithoutapparentsource,sothatwhenshemade the announcement onemorning at breakfast, only a fewminutes beforeWilliamhadtoleaveforhisfirstclass,shespokealmostwithsurprise,asifshehadmadeadiscovery.

"What?"Williamsaid."Whatdidyousay?""Iwantababy,"Edithsaid."IthinkIwanttohaveababy."Shewasnibbling apieceof toast.Shewipedher lipswith the corner of a

napkinandsmiledfixedly."Don'tyouthinkweoughttohaveone?"sheasked."We'vebeenmarriedfor

nearlythreeyears.""Ofcourse,"Williamsaid.Hesethiscupdowninitssaucerwithgreatcare.

Hedidnot lookather. "Areyousure?We'venever talkedabout it. Iwouldn'twantyouto--"

"Oh,yes,"shesaid."I'mquitesure.Ithinkweoughttohaveachild."William looked at hiswatch. "I'm late. Iwishwehadmore time to talk. I

wantyoutobesure."Asmallfrowncamebetweenhereyes."ItoldyouIwassure.Don'tyouwant

one?Whydoyoukeepaskingme?Idon'twanttotalkaboutitanymore.""All right,"William said.He sat looking at her for amoment. "I've got to

go."Buthedidnotmove.Thenawkwardlyheputhishandoverherlongfingersthatrestedonthetableclothandkeptitthereuntilshemovedherhandaway.Hegotupfromthetableandedgedaroundher,almostshyly,andgatheredhisbooksandpapers.Asshealwaysdid,Edithcameintothelivingroomtowaitforhimto leave. He kissed her on the cheek--something he had not done for a longwhile.

At the door he turned and said, "I'm--I'm glad you want a child, Edith. Iknowthatinsomewaysourmarriagehasbeenadisappointmenttoyou.Ihope

thiswillmakeadifferencebetweenus.""Yes,"Edithsaid."You'llbelateforyourclass.You'dbetterhurry."After he had gone Edith remained for some minutes in the center of the

room,staringat thecloseddoor,asif tryingtoremembersomething.Thenshemoved restlessly across the floor,walking from one place to another,movingwithinherclothingasifshecouldnotendureitsrustlingandshiftinguponherflesh.Sheunbuttonedher stiffgray taffetamorning robeand let itdrop to thefloor. She crossed her armsover her breasts and huggedherself, kneading thefleshofherupperarmsthroughherthinflannelnightgown.Againshepausedinhermovingandwalkedpurposefullyintothetinybedroomandopenedaclosetdoor,upontheinsideofwhichhungafull-lengthmirror.Sheadjustedthemirrortothelightandstoodbackfromit,inspectingthelongthinfigureinthestraightbluenightgownthatitreflected.Withoutremovinghereyesfromthemirrorsheunbuttoned the top of her gown and pulled it up from her body and over herhead,so thatshestoodnakedin themorning light.Shewaddedthenightgownandthrewitinthecloset.Thensheturnedaboutbeforethemirror,inspectingthebody as if it belonged to someone else. She passed her hands over her smalldroopingbreastsandletherhandsgolightlydownherlongwaistandoverherflatbelly.

She moved away from the mirror and went to the bed, which was stillunmade.Shepulledthecoversoff, foldedthemcarelessly,andput theminthecloset.She smoothed the sheet on thebed and lay thereonher back, her legsstraightandherarmsatherside.Unblinkingandmotionless,shestaredupattheceilingandwaitedthroughthemorningandthelongafternoon.

WhenWilliamStonergothomethateveningitwasnearlydark,butnolightcame from the second-floor windows. Vaguely apprehensive, he went up thestairs and flipped the living-room light on. The room was empty. He called,"Edith?"

Therewasnoreply.Hecalledagain.He looked in the kitchen; the dishes from breakfast were still on the tiny

table. He went swiftly across the living room and opened the door to thebedroom.

Edith laynakedonthebarebed.Whenthedooropenedandthe lightfromthelivingroomfelluponher,sheturnedherheadtohim;butshedidnotgetup.Hereyeswerewideandstaring,andlittlesoundscamefromherpartedmouth.

"Edith!"hesaidandwenttowhereshelay,kneelingbesideher."Areyouallright?What'sthematter?"

Shedidnotanswer,butthesoundsshehadbeenmakingbecamelouderandherbodymovedbesidehim.Suddenlyherhandscameoutathimlikeclaws,and

healmostjerkedaway;buttheywenttohisclothing,clutchingandtearingatit,pullinghimuponthebedbesideher.Hermouthcameuptohim,gapingandhot;herhandsweregoingoverhim,pullingathisclothes,seekinghim;andall thetime her eyes were wide and staring and untroubled, as if they belonged tosomebodyelseandsawnothing.

ItwasanewknowledgehehadofEdith,thisdesirethatwaslikeahungersointensethatitseemedtohavenothingtodowithherself;andnosoonerwasitsatedthanitbeganatoncetogrowagainwithinher,sothattheybothlivedinthetenseexpectationofitspresence.

Although the next twomonthswere the only time of passionWilliam andEdith Stoner ever had together, their relationship did not really change. VerysoonStonerrealizedthattheforcewhichdrewtheirbodiestogetherhadlittletodowithlove;theycoupledwithafierceyetdetacheddetermination,drewapart,andcoupledagain,withoutthestrengthtosurfeittheirneed.

Sometimes during the day, whileWilliamwas at the University, the needcamesostronglyuponEdiththatshecouldnotremainstill;shewouldleavetheapartmentandwalkswiftlyupanddownthestreets,goingaimlesslyfromoneplace to another. And then she would return, draw closed the curtains of thewindows,undressherself,andwait,crouched in thesemidarkness, forWilliamtogethome.Andwhenheopenedthedoorshewasuponhim,herhandswildand demanding, as if they had a life of their own, pulling him toward thebedroom,uponthebedwhichwasstillrumpledfromtheiruseofitthenightorthemorningbefore.

Edith became pregnant in June and immediately fell into an illness fromwhichshedidnotwhollyrecoverduringthefulltimeofherwaiting.Nearlyatthemoment she became pregnant, even before the factwas confirmed by hercalendarandherphysician,thehungerforWilliamthathadragedwithinherforthebetterpartoftwomonthsceased.Shemadeitcleartoherhusbandthatshecouldnotendurethetouchofhishanduponher,anditbegantoseemtohimthateven his looking at her was a kind of violation. The hunger of their passionbecameamemory,andat lastStoner lookedupon itas if itwereadreamthathadnothingtodowitheitherofthem.

Sothebedthathadbeenthearenaoftheirpassionbecamethesupportofherillness.Shekept to itmost of theday, risingonly to relievehernausea in themorningandtowalkunsteadilyaboutthelivingroomforafewminutesintheafternoon. In theafternoonandevening,afterhehadhurried fromhisworkatthe University, William cleaned the rooms, washed the dishes, and made the

eveningmeal;hecarriedEdithsdinnertoheronatray.Thoughshedidnotwanthimtoeatwithher,shedidseemtoenjoysharingacupofweakteawithhimafter dinner. For a fewmoments in the evening, then, they talked quietly andcasually, as if they were old friends or exhausted enemies. Edith would fallasleep soon afterward; andWilliamwould return to the kitchen, complete thehousework,andthensetupatablebeforetheliving-roomsofa,wherehewouldgradepapersorprepare lectures.Then,pastmidnight,hewouldcoverhimselfwithablankethekeptneatlyfoldedbehindthecouch;andwithhislengthcurleduponthecouchhewouldsleepfitfullyuntilmorning.

Thechild,agirl,wasbornafterathree-dayperiodoflaborinthemiddleofMarchintheyear1923.TheynamedherGrace,afteroneofEdith'sauntswhohaddiedmanyyearsbefore.

EvenatbirthGracewasabeautifulchild,withdistinct featuresanda lightdownofgoldenhair.Withinafewdaysthefirstrednessofherskinturnedintoaglowing golden pink. She seldom cried, and she seemed almost aware of hersurroundings.Williamfellinstantlyinlovewithher;theaffectionhecouldnotshowtoEdithhecouldshowtohisdaughter,andhefoundapleasureincaringforherthathehadnotanticipated.

Fornearlyayearafter thebirthofGrace,Edithremainedpartlybedridden;there was some fear that she might become a permanent invalid, though thedoctorcouldfindnospecifictrouble.WilliamhiredawomantocomeinduringthemorningtocareforEdith,andhearrangedhisclassessothathewouldbeathomeearlyintheafternoon.

ThusformorethanayearWilliamkeptthehouseandcaredfortwohelplesspeople.Hewasupbeforedawn,gradingpapersandpreparing lectures;beforegoingtotheUniversityhefedGrace,preparedbreakfastforhimselfandEdith,andfixedalunchforhimself,whichhetooktoschoolinhisbriefcase.Afterhisclasseshecamebacktotheapartment,whichheswept,dusted,andcleaned.

Andhewasmorenearlyamotherthanafathertohisdaughter.Hechangedherdiapersandwashedthem;hechoseherclothingandmendeditwhenitwastorn; he fed her and bathed her and rocked her in his arms when she wasdistressed. Every now and then Edith would call querulously for her baby;WilliamwouldbringGracetoher,andEdith,proppedupinbed,wouldholdherfor a few moments, silently and uncomfortably, as if the child belonged tosomeoneelsewhowasastranger.ThenshewouldtireandwithasighhandthebabybacktoWilliam.Movedbysomeobscureemotion,shewouldweepalittle,dabathereyes,andturnawayfromhim.

Sofor the firstyearofher life,GraceStonerknewonlyher father's touch,andhisvoice,andhislove.

VI

Earlyinthesummerof1924,onaFridayafternoon,ArcherSloanewasseenbyseveralstudentsgoingintohisoffice.HewasdiscoveredshortlyafterdawnthefollowingMondaybyajanitorwhomadetheroundsoftheofficesinJesseHalltoemptythewastebaskets.Sloanewassittingrigidlyslumpedinhischairbeforehisdesk,hisheadatanoddangle,hiseyesopenandfixed ina terriblestare.The janitor spoke tohimand then ranshouting through theemptyhalls.Therewas some delay in the removal of the body from the office, and a fewearly students were milling in the corridors when the curiously humped andsheeted figure was carried on a stretcher down the steps to the waitingambulance. Itwas later determined thatSloanehaddied sometime lateFridaynightorearlySaturdaymorning,ofcausesthatwereobviouslynaturalbutneverpreciselydetermined,andhadremainedthewholeweekendat thedeskstaringendlesslybeforehim.Thecoronerannouncedheartfailureasthecauseofdeath,butWilliamStoneralwaysfeltthatinamomentofangeranddespairSloanehadwilledhishearttocease,asifinalastmutegestureofloveandcontemptforaworldthathadbetrayedhimsoprofoundlythathecouldnotendureinit.

Stonerwasoneofthepallbearersatthefuneral.Attheserviceshecouldnotkeephismindonthewordstheministersaid,butheknewthattheywereempty.He remembered Sloane as he had first seen him in the classroom; herememberedtheirfirsttalkstogether;andhethoughtoftheslowdeclineofthismanwhohadbeenhisdistantfriend.Later,aftertheserviceswereover,whenheliftedhishandleofthegraycasketandhelpedtocarryitouttothehearse,whathecarriedseemedsolightthathecouldnotbelievetherewasanythinginsidethenarrowbox.

Sloane had no family; only his colleagues and a few people from towngatheredaroundthenarrowpitandlistenedinawe,embarrassment,andrespectas theministersaidhiswords.Andbecausehehadnofamilyor lovedones tomournhispassing,itwasStonerwhoweptwhenthecasketwaslowered,asifthatweepingmight reduce the lonelinessof the lastdescent.Whetherheweptforhimself,forthepartofhishistoryandyouththatwentdowntotheearth,orwhetherforthepoorthinfigurethatoncekeptthemanhehadloved,hedidnotknow.

GordonFinchdrovehimbacktotown,andformostoftheridetheydidnotspeak.Then,when theyneared town,GordonaskedaboutEdith;Williamsaidsomething and inquired after Caroline. Gordon replied, and there was a longsilence. Just before theydroveup toWilliam's apartmentGordonFinch spoke

again."I don't know.All during the service I kept thinking aboutDaveMasters.

AboutDavedyinginFrance,andaboutoldSloanesittingthereathisdesk,deadtwo days; like theywere the same kinds of dying. I never knew Sloane verywell,butIguesshewasagoodman;atleastIhearheusedtobe.Andnowwe'llhavetobringsomebodyelseinandfindanewchairmanforthedepartment.It'slike it all just goes around and around and keeps on going. It makes youwonder."

"Yes,"Williamsaidanddidnotspeakfurther.ButhewasforamomentveryfondofGordonFinch;andwhenhegotoutofthecarandwatchedGordondriveaway,hefelt thekeenknowledge thatanotherpartofhimself,ofhispast,wasdrawingslowly,almostimperceptiblyawayfromhim,intothedarkness.

In addition to his duties as assistant dean, Gordon Finch was given theinterimchairmanshipof theEnglishDepartment; and itbecamehis immediatedutytofindareplacementforArcherSloane.

ItwasJulybeforethematterwassettled.ThenFinchcalledthosemembersof the department who had remained in Columbia over the summer andannounced the replacement. It was, Finch told the little group, a nineteenth-centuryspecialist,HollisN.Lomax,whohadrecently receivedhisPh.D. fromHarvardUniversitybutwhohadneverthelesstaughtforseveralyearsatasmalldownstateNewYorkliberal-artscollege.Hecamewithhighrecommendations,he had already started publishing, and he was being hired at the assistantprofessor level. There were, Finch emphasized, no present plans about thedepartmental chairmanship; Finchwas to remain interim chairman for at leastonemoreyear.

For the rest of the summer Lomax remained a figure of mystery and theobjectofspeculationbythepermanentmembersofthefaculty.Theessaysthathe had published in the journals were dug out, read, and passed around withjudiciousnods.LomaxdidnotmakehisappearanceduringNewStudentWeek,norwashepresentatthegeneralfacultymeetingontheFridaybeforeMondaystudentregistration.Andatregistrationthemembersofthedepartment,sittingina linebehind the longdesks,wearilyhelpingstudentschoose theirclassesandassisting themin thedeadly routineof fillingout forms, lookedsurreptitiouslyaroundforanewface.StillLomaxdidnotmakeanappearance.

HewasnotseenuntilthedepartmentalmeetinglateTuesdayafternoon,afterregistrationhadbeencompleted.Bythattime,numbedbythemonotonyofthelast twodaysandyet tensewith theexcitement thatbeginsanewschoolyear,

theEnglish facultyhadnearly forgottenaboutLomax.Theysprawled indesk-topchairs ina largelectureroomintheeastwingofJesseHallandlookedupwith contemptuous yet eager expectancy at the podium where Gordon Finchstoodsurveyingthemwithmassivebenevolence.Alowhumofvoicesfilledtheroom;chairsscrapedonthefloor;nowandthensomeonelaugheddeliberately,raucously.GordonFinch raisedhis righthandandheld itpalmoutward tohisaudience;thehumquietedalittle.

Itquietedenoughforeveryoneintheroomtohearthedoorattherearofthehallcreakopenandtohearadistinctive,slowshuffleoffeetonthebarewoodfloor.Theyturned;andthehumoftheirconversationdied.Someonewhispered,"It'sLomax,"andthesoundwassharpandaudiblethroughtheroom.

He had come through the door, closed it, and had advanced a few stepsbeyondthethreshold,wherehenowstood.Hewasamanbarelyoverfivefeetinheight, andhisbodywasgrotesquelymisshapen.A small hump raisedhis leftshouldertohisneck,andhisleftarmhunglaxlyathisside.Hisupperbodywasheavyandcurved,so thatheappeared tobealwaysstrugglingforbalance;hislegs were thin, and he walked with a hitch in his stiff right leg. For severalmomentshestoodwithhisblondheadbentdownward,asifhewereinspectinghishighlypolishedblackshoesandthesharpcreaseofhisblacktrousers.Thenheliftedhisheadandshothisrightarmout,exposingastiffwhitelengthofcuffwithgold links; therewas a cigarette inhis longpale fingers.He took adeepdrag,inhaled,andexpelledthesmokeinathinstream.Andthentheycouldseehisface.

It was the face of a matinee idol. Long and thin and mobile, it wasnevertheless strongly featured; his foreheadwas high and narrow, with heavyveins,andhisthickwavinghair,thecolorofripewheat,sweptbackfromitinasomewhattheatricalpompadour.Hedroppedhiscigaretteonthefloor,grounditbeneathhissole,andspoke.

"I amLomax."He paused; his voice, rich and deep, articulated hiswordsprecisely,withadramaticresonance."IhopeIhavenotdisruptedyourmeeting."

Themeetingwenton,butnoonepaidmuchattentiontowhatGordonFinchsaid.Lomaxsataloneinthebackoftheroom,smokingandlookingatthehighceiling, apparently oblivious of the heads that turned now and then to look athim.Afterthemeetingwasoverheremainedinhischairandlethiscolleaguescomeuptohim,introducethemselves,andsaywhattheyhadtosay.Hegreetedeachofthembriefly,withacourtesythatwasoddlymocking.

DuringthenextfewweeksitbecameevidentthatLomaxdidnotintendtofithimself into the social, cultural, and academic routine ofColumbia,Missouri.Though he was ironically pleasant to his colleagues, he neither accepted nor

extendedanysocialinvitations;hedidnotevenattendtheannualopenhouseatDean Claremont's, though the event was so traditional that attendance wasalmostobligatory;hewasseenatnoneoftheUniversityconcertsorlectures;itwas said that his classes were lively and that his classroom behavior waseccentric.Hewasapopular teacher; studentsclusteredaroundhisdeskduringhis off-hours, and they followed him in the halls. It was known that heoccasionallyinvitedgroupsofstudentstohisrooms,whereheentertainedthemwithconversationandrecordingsofstringquartets.

WilliamStonerwishedtoknowhimbetter,buthedidnotknowhowtodoso.Hespoketohimwhenhehadsomethingtosay,andheinvitedhimtodinner.When Lomax answered him as he did everyone else--ironically polite andimpersonal--andwhenherefusedtheinvitationtodinner,Stonercouldthinkofnothingelsetodo.

It was some time before Stoner recognized the source of his attraction toHollis Lomax. In Lomax's arrogance, his fluency, and his cheerful bitterness,Stonersaw,distortedbutrecognizable,animageofhisfriendDavidMasters.HewishedtotalktohimashehadtalkedtoDave;buthecouldnot,evenafterheadmittedhiswishtohimself.Theawkwardnessofhisyouthhadnotlefthim,butthe eagerness and straightforwardness that might have made the friendshippossible had. He knew what he wished was impossible, and the knowledgesaddenedhim.

In the evenings, after he had cleaned the apartment, washed the dinnerdishes, and put Grace to bed in a crib set in a corner of the living room, heworkedontherevisionofhisbook.Bytheendoftheyearitwasfinished;andthough he was not altogether pleasedwith it he sent it to a publisher. To hissurprisethestudywasacceptedandscheduledforpublicationinthefallof1925.Onthestrengthoftheunpublishedbookhewaspromotedtoassistantprofessorandgrantedpermanenttenure.

The assurance of his promotion came a few weeks after his book wasaccepted; upon that assurance, Edith announced that she and the baby wouldspendaweekinSt.Louisvisitingherparents.

ShereturnedtoColumbiain less thanaweek,harriedandtiredbutquietlytriumphant.Shehadcuthervisitshortbecausethestrainofcaringforaninfanthad been toomuch for hermother, and the trip had so tired her that shewasunabletocareforGraceherself.Butshehadaccomplishedsomething.ShedrewfromherbagasheafofpapersandhandedasmallsliptoWilliam.

Itwasacheckforsix thousanddollars,madeout toMr.andMrs.William

Stoner and signed with the bold, nearly illegible scrawl of Horace Bostwick."What'sthis?"Stonerasked.

Shehandedhimtheotherpapers."It'saloan,"shesaid."Allyouhavetodoissignthese.Ialreadyhave."

"Butsixthousanddollars!What'sitfor?""Ahouse,"Edithsaid."Arealhouseofourown."WilliamStoner looked again at the papers, shuffled through them quickly,

and said, "Edith, we can't. I'm sorry, but--look, I'll only be making sixteenhundred next year. The payments on this will be more than sixty dollars amonth--that'salmosthalfmysalary.Andtherewillbetaxesandinsuranceand--Ijustdon'tseehowwecandoit.Iwishyouhadtalkedtome."

Herfacebecamesorrowful;sheturnedawayfromhim."Iwantedtosurpriseyou.I'mabletodosolittle.AndIcoulddothis."

Heprotestedthathewasgrateful,butEdithwouldnotbeconsoled."Iwasthinkingofyouandthebaby,"shesaid."Youcouldhaveastudy,and

Gracecouldhaveayardtoplayin.""Iknow,"Williamsaid."Maybeinafewyears.""Inafewyears,"Edithrepeated.Therewasasilence.Thenshesaiddully,"I

can'tlivelikethis.Notanylonger.Inanapartment.NomatterwhereIgoIcanhearyou,andhearthebaby,and--thesmell.I--can't--stand--the--smell!Dayafterday,thesmellofdiapers,and--Ican'tstandit,andIcan'tgetawayfromit.Don'tyouknow?Don'tyouknow?"'

Intheendtheyacceptedthemoney.Stonerdecidedthathecouldgiveuptoteachingthesummershehadpromisedhimselfforstudyandwriting,atleastforafewyears.

Edithtookituponherselftolookforthehouse.Throughoutthelatespringand early summer she was tireless in her search, which seemed to work animmediatecureofherillness.AssoonasWilliamcamehomefromhisclassesshe went out and often did not return until dusk. Sometimes she walked andsometimesshedrovearoundwithCarolineFinch,withwhomshehadbecomecasuallyfriendly.LateinJuneshediscoveredthehouseshewanted;shesignedanoptiontobuyandagreedtotakepossessionbythemiddleofAugust.

It was an old two-storied house only a few blocks from the campus; itspreviousownershadallowed it to rundown, thedarkgreenpaintwaspeelingfromtheboards,andthelawnwasbrownandinfestedwithweeds.Buttheyardwas large and the house was roomy; it had a bedraggled grandeur that Edithcouldimaginerenewed.

Sheborrowedanotherfivehundreddollarsfromherfatherforfurniture,andin the timebetweenthesummersessionand thebeginningof thefallsemester

Williamrepaintedthehouse;Edithwanteditwhite,andhehadtoputthreecoatsonsothatthedarkgreenwouldnotshowthrough.Suddenly,inthefirstweekofSeptember,Edithdecidedthatshewantedaparty--ahousewarming,shecalledit.Shemadetheannouncementwithsomeresolution,asifitwereanewbeginning.

They invited all thosemembers of the departmentwho had returned fromtheir summer vacations as well as a few town acquaintances of Edith; HollisLomaxsurprisedeveryonebyacceptingtheinvitation,thefirsthehadacceptedsince his arrival in Columbia a year earlier. Stoner found a bootlegger andbought severalbottlesofgin;GordonFinchpromised tobringsomebeer;andEdith'sAuntEmmacontributed twobottlesofoldsherry for thosewhowouldnotdrinkhardliquor.Edithwasreluctanttoserveliquoratall;itwastechnicallyillegaltodoso.ButCarolineFinchintimatedthatnooneattheUniversitywouldthinkitreallyimproper,andsoshewaspersuaded.

Fallcameearlythatyear.AlightsnowfellonthetenthofSeptember,thedaybeforeregistration;duringthenightahardfreezegrippedtheland.Bytheendoftheweek,thetimeoftheparty,thecoldweatherhadlifted,sothattherewasonlyachillintheair;butthetreeswereleafless,thegrasswasbeginningtobrown,and there was a general bareness that presaged a hard winter. By the chillweatheroutside,bythestrippedpoplarsandelmsthatstoodstarklyintheiryard,and by thewarmth and the ranked implements of the impending party inside,WilliamStonerwasremindedofanotherday.Forsometimehecouldnotdecidewhat he was trying to remember--then he realized that it was on such a day,almostsevenyearsbefore,thathehadgonetoJosiahClaremont'shouseandhadseenEdithforthefirsttime.Itseemedfarawaytohim,andlongago;hecouldnotreckonthechangesthatthesefewyearshadwrought.

FornearlythewholeweekbeforethepartyEdithlostherselfinafrenzyofpreparation;shehiredaNegrogirlforaweektohelpwiththepreparationsandtoserve,andthetwoofthemscrubbedthefloorsandthewalls,waxedthewood,dusted and cleaned the furniture, arranged it and rearranged it--so that on thenight of the party Edith was in a state of near exhaustion. There were darkhollowsunderhereyes,andhervoicewasonthequietedgeofhysteria.Atsixo'clock--the guests were supposed to arrive at seven--she counted the glassesonceagainanddiscoveredthatshedidnothaveenoughfortheguestsexpected.Shebrokeintotears,rushedupstairs,sobbingthatshedidn'tcarewhathappened,shewasn't comingbackdown.Stoner tried to reassure her, but shewouldnotanswerhim.Hetoldhernottoworry,thathewouldgettheglasses.Hetoldthemaidthathewouldreturnsoonandhurriedoutofthehouse.Fornearlyanhourhesearchedforastorestillopenwherehecouldpurchaseglasses;bythetimehefoundone,selectedtheglasses,andreturnedtothehouseitwaswellafterseven,

and the first guests had arrived. Edith was among them in the living room,smilingandchattingasifshehadnocareorapprehension;shegreetedWilliamcasuallyandtoldhimtotakethepackageintothekitchen.

Thepartywaslikemanyanother.Conversationbegandesultorily,gatheredaswiftbutfeebleenergy,andtrailedirrelevantlyintootherconversations;laughterwas quick and nervous, and it burst like tiny explosives in a continuous butunrelated barrage all over the room; and the members of the party flowedcasuallyfromoneplacetoanother,asifquietlyoccupyingshiftingpositionsofstrategy.A fewof them, like spies,wandered through thehouse, ledby eitherEdithorWilliam,andcommenteduponthesuperiorityofsucholderhousesasthisoverthenew,flimsierstructuresgoinguphereandthereontheoutskirtsoftown.

Byteno'clockmostoftheguestshadtakenplatespiledwithslicedcoldhamand turkey, pickled apricots, and the varied garniture of tiny tomatoes, celerystalks,olives,pickles,crispradishes,andlittlerawcauliflowerears;afewweredrunkandwouldnoteat.Byelevenmostof theguestshadgone;amongthosewho remained were Gordon and Caroline Finch, a few members of thedepartment whom Stoner had known for several years, and Hollis Lomax.Lomaxwasquitedrunk,thoughnotostentatiouslyso;hewalkedcarefully,asifhecarriedaburdenoveruneventerrain,andhisthinpalefaceshonethroughafilmofsweat.Theliquorloosenedhistongue;andthoughhespokeprecisely,hisvoicelostitsedgeofirony,andheappearedwithoutdefenses.

He spoke of the loneliness of his childhood inOhio,where his father hadbeena fairlysuccessfulsmallbusinessman;he told,as ifofanotherperson,oftheisolationthathisdeformityhadforceduponhim,oftheearlyshamewhichhadnosourcethathecouldunderstandandnodefensethathecouldmuster.Andwhen he told of the long days and evenings he had spent alone in his room,reading to escape the limitations that his twisted body imposed upon him andfinding gradually a sense of freedom that grew more intense as he came tounderstandthenatureofthatfreedom--whenhetoldofthis,WilliamStonerfeltakinshipthathehadnotsuspected;heknewthatLomaxhadgonethroughakindofconversion,anepiphanyofknowingsomethingthroughwordsthatcouldnotbeputinwords,asStonerhimselfhadoncedone,intheclasstaughtbyArcherSloane.Lomaxhadcometoitearly,andalone,sothattheknowledgewasmorenearly a part of himself than itwas a part of Stoner; but in theway thatwasfinallymost important, the twomenwere alike, thoughneither of themmightwishtoadmitittotheother,oreventohimself.

They talked till nearly four in the morning; and though they drankmore,theirtalkgrewquieterandquieter,untilatlastnoonespokeatall.Theysatclose

together amid thedebris of theparty, as if on an island, huddling together forwarmth and assurance. After a while Gordon and Caroline Finch got up andoffered to drive Lomax to his rooms. Lomax shook Stoner's hand, asked himabouthisbook,andwishedhimsuccesswith it;hewalkedover toEdith,whowassittingerectonastraightchair,and tookherhand;he thankedher for theparty.Then,asifonaquietimpulse,hebentalittleandtouchedhislipstohers;Edith's hand came up lightly to his hair, and they remained so for severalmomentswhile the others looked on. Itwas the chastest kiss Stoner had everseen,anditseemedperfectlynatural.

Stoner saw his guests out the front door and lingered a few moments,watchingthemdescendthestepsandwalkoutofthelightfromtheporch.Thecoldairsettledaroundhimandclung;hebreatheddeeply,andthesharpcoldnessinvigoratedhim.Heclosedthedoorreluctantlyandturned;thelivingroomwasempty;Edithhadalreadygoneupstairs.He turned the lightsoff andmadehisway across the cluttered room to the stairs. Already the housewas becomingfamiliar to him; he grasped a balustrade he could not see and let himself beguidedupward.Whenhegottothetopofthestairshecouldseehisway,forthehallwasilluminedbythelightfromthehalf-openeddoorofthebedroom.Theboardscreakedashewalkeddownthehallandwentintothebedroom.

Edith'sclotheswereflungindisarrayonthefloorbesidethebed,thecoversofwhichhadbeen thrownbackcarelessly; she laynakedandglisteningunderthe light on the white unwrinkled sheet. Her bodywas lax andwanton in itsnakedsprawl,anditshonelikepalegold.Williamcamenearerthebed.Shewasfastasleep,butinatrickofthelightherslightlyopenedmouthseemedtoshapethesoundlesswordsofpassionandlove.Hestoodlookingatherforalongtime.He felt a distant pity and reluctant friendship and familiar respect; andhe feltalso aweary sadness, for he knew that no longer could the sight of her bringuponhimtheagonyofdesirethathehadonceknown,andknewthathewouldneveragainbemovedashehadoncebeenmovedbyherpresence.Thesadnesslessened,andhecoveredhergently, turnedoutthelight,andgotinbedbesideher.

ThenextmorningEdithwasillandtired,andshespentthedayinherroom.William cleaned the house and attended to his daughter. OnMonday he sawLomaxandspoketohimwithawarmththattrailedfromthenightoftheparty;Lomaxansweredhimwithanironythatwaslikecoldanger,anddidnotspeakof theparty thatdayor thereafter. Itwasas ifhehaddiscoveredanenmity toholdhimapartfromStoner,andhewouldnotletitgo.

AsWilliamhad feared, thehouse soonproved to be an almost destructivefinancialburden.Thoughheallocatedhissalarywithsomecare,theendofthemonthfoundhimalwayswithoutfunds,andeachmonthhereducedthesteadilydwindlingreservemadebyhissummerteaching.Thefirstyeartheyownedthehouse hemissed two payments toEdith's father, and he received a frosty andprincipledletterofadviceuponsoundfinancialplanning.

Neverthelesshebegantofeelajoyinpropertyandtoknowacomfortthathehadnotanticipated.Hisstudywasonthefirstflooroffthelivingroom,withahighnorthwindow;inthedaytimetheroomwassoftlyillumined,andthewoodpanelingglowedwith the richnessof age.He found in thecellar aquantityofboardswhich,beneaththeravagesofdirtandmold,matchedthepanelingoftheroom.Herefinishedtheseboardsandconstructedbookcases,sothathemightbesurrounded by his books; at a used furniture store he found some dilapidatedchairs,acouch,andanancientdeskforwhichhepaidafewdollarsandwhichhespentmanyweeksrepairing.

As he worked on the room, and as it began slowly to take a shape, herealizedthatformanyyears,unknowntohimself,hehadhadanimagelockedsomewherewithinhimlikeashamedsecret,animagethatwasostensiblyofaplace but which was actually of himself. So it was himself that he wasattemptingtodefineasheworkedonhisstudy.Ashesandedtheoldboardsforhisbookcases,andsawthesurfaceroughnessesdisappear, thegrayweatheringflakeawaytotheessentialwoodandfinallytoarichpurityofgrainandtexture--asherepairedhisfurnitureandarrangedit intheroom,itwashimselfthathewas slowly shaping, itwashimself thathewasputting intoakindoforder, itwashimselfthathewasmakingpossible.

Thus,despitetheregularlyrecurringpressuresofdebtandneed,thenextfewyearswerehappy,andhelivedmuchashehaddreamedthathemightlivewhenhewasayoungstudentingraduateschoolandwhenhehadfirstmarried.Edithdid not partake of so large a part of his life as he had once hoped; indeed, itseemed that theyhadentered intoa long truce thatwas likea stalemate.Theyspentmostoftheirlivesapart;Edithkeptthehouse,whichseldomhadvisitors,in spotless condition. When she was not sweeping or dusting or washing orpolishing,shestayedinherroomandseemedcontenttodoso.SheneverenteredWilliam'sstudy;itwasasifitdidnotexisttoher.

Williamstillhadmostofthecareoftheirdaughter.Intheafternoonswhenhe came home from theUniversity, he tookGrace from the upstairs bedroomthat he had converted into a nursery and let her play in the study while heworked.Sheplayedquietlyandcontentedlyon the floor, satisfied tobealone.Every now and thenWilliam spoke to her, and she paused to look at him in

solemnandslowdelight.Sometimes he asked students to drop by for conferences and chats. He

brewedteaforthemonalittlehotplatethathekeptbesidehisdesk,andfeltanawkwardfondnessforthemastheysatself-consciouslyonthechairs,remarkedupon his library, and complimented him on the beauty of his daughter. Heapologizedfortheabsenceofhiswifeandexplainedherillness,untilatlastherealized that his repetitions of apologywere stressing her absence rather thanaccounting for it; he said no more and hoped that his silence was lesscompromisingthanwerehisexplanations.

ExceptforEdith'sabsencefromit,his lifewasnearlywhathewantedit tobe.Hestudiedandwrotewhenhewasnotpreparingforclass,orgradingpapers,orreadingtheses.Hehopedin timetomakeareputationforhimselfasbothascholarandateacher.Hisexpectationsforhisfirstbookhadbeenbothcautiousand modest, and they had been appropriate; one reviewer had called it"pedestrian"andanotherhadcalledit"acompetentsurvey."Atfirsthehadbeenveryproudofthebook;hehadhelditinhishandsandcaresseditsplainwrapperandturneditspages.Itseemeddelicateandalive,likeachild.Hehadrereaditinprint,mildlysurprisedthatitwasneitherbetternorworsethanhehadthoughtitwouldbe.Afterawhilehetiredofseeingit;butheneverthoughtofit,andhisauthorship,withoutasenseofwonderanddisbeliefathisowntemerityandattheresponsibilityhehadassumed.

VII

Oneeveninginthespringof1927WilliamStonercamehomelate.Thescentofbuddingflowersmingledandhunginthemoistwarmair;cricketshummedinthe shadows; in the distance a lone automobile raised dust and sent into thestillnessaloud,defiantclatter.Hewalkedslowly,caughtinthesomnolenceofanew season, bemused by the tiny green buds that glowed out of the shade ofbushandtree.

Whenhewent into the houseEdithwas at the far endof the living room,holdingthetelephonereceivertoherearandlookingathim.

"You'relate,"shesaid."Yes,"hesaidpleasantly."Wehaddoctor'sorals."She handed him the receiver. "It's for you, long distance. Someone's been

trying to get you all afternoon. I told them you were at the University, butthey'vebeencallingbackhereeveryhour."

Williamtookthereceiverandspokeintothemouthpiece.Nooneanswered."Hello,"hesaidagain.

Thethinstrangevoiceofamanansweredhim."ThisBillStoner?""Yes,whoisthis?""Youdon'tknowme.Iwaspassingby,andyourmaaskedmetocall.Ibeen

tryingallafternoon.""Yes,"Stoner said.Hishandholding themouthpiecewas shaking. "What's

wrong?""It'syourpa,"thevoicesaid."Idon'trightlyknowhowtostart."Thedry,laconic,frightenedvoicewenton,andWilliamStonerlistenedtoit

dully,asifithadnoexistencebeyondthereceiverthatheheldtohisear.Whatheheard concernedhis father.Hehadbeen (thevoice said) feelingpoorly fornearlyaweek;andbecausehisfieldhandbyhimselfhadnotbeenabletokeepupwiththefurrowingandplanting,andeventhoughhehadahighfever,hehadstartedoutearly in themorning togetsomeplantingdone.His fieldhandhadfoundhimatmidmorning,lyingfacedownonthebrokenfield,unconscious.Hehadcarriedhimtothehouse,puthiminbed,andgonetofetchadoctor;butbynoonhewasdead.

'Thankyouforcalling,"Stonersaidmechanically."Tellmymother that I'llbetheretomorrow."

Heput thereceiverbackonitshookandstaredfora longtimeat thebell-shapedmouthpieceattachedtothenarrowblackcylinder.Heturnedaroundand

lookedattheroom.Edithwasregardinghimexpectantly."Well?Whatisit?"sheasked."It'smyfather,"Stonersaid."He'sdead.""Oh,Willy!"Edithsaid.Thenshenodded."You'llprobablybegoneforthe

restoftheweekthen.""Yes,"Stonersaid."ThenI'llgetAuntEmmatocomeoverandhelpwithGrace.""Yes,"Stonersaidmechanically."Yes."Hegotsomeonetotakehisclassesfortherestoftheweekandearlythenext

morningcaughtthebusforBooneville.ThehighwayfromColumbiatoKansasCity,whichcutthroughBooneville,wastheonethathehadtraveledseventeenyears before,when he had first come to theUniversity; now itwaswide andpaved,andneatstraightfencesenclosedfieldsofwheatandcornthatflashedbyhimoutsidethebuswindow.

Boonevillehadchangedlittleduringtheyearshehadnotseenit.Afewnewbuildingshadgoneup,afewoldoneshadbeentorndown;butthetownretainedits bareness and flimsiness, and looked still as if it were only a temporaryarrangement thatcouldbedispensedwithatanymoment.Thoughmostof thestreetshadbeenpavedinthelastfewyears,athinhazeofdusthungaboutthetown, and a fewhorse-drawn, steel-tiredwagonswere still around, thewheelssometimesgivingoffsparksastheyscrapedagainsttheconcretepavingofstreetandcurb.

Norhadthehousechangedsubstantially.Itwasperhapsdrierandgrayerthanit had been; not even a fleck of paint remained on the clapboards, and theunpaintedtimberoftheporchsaggedabitnearertothebareearth.

There were some people in the house--neighbors--whom Stoner did notremember; a tall gaunt man in a black suit, white shirt, and string tie wasbendingoverhismother,whosat inastraightchairbesidethenarrowwoodenboxthatheldthebodyofhisfather.Stonerstartedacrosstheroom.Thetallmansawhimandwalkedtomeethim;theman'seyesweregrayandflatlikepiecesof glazed crockery. A deep and unctuous baritone voice, hushed and thick,uttered some words; the man called Stoner "brother" and spoke of"bereavement,"and"God,whohathtakenaway,"andwantedtoknowifStonerwishedtopraywithhim.Stonerbrushedpastthemanandstoodinfrontofhismother;herfaceswambeforehim.

Throughablurhesawhernodtohimandgetupfromthechair.Shetookhisarmandsaid,"You'llwanttoseeyourpa."

Withatouchthatwassofrailthathecouldhardlyfeelit,sheledhimbesidetheopencoffin.Helookeddown.Helookeduntilhiseyescleared,andthenhe

startedback in shock.Thebody that he saw seemed that of a stranger; itwasshrunken and tiny, and its facewas like a thin brown-papermask,with blackdeep depressionswhere the eyes should have been. The dark blue suit whichenfolded the bodywas grotesquely large, and the hands that folded out of thesleevesover thechestwere like thedriedclawsofananimal.Stoner turned tohismother,andheknewthatthehorrorhefeltwasinhiseyes.

"Yourpalostalotofweightthelastweekortwo,"shesaid."Iaskedhimnottogooutinthefield,buthegotupbeforeIwasawakeandwasgone.Hewasoutofhishead.Hewasjustsosickhewasoutofhisheadanddidn'tknowwhathewasdoing.Thedoctorsaidhemusthavebeen,orhecouldn'thavemanagedit."

AsshespokeStonersawherclearly; itwasas ifshe tooweredeadasshespoke, a part of her gone irretrievably into that boxwith her husband, not toemergeagain.Hesawhernow;herfacewasthinandshrunken;eveninreposeitwassodrawnthatthetipsofherteethweredisclosedbeneathherthinlips.Shewalked as if she had noweight or strength. Hemuttered a word and left theparlor;hewenttotheroominwhichhehadgrownupandstoodinitsbareness.Hiseyeswerehotanddry,andhecouldnotweep.

Hemadethearrangementsthathadtobemadeforthefuneralandsignedthepapers that needed to be signed. Like all country folk, his parents had burialpolicies, towardwhichformostof their lives theyhadsetasidea fewpennieseachweek,evenduringthetimesofmostdesperateneed.Therewassomethingpitifulaboutthepoliciesthathismothergotfromanoldtrunkinherbedroom;thegiltfromtheelaborateprintingwasbeginningtofleckaway,andthecheappaperwasbrittlewithage.Hetalkedtohismotheraboutthefuture;hewantedhertoreturnwithhimtoColumbia.Therewasplentyofroom,hesaid,and(hetwingedatthelie)Edithwouldwelcomehercompany.

Buthismotherwouldnotreturnwithhim."Iwouldn'tfeelright,"shesaid."YourpaandI--I'velivedherenearlyallmylife.Ijustdon'tthinkIcouldsettleanywhereelseand feel rightabout it.Andbesides,Tobe"--Stoner rememberedthatTobewastheNegrofieldhandhisfatherhadhiredmanyyearsago--"Tobehassaidhe'dstayonhereaslongasIneedhim.He'sgothimaniceroomfixedupinthecellar.We'llbeallright."

Stonerarguedwithher,butshewouldnotbemoved.Atlastherealizedthatshewishedonlytodie,andwishedtodosowhereshehadlived;andheknewthatshedeservedthelittledignityshecouldfindindoingasshewantedtodo.

They buried his father in a small plot on the outskirts of Booneville, andWilliamreturnedtothefarmwithhismother.Thatnighthecouldnotsleep.Hedressedandwalked into thefield thathis fatherhadworkedyearafteryear, to

theendthathenowhadfound.Hetriedtorememberhisfather,butthefacethathehadknowninhisyouthwouldnotcometohim.Hekneltinthefieldandtookadryclodofearthinhishand.Hebrokeitandwatchedthegrains,darkinthemoonlight, crumble and flow through his fingers.He brushed his hand on histrouserlegandgotupandwentbacktothehouse.Hedidnotsleep;helayonthebedandlookedoutthesinglewindowuntilthedawncame,untiltherewerenoshadowsupontheland,untilitstretchedgrayandbarrenandinfinitebeforehim.

AfterthedeathofhisfatherStonermadeweekendtripstothefarmasoftenas he could; and each time he saw hismother, he saw her grown thinner andpaler and stiller, until at last it seemed that only her sunken, bright eyeswerealive.During her last days she did not speak to him at all; her eyes flickeredfaintlyasshestaredupfromherbed,andoccasionallyasmallsighcamefromherlips.

Heburiedherbesideherhusband.Aftertheserviceswereoverandthefewmournershadgone,hestoodaloneinacoldNovemberwindandlookedatthetwograves,oneopentoitsburdenandtheothermoundedandcoveredbyathinfuzzofgrass.Heturnedonthebare,treelesslittleplotthatheldotherslikehismother and father and looked across the flat land in the direction of the farmwherehehadbeenborn,wherehismotherandfatherhadspenttheiryears.Hethoughtofthecostexacted,yearafteryear,bythesoil;anditremainedasithadbeen--alittlemorebarren,perhaps,alittlemorefrugalofincrease.Nothinghadchanged.Their lives hadbeen expended in cheerless labor, theirwills broken,theirintelligencesnumbed.Nowtheywereintheearthtowhichtheyhadgiventheirlives;andslowly,yearbyyear,theearthwouldtakethem.Slowlythedampandrotwouldinfestthepineboxeswhichheldtheirbodies,andslowlyitwouldtouch their flesh, and finally it would consume the last vestiges of theirsubstances.Andtheywouldbecomeameaninglesspartofthatstubbornearthtowhichtheyhadlongagogiventhemselves.

HeletTobestayonatthefarmthroughthewinter;inthespringof1928heputthefarmupforsale.TheunderstandingwasthatTobewastoremainonthefarmuntilitwassold,andwhateverheraisedwouldbelongtohim.Tobefixedtheplaceupasbesthecould,repairingthehouseandrepaintingthesmallbarn.Evenso,itwasnotuntilearlyinthespringof1929thatStonerfoundasuitablebuyer. He accepted the first offer he received, of a little over two thousanddollars;hegaveTobeafewhundreddollars,andinlateAugustsenttherestofittohisfather-in-law,toreducetheamountowedonthehouseinColumbia.

InOctoberofthatyearthestockmarketfailed,andlocalnewspaperscarriedstories about Wall Street, about fortunes ruined and great lives altered. FewpeopleinColumbiawere;touched;itwasaconservativecommunity,andalmostnoneofthetownspeoplehadmoneyinstocksorbonds.Butnewsbegantocomeinofbankfailuresacrossthecountry,andthebeginningsofuncertaintytouchedsomeofthetownspeople;afewfarmerswithdrewtheirsavings,andafewmore(urged by the local bankers) increased their deposits. But no one was reallyapprehensive until word came of the failure of a small private bank, theMerchant'sTrust,inSt.Louis.

StonerwasatlunchintheUniversitycafeteriawhenthenewscame,andheimmediatelywent home to tell Edith.TheMerchant'sTrustwas the bank thatheld the mortgage on their home, and the bank of which Edith's father waspresident. Edith called St. Louis that afternoon and talked to her mother; hermotherwascheerful,andshetoldEdiththatMr.Bostwickhadassuredherthattherewas nothing toworry about, that everythingwould be all right in a fewweeks.

Threedaysafter thatHoraceBostwickwasdead,asuicide.Hewent tohisofficeatthebankonemorninginanunusuallycheerfulmood;hegreetedseveralof the bank employeeswho stillworked behind the closed doors of the bank,wentintohisofficeaftertellinghissecretarythathewouldreceivenocalls,andlockedhisdoor.Ataboutteno'clockinthemorningheshothimselfintheheadwith a revolver he had purchased the day before and broughtwith him in hisbriefcase.Heleftnonotebehindhim;butthepapersneatlyarrangedonhisdesktold all that hehad to tell.Andwhat hehad to tellwas simply financial ruin.LikehisBostonianfather,hehadinvestedunwisely,notonlyhisownmoneybutalsothebank's;andhisruinwassocompletethathecouldimaginenorelief.Asitturnedout,theruinwasnotsonearlytotalashethoughtatthemomentofhissuicide.Aftertheestatewassettled,thefamilyhouseremainedintact,andsomeminorrealestateontheoutskirtsofSt.Louiswassufficienttofurnishhiswifewithasmallincomefortherestofherlife.

Butthiswasnotknownimmediately.WilliamStonerreceivedthetelephonecallthatinformedhimofHoraceBostwick'sruinandsuicide,andhebrokethenewstoEdithasgentlyashisestrangementfromherwouldallowhim.

Edith took the news calmly, almost as if she had been expecting it. ShelookedatStonerforseveralmomentswithoutspeaking;thensheshookherheadand said absently, "Poor mother. What will she do? There has always beensomeonetotakecareofher.Howwillshelive?"

Stonersaid,"Tellher"--hepausedawkwardly--"tellherthat,ifshewantsto,shecancomelivewithus.Shewillbewelcome."

Edithsmiledathimwithacuriousmixtureoffondnessandcontempt."Oh,Willy.She'dratherdieherself.Don'tyouknowthat?"

Stonernodded."IsupposeIdo,"hesaid.So on the evening of the day that Stoner received the call, Edith left

ColumbiatogotoSt.Louisforthefuneralandtostaythereaslongasshewasneeded.WhenshehadbeengoneaweekStonerreceivedabriefnoteinforminghim that she would remain with her mother for another two weeks, perhapslonger.Shewasgonefornearlytwomonths,andWilliamwasaloneinthebighousewithhisdaughter.

For the first few days the emptiness of the house was strangely andunexpectedlydisquieting.Buthegotusedtotheemptinessandbegantoenjoyit;withinaweekheknewhimselftobeashappyashehadbeeninyears,andwhenhe thought of Edith 'sinevitable return, it was with a quiet regret that he nolongerneededtohidefromhimself.

Gracehadhadhersixthbirthday in thespringof thatyear,andshestartedherfirstyearofschoolthatfall.EverymorningStonergotherreadyforschool,andhewasbackfromtheUniversityintheafternoonintimetogreetherwhenshecamehome.

At the age of six Gracewas a tall, slender child with hair that wasmoreblondthanred;herskinwasperfectlyfair,andhereyesweredarkblue,almostviolet.Shewasquietandcheerful,andshehadadelightinthingsthatgaveherfatherafeelingthatwaslikenostalgicreverence.

SometimesGraceplayedwithneighborchildren,butmoreoftenshesatwithher father inhis large studyandwatchedhimashegradedpapers,or read,orwrote. She spoke to him, and they conversed--so quietly and seriously thatWilliamStonerwasmovedbya tenderness thathenever foresaw.Gracedrewawkwardandcharmingpicturesonsheetsofyellowpaperandpresented themsolemnlytoherfather,orshereadaloudtohimfromherfirst-gradereader.Atnight,whenStonerputhertobedandreturnedtohisstudy,hewasawareofherabsence from his room and was comforted by the knowledge that she sleptsecurely above him. Inways ofwhich hewas barely conscious he started hereducation,andhewatchedwithamazementandloveasshegrewbeforehimandasherfacebegantoshowtheintelligencethatworkedwithinher.

EdithdidnotreturntoColumbiauntilafterthefirstoftheyear,soWilliamStonerandhisdaughterspentChristmasbythemselves.OnChristmasmorningtheyexchangedgifts;forherfather,whodidnotsmoke,Gracehadmodeled,atthe cautiously progressive school attached to the University, a crude ashtray.Williamgaveheranewdressthathehadselectedhimselfatadowntownstore,severalbooks,andacoloringset.Theysatmostofthedaybeforethesmalltree,

talked,andwatchedthelightstwinkleontheornamentsandthetinselwinkfromthedarkgreenfirlikeburiedfire.

During theChristmasholiday, thatcurious, suspendedpause in the rushingsemester,William Stoner began to realize two things: he began to know howcentrally important Grace had become to his existence, and he began tounderstandthatitmightbepossibleforhimtobecomeagoodteacher.

He was ready to admit to himself that he had not been a good teacher.Always, from the time he had fumbled through his first classes of freshmanEnglish, he had been aware of the gulf that lay between what he felt for hissubject and what he delivered in the classroom. He had hoped that time andexperiencewouldrepairthegulf;buttheyhadnotdoneso.Thosethingsthatheheldmostdeeplyweremostprofoundlybetrayedwhenhespokeofthemtohisclasses;whatwasmostalivewitheredinhiswords;andwhatmovedhimmostbecamecoldinitsutterance.Andtheconsciousnessofhisinadequacydistressedhimsogreatly that thesenseof itgrewhabitual,asmuchapartofhimas thestoopofhisshoulders.

ButduringtheweeksthatEdithwasinSt.Louis,whenhelectured,henowand then found himself so lost in his subject that he became forgetful of hisinadequacy,ofhimself,andevenof thestudentsbeforehim.Nowand thenhebecamesocaughtbyhisenthusiasmthathestuttered,gesticulated,andignoredthe lecturenotes thatusuallyguidedhis talks.At firsthewasdisturbedbyhisoutbursts,asifhepresumedtoofamiliarlyuponhissubject,andheapologizedtohis students; butwhen they began coming up to him after class, andwhen intheir papers they began to show hints of imagination and the revelation of atentative love, hewas encouraged todowhathehadneverbeen taught todo.Theloveofliterature,oflanguage,ofthemysteryofthemindandheartshowingthemselves in theminute, strange, andunexpected combinationsof letters andwords, in theblackest and coldest print--the lovewhichhehadhidden as if itwere illicit and dangerous, he began to display, tentatively at first, and thenboldly,andthenproudly.

Hewasbothsaddenedandheartenedbyhisdiscoveryofwhathemightdo;beyondhisintention,hefelthehadcheatedbothhisstudentsandhimself.Thestudents who had been able theretofore to plod through his courses by therepetition of mechanical steps began to look at him with puzzlement andresentment; thosewho had not taken courses from him began to sit in on hislecturesandnodtohiminthehalls.Hespokemoreconfidentlyandfeltawarmhardseveritygatherwithinhim.Hesuspectedthathewasbeginning, tenyearslate,todiscoverwhohewas;andthefigurehesawwasbothmoreandlessthanhehadonceimaginedittobe.Hefelthimselfatlastbeginningtobeateacher,

whichwassimplyamantowhomhisbookistrue,towhomisgivenadignityofartthathaslittletodowithhisfoolishnessorweaknessorinadequacyasaman.Itwasaknowledgeofwhichhecouldnotspeak,butonewhichchangedhim,oncehehadit,sothatnoonecouldmistakeitspresence.

Thus,whenEdith came back fromSt. Louis, she found him changed in away that she could not understand but ofwhich shewas instantly aware. Shereturnedwithoutwarning on an afternoon train andwalked through the livingroom into the studywhere her husband and her daughter quietly sat. She hadmeant to shock them both by her sudden presence and by her changedappearance;butwhenWilliamlookedupather,andshesawthesurpriseinhiseyes,sheknewatoncethattherealchangehadcomeoverhim,andthatitwassodeepthattheeffectofherappearancewaslost;andshethoughttoherself,alittledistantlyandyetwithsomesurprise,IknowhimbetterthanIeverrealized.

Williamwassurprisedatherpresenceandheralteredappearance,butneithercouldmovehimnowastheymightoncehavedone.Helookedatherforseveralmomentsandthengotupfromhisdesk,wentacrosstheroom,andgreetedhergravely.

Edithhadbobbedherhairandworeoveritoneofthosehatsthathuggedherheadsotightlythatthecroppedhairlayclosetoherfacelikeanirregularframe;her lips were painted a bright orange-red, and two small spots of rougesharpenedhercheekbones.Sheworeoneofthoseshortdressesthathadbecomefashionable among the younger women during the past few years; it hungstraight down fromher shoulders and ended just above her knees. She smiledself-consciouslyatherhusbandandwalkedacrosstheroomtoherdaughter,whosat on the floor and looked up at her quietly and studiously. She kneltawkwardly,hernewdresstightaroundherlegs.

"Gracie, honey," she said in a voice that seemed toWilliam to be strainedandbrittle, "didyoumissyourmommy?Didyou thinkshewasnevercomingback?"

Gracekissedhermotheronthecheekandlookedathersolemnly."Youlookdifferent,"shesaid.

Edith laughed and got up from the floor; shewhirled around, holding herhandsaboveherhead."Ihaveanewdressandnewshoesandanewhair-do.Doyoulikethem?"

Gracenoddeddubiously."Youlookdifferent,"shesaidagain.Edith'ssmilewidened;therewasapalesmearoflipstickononeofherteeth.

SheturnedtoWilliamandasked,"DoIlookdifferent?""Yes,"Williamsaid."Verycharming.Verypretty."She laughed at him and shook her head. "PoorWilly," she said. Then she

turnedagaintoherdaughter."Iamdifferent,Ibelieve,"shesaidtoher."IreallybelieveIam."

ButWilliamStonerknewthatshewasspeakingtohim.Andatthatmoment,somehow,healsoknewthatbeyondherintentionorunderstanding,unknowntoherself,Edithwastryingtoannouncetohimanewdeclarationofwar.

VIII

The declaration was a part of the change that Edith had started bringingaboutduring theweeks shehad spent at "home" inSt.Louis afterher father'sdeath.Anditwasintensified,andfinallygivenpointandsavagery,bythatotherchangethatcameandslowlygrewuponWilliamStonerafterhediscoveredthathemightbecomeagoodteacher.

Edith had been curiously unmoved at her father's funeral. During theelaborate ceremonies she sat erect and hard-faced, and her expression did notalterwhen shehad togopasther father'sbody, resplendent andplump, in theornatecoffin.Butatthecemetery,whenthecoffinwasloweredintothenarrowholemaskedbymatsofartificialgrass,sheloweredherexpressionlessfaceintoherhandsanddidnotraiseituntilsomeonetouchedhershoulder.

Afterthefuneralshespentseveraldaysinheroldroom,theroominwhichshehadgrownup; she sawhermother only at breakfast and at dinner. Itwasthoughtby callers that shewas secluded inher grief. "Theywerevery close,"Edith'smothersaidmysteriously."Muchcloserthantheyseemed."

ButinthatroomEdithwalkedaboutasifforthefirsttime,freely,touchingthe walls and windows, testing their solidity. She had a trunk full of herchildhoodbelongingsbroughtdownfromtheattic;shewentthroughherbureaudrawers, which had remained undisturbed for more than a decade. With abemusedairofleisure,asifshehadallthetimeintheworld,shewentthroughherthings,fondlingthem,turningthemthiswayandthat,examiningthemwithan almost ritualistic care.When she came upon a letter she had received as achild,shereaditthroughfrombeginningtoendasifforthefirsttime;whenshecameuponaforgottendoll,shesmiledatitandcaressedthepaintedbisqueofitscheekasifshewereachildagainwhohadreceivedagift.

Finallyshearrangedallofherchildhoodbelongingsneatlyintwopiles.Oneof these consisted of toys and trinkets she had acquired for herself, of secretphotographsandlettersfromschoolfriends,ofgiftsshehadatonetimereceivedfromdistantrelatives;theotherpileconsistedofthosethingsthatherfatherhadgivenherandofthingswithwhichhehadbeendirectlyorindirectlyconnected.It was to this pile that she gave her attention.Methodically, expressionlessly,withneitherangernorjoy,shetooktheobjectsthere,onebyone,anddestroyedthem.The letters and clothes, the stuffing from the dolls, the pincushions andpictures,sheburnedinthefireplace;theclayandporcelainheads,thehandsandarmsandfeetofthedollsshepoundedtoafinepowderonthehearth;andwhatremainedaftertheburningandpoundingshesweptintoasmallpileandflushed

downthetoiletinthebathroomthatadjoinedherroom.When the jobwasdone--the roomclearedof smoke, thehearth swept, the

few remaining belongings returned to the chest of drawers--Edith BostwickStoner sat at her small dressing table and looked at herself in themirror, thesilverbackingofwhichwasthinningandfleckingaway,sothathereandthereher imagewas imperfectly reflected, or not reflected at all, giving her face acuriously incomplete look. She was thirty years old. The youthful gloss wasbeginningtofallfromherhair,tinylineswerestartingoutfromaroundhereyes,andtheskinofherfacewasbeginningtotightenaroundhersharpcheekbones.She nodded to the image in themirror, got up abruptly, andwent downstairs,whereforthefirsttimeindaysshetalkedcheerfullyandalmostintimatelytohermother.

Shewanted(shesaid)achangeinherself.Shehadtoolongbeenwhatshewas; she spoke of her childhood, of hermarriage.And from sources that shecouldspeakofbutvaguelyanduncertainly,shefixedanimagethatshewishedtofulfill;andfornearlythewholeofthetwomonthsthatshestayedinSt.Louiswithhermother,shedevotedherselftothatfulfillment.

She asked to borrow a sum ofmoney from hermother,whomade her animpetuousgiftofit.Sheboughtanewwardrobe,burningalltheclothesshehadbroughtwithherfromColumbia;shehadherhaircutshortandfashionedinthemode of the day; she bought cosmetics and perfumes, the use of which shepracticeddailyinherroom.Shelearnedtosmoke,andshecultivatedanewwayofspeakingwhichwasbrittle,vaguelyEnglish,andalittleshrill.ShereturnedtoColumbiawiththisoutwardchangewellundercontrol,andwithanotherchangesecretandpotentialwithinher.

During the first fewmonths after her return toColumbia, shewas furiouswithactivity;nolongerdiditseemnecessarytopretendtoherselfthatshewasillorweak.Shejoinedalittletheatergroupanddevotedherselftotheworkthatwasgivenher; shedesignedandpaintedsets, raisedmoneyfor thegroup,andevenhadafewsmallparts in theproductions.WhenStonercamehomein theafternoonshefoundthelivingroomfilledwithherfriends,strangerswholookedathimasifhewereanintruder,towhomhenoddedpolitelyandretreatedtohisstudy, where he could hear their voices, muted and declamatory, beyond hiswalls.

Edith purchased a used upright piano and had it put in the living room,againstthewallwhichseparatedthatroomfromWilliam'sstudy;shehadgivenupthepracticeofmusicshortlybeforehermarriage,andshenowstartedalmostanew,practicingscales,laboringthroughexercisesthatweretoodifficultforher,playing sometimes twoor three hours a day, often in the evening, afterGrace

hadbeenputtobed.The groups of studentswhomStoner invited to his study for conversation

grewlargerandthemeetingsmorefrequent;andnolongerwasEdithcontenttoremainupstairs,awayfromthegatherings.Sheinsisteduponservingthemteaorcoffee;andwhenshedidsheseatedherselfintheroom.Shetalkedloudlyandgaily,managingtoturntheconversationtowardherworkinthelittletheater,orher music, or her painting and sculpture, which (she announced) she wasplanningtotakeupagain,assoonasshefoundtime.Thestudents,mystifiedandembarrassed, gradually stopped coming, and Stoner began meeting them forcoffee in theUniversitycafeteriaor inoneof the small cafes scatteredaroundthecampus.

HedidnotspeaktoEdithabouthernewbehavior;heractivitiescausedhimonlyminorannoyance,andsheseemedhappy,thoughperhapsabitdesperatelyso.Itwas,finally,himselfthatheheldresponsibleforthenewdirectionherlifehad taken; he had been unable to discover for her any meaning in their lifetogether, in theirmarriage.Thus itwas right forher to takewhatmeaningshecould find inareas thathadnothing todowithhimandgowayshecouldnotfollow.

Emboldenedbyhisnewsuccessasateacherandbyhisgrowingpopularityamong the better graduate students, he started a new book in the summer of1930.Henowspentnearlyallofhisfreetimeinhisstudy.HeandEdithkeptupbetween themselves the pretense of sharing the samebedroom, but he seldomenteredthatroom,andneveratnight.Hesleptonhisstudiocouchandevenkepthisclothesinasmallclosetheconstructedinonecorneroftheroom.

HewasabletobewithGrace.Ashadbecomeherhabitduringhermother'sfirstlongabsence,shespentmuchofhertimewithherfatherinhisstudy;Stonerevenfoundasmalldeskandchairforher,sothatshehadaplacetoreadanddoherhomework.Theyhadtheirmealsmoreoftenthannotalone;Edithwasawayfrom the house a great deal, and when she was not away she frequentlyentertainedhertheaterfriendsat littlepartieswhichdidnotadmit thepresenceofachild.

Then,abruptly,Edithbeganstayinghome.Thethreeofthemstartedtakingtheirmealstogetheragain,andEdithevenmadeafewmovementstowardcaringfor the house. The house was quiet; even the pianowas unused, so that dustgatheredonthekeyboard.

Theyhadcometothatpointintheirlifetogetherwhentheyseldomspokeofthemselvesoreachother,lestthedelicatebalancethatmadetheirlivingtogetherpossiblebebroken.So itwasonlyafter longhesitationanddeliberationaboutconsequencesthatStonerfinallyaskedherifanythingwaswrong.

Theywereatthedinnertable;GracehadbeenexcusedandhadtakenabookintoStoner'sstudy.

"Whatdoyoumean?"Edithasked."Yourfriends,"Williamsaid."Theyhaven'tbeenaroundforsometime,and

youdon't seem tobeso involvedwithyour theaterworkanymore. Iwas justwonderingiftherewasanythingwrong."

Withanalmostmasculinegesture,Edithshookacigarettefromthepackagebesideherplate,stuckitbetweenherlips,andlighteditwiththestubofanotherthatshehadhalffinished.Sheinhaleddeeplywithouttakingthecigarettefromher lipsand tiltedherheadback, so thatwhenshe lookedatWilliamhereyeswerenarrowedandquizzicalandcalculating.

"Nothing'swrong,"shesaid."Ijustgotboredwiththemandthework.Doestherealwayshavetobesomethingwrong?"

"No," William said. "I just thought maybe you weren't feeling well orsomething."

Hethoughtnomoreabouttheconversationandshortlythereafterheleftthetableandwentintothestudy,whereGracewassittingatherdesk,immersedinherbook.Thedesk lightgleamedinherhairand threwhersmall,seriousfaceintosharpoutline.Shehasgrownduring thepastyear,Williamthought;andasmall, not unpleasant sadness caughtbriefly at his throat.He smiled andwentquietlytohisdesk.

Withinafewmomentshewasimmersedinhiswork.Theeveningbefore,hehad caught upwith the routine of his classwork; papers had been graded andlectures prepared for thewholeweek thatwas to follow.He saw the eveningbeforehim,andseveraleveningsmore,inwhichhewouldbefreetoworkonhisbook.Whathewantedtodointhisnewbookwasnotyetpreciselycleartohim;ingeneral,hewishedtoextendhimselfbeyondhisfirststudy,inbothtimeandscope.HewantedtoworkintheperiodoftheEnglishRenaissanceandtoextendhisstudyofclassicalandmedievalLatininfluencesintothatarea.Hewasinthestage of planning his study, and it was that stage which gave him the mostpleasure--the selection among alternative approaches, the rejection of certainstrategies,themysteriesanduncertaintiesthatlayinunexploredpossibilities,theconsequences of choice. . . .Thepossibilities he could see so exhilaratedhimthathecouldnotkeepstill.Hegotupfromhisdesk,pacedalittle,andinakindof frustrated joy spoke to his daughter, who looked up from her book andansweredhim.

Shecaughthismood,andsomethinghesaidcausedher to laugh.Thenthetwoof themwere laughing together,senselessly,as if theybothwerechildren.Suddenly the door to the study came open, and the hard light from the living

roomstreamedintotheshadowedrecessesofthestudy.Edithstoodoutlinedinthatlight.

"Grace,"shesaiddistinctlyandslowly,"your father is trying towork.Youmustn'tdisturbhim."

For several moments William and his daughter were so stunned by thissuddenintrusionthatneitherofthemmovedorspoke.ThenWilliammanagedtosay,"It'sallright,Edith.Shedoesn'tbotherme."

Asifhehadnotspoken,Edithsaid,"Grace,didyouhearme?Comeoutoftherethisinstant."

Bewildered,Gracegotdownfromherchairandwalkedacrosstheroom.Inthecenter shepaused, looking first ather father and thenathermother.Edithstartedtospeakagain,butWilliammanagedtocutheroff.

"It'sall right,Grace,"hesaidasgentlyashecould. "It'sall right.Gowithyourmother."

AsGracewentthroughthestudydoortothelivingroom,Edithsaidtoherhusband,"Thechildhashadentirelytoomuchfreedom.Itisn'tnaturalforhertobe so quiet, so withdrawn. She's been too much alone. She should be moreactive,playwithchildrenherownage.Don'tyourealizehowunhappyshehasbeen?"

Andsheshutthedoorbeforehecouldanswer.Hedidnotmoveforalongwhile.Helookedathisdesk,litteredwithnotes

andopenbooks;hewalkedslowlyacrosstheroomandaimlesslyrearrangedthesheetsofpaper,thebooks.Hestoodthere,frowning,forseveralminutesmore,asifheweretryingtoremembersomething.ThenheturnedagainandwalkedtoGrace's small desk; he stood there for some time, as he had stood at his owndesk.Heturnedoffthelampthere,sothatthedesktopwasgrayandlifeless,andwentacrosstothecouch,wherehelaywithhiseyesopen,staringattheceiling.

Theenormitycameuponhimgradually,sothatitwasseveralweeksbeforehecouldadmittohimselfwhatEdithwasdoing;andwhenhewasableatlasttomakethatadmission,hemadeitalmostwithoutsurprise.Edith'swasacampaignwagedwithsuchclevernessandskillthathecouldfindnorationalgroundsforcomplaint.Afterherabruptandalmostbrutalentranceintohisstudythatnight,anentrancewhichinretrospectseemedtohimasurpriseattack,Edith'sstrategybecamemoreindirect,morequietandcontained.Itwasastrategythatdisguiseditselfasloveandconcern,andthusoneagainstwhichhewashelpless.

Edithwas at home nearly all the time now.During themorning and earlyafternoon, while Grace was at school, she occupied herself with redecorating

Grace's bedroom. She removed the small desk from Stoner's study, refinishedandrepainteditapalepink,attachingaroundthetopabroadribbonofmatchingruffledsatin,sothatitborenoresemblancetothedeskGracehadgrownusedto;oneafternoon,withGracestandingmutelybesideher,shewentthroughalltheclothingWilliamhadboughtforher,discardedmostof it,andpromisedGracethat theywould, this weekend, go downtown and replace the discarded itemswith things more fitting, something "girlish." And they did. Late in theafternoon,wearybuttriumphant,Edithreturnedwithaloadofpackagesandanexhausted daughter desperately uncomfortable in a new dress stiffwith starchandamyriadofruffles,frombeneaththeballooninghemofwhichherthinlegsstuckoutlikepatheticsticks.

Edith bought her daughter dolls and toys andhovered about herwhile sheplayedwiththem,asif itwereaduty;shestartedheronpianolessonsandsatbesideheron thebenchas shepracticed;upon theslightestoccasionshegavelittlepartiesforher,whichneighborhoodchildrenattended,vindictiveandsullenintheirstiff,formalclothing;andshestrictlysupervisedherdaughter'sreadingandhomework,notallowinghertoworkbeyondthetimeshehadallotted.

Now Edith's visitors were neighborhood mothers. They came in themorningsanddrankcoffeeandtalkedwhiletheirchildrenwereinschool;intheafternoons they brought their children with them and watched them playinggames in the large living roomand talkedaimlesslyabove thenoiseofgamesandrunning.

OntheseafternoonsStonerwasusuallyinhisstudyandcouldhearwhatthemotherssaidastheyspokeloudlyacrosstheroom,abovetheirchildren'svoices.

Once,when therewasa lull in thenoise,heheardEdithsay, "PoorGrace.She'ssofondofherfather,buthehassolittletimetodevotetoher.Hiswork,youknow;andhehasstartedanewbook..."

Curiously,almostdetachedly,hewatchedhishands,whichhadbeenholdingabook,begintoshake.Theyshookforseveralmomentsbeforehebroughtthemundercontrolbyjammingthemdeepinhispockets,clenchingthem,andholdingthemthere.

He saw his daughter seldom now. The three of them took their mealstogether,butontheseoccasionshehardlydaredtospeaktoher,forwhenhedid,andwhenGraceansweredhim,EdithsoonfoundsomethingwantinginGrace'stablemanners,orinthewayshesatinherchair,andshespokesosharplythatherdaughterremainedsilentanddowncastthroughtherestofthemeal.

Grace's already slender body was becoming thinner; Edith laughed gentlyabouther"growingupbutnotout."Hereyeswerebecomingwatchful,almostwary; the expression that hadoncebeenquietly serenewasnoweither faintly

sullenatoneextremeorgleefulandanimatedonthethinedgeofhysteriaattheother;sheseldomsmiledanymore,althoughshelaughedagreatdeal.Andwhenshedidsmile,itwasasifaghostflittedacrossherface.Once,whileEdithwasupstairs,Williamandhisdaughterpassedeachother in the livingroom.Gracesmiledshylyathim,and involuntarilyheknelton the floorandembracedher.Hefeltherbodystiffen,andhesawherfacegobewilderedandafraid.Heraisedhimselfgentlyawayfromher,saidsomethinginconsequential,andretreated tohisstudy.

Themorning after this he stayed at the breakfast table untilGrace left forschool,eventhoughheknewhewouldbelateforhisnineo'clockclass.AfterseeingGraceoutthefrontdoor,Edithdidnotreturntothediningroom,andheknewthatshewasavoidinghim.Hewentintothelivingroom,wherehiswifesatatoneendofthesofawithacupofcoffeeandacigarette.

Without preliminaries he said, "Edith, I don't like what's happening toGrace."

Instantly,asifshewerepickingupacue,shesaid,"Whatdoyoumean?"Helethimselfdownontheotherendofthesofa,awayfromEdith.Afeeling

ofhelplessnesscameoverhim."YouknowwhatImean,"hesaidwearily."Letuponher.Don'tdrivehersohard."

Edithgroundhercigaretteoutinhersaucer."Gracehasneverbeenhappier.Shehasfriendsnow,thingstooccupyher.Iknowyou'retoobusytonoticethesethings, but--surely you must realize how much more outgoing she's beenrecently.Andshelaughs.Sheneverusedtolaugh.Almostnever."

Williamlookedatherinquietamazement."Youbelievethat,don'tyou?""OfcourseIdo,"Edithsaid."I'mhermother."Andshedidbelieveit,Stonerrealized.Heshookhishead."I've never wanted to admit it to myself," he said with something like

tranquillity,"butyoureallydohateme,don'tyou,Edith?""What?"Theamazementinhervoicewasgenuine."Oh,Willy!"Shelaughed

clearlyandunrestrainedly."Don'tbefoolish.Ofcoursenot.You'remyhusband.""Don'tusethechild."Hecouldnotkeephisvoicefromtrembling."Youdon't

have to any longer; you know that. Anything else. But if you keep on usingGrace,I'll--"Hedidnotfinish.

After amoment Edith said, "You'll what?" She spoke quietly andwithoutchallenge."Allyoucoulddoisleaveme,andyou'dneverdothat.Webothknowit."

He nodded. "I suppose you're right." He got up blindly andwent into hisstudy.Hegothiscoatfromtheclosetandpickeduphisbriefcasefrombesidehisdesk.AshecrossedthelivingroomEdithspoketohimagain.

"Willy,Iwouldn'thurtGrace.Yououghttoknowthat.Iloveher.She'smyveryowndaughter."

Andheknewthatitwastrue;shedidloveher.Thetruthoftheknowledgealmostmadehimcryout.Heshookhisheadandwentoutintotheweather.

WhenhegothomethateveninghefoundthatduringthedayEdithhad,withthe help of a local handyman, moved all of his belongings out of his study.Jammedtogetherinonecornerofthelivingroomwerehisdeskandcouch,andsurroundingtheminacarelessjumblewerehisclothes,hispapers,andallofhisbooks.

Sinceshewouldbehomemorenow,shehad(shetoldhim)decidedtotakeupherpaintingandhersculptingagain;andhisstudy,withitsnorthlight,wouldgivehertheonlyreallydecentilluminationthehousehad.Sheknewhewouldn'tmindamove;hecouldusetheglassed-insunporchatthebackofthehouse;itwas fartheraway from the living room thanhis studyhadbeen,andhewouldhavemorequietinwhichtodohiswork.

Butthesunporchwassosmallthathecouldnotkeephisbooksinanyorder,and therewasno roomforeither thedeskor thecouch thathehadhad in thestudy, sohe storedbothof them in thecellar. Itwasdifficult towarm the sunporchinthewinter,andinthesummer,heknew,thesunwouldbeatthroughtheglasspanesthatenclosedtheporch,sothatitwouldbenearlyuninhabitable.Yetheworkedthereforseveralmonths.Hegotasmalltableanduseditasadesk,andhepurchasedaportableradiantheatertomitigatealittlethecoldthatintheeveningsseepedthroughthethinclapboardsidings.Atnighthesleptwrappedinablanketonthesofainthelivingroom.

After a few months of relative though uncomfortable peace, he beganfinding,whenhereturnedintheafternoonfromtheUniversity,oddsandendsofdiscardedhouseholdgoods--brokenlamps,scatterrugs,smallchests,andboxesofbric-a-brac--leftcarelesslyintheroomthatnowservedashisstudy.

"It'ssodampinthecellar,"Edithsaid,"they'dberuined.Youdon'tmindifIkeeptheminhereforawhile,doyou?"

One spring afternoon he returned home during a driving rainstorm anddiscoveredthatsomehowoneofthepaneshadgotbrokenandthattherainhaddamaged several of his books and had renderedmanyof his notes illegible; afewweekslaterhecameintofindthatGraceandafewofherfriendshadbeenallowedtoplayintheroomandthatmoreofhisnotesandthefirstpagesofthemanuscriptofhisnewbookhadbeentornandmutilated."Ionlyletthemgointherea fewminutes,"Edithsaid. "Theyhave tohavesomeplace toplay.But Ihadnoidea.YououghttospeaktoGrace.I'vetoldherhowimportantyourworkistoyou."

Hegaveupthen.Hemovedasmanyofhisbooksashecouldtohisofficeatthe University, which he shared with three younger instructors; thereafter hespentmuch of the time that he had formerly spent at home at theUniversity,cominghomeearlyonlywhenhislonelinessforabriefglimpseofhisdaughter,orawordwithher,madeitimpossibleforhimtostayaway.

Buthehadroominhisofficeforonlyafewofhisbooks,andhisworkonhismanuscriptwasofteninterruptedbecausehedidnothavethenecessarytexts;moreover one of his office mates, an earnest young man, had the habit ofscheduling student conferences in the evenings, and the sibilant, laboredconversations carried on across the room distracted him, so that he found itdifficulttoconcentrate.Helostinterestinhisbook;hisworkslowedandcametoa halt. Finally he realized that it had become a refuge, a haven, an excuse tocometotheofficeatnight.Hereadandstudied,andatlastcametofindsomecomfort,somepleasure,andevenaghostoftheoldjoyinthatwhichhedid,alearningtowardnoparticularend.

AndEdithhadrelaxedherpursuitandobsessiveconcernforGrace,sothatthe childwas beginning occasionally to smile and even to speak to himwithsome ease. Thus he found it possible to live, and even to be happy, now andthen.

IXThe interimchairmanshipof theEnglishDepartment,whichGordonFinch

hadassumedafterthedeathofArcherSloane,wasrenewedyearafteryear,untilall the members of the department grew used to a casual anarchy in whichsomehowclasses got scheduled and taught, inwhichnewappointments to thestaff weremade, inwhich the trivial departmental details somehow got takencareof,andinwhichyearsomehowsucceededyear.ItwasgenerallyunderstoodthatapermanentchairmanwouldbeappointedassoonasitbecamepossibletomakeFinchthedeanofArtsandSciences,apositionthatheheldinfactifnotinoffice;JosiahClaremontthreatenednevertodie,thoughhewasseldomseenanylongerwanderingthroughthehalls.

Themembersofthedepartmentwenttheirways,taughttheclassestheyhadtaught the year before, and visited one another's offices in the hours betweenclasses.TheymettogetherformallyonlyatthebeginningofeachsemesterwhenGordonFinchcalledaperfunctorydepartmentalmeeting,andonthoseoccasionswhen thedeanof theGraduateCollege sent themmemos requesting that theygive oral and thesis examinations to graduate students who were nearingcompletionoftheirwork.

Such examinations took up an increasing amount of Stoner's time. To hissurprisehebegantoenjoyamodestpopularityasateacher;hehadtoturnawaystudentswhowantedtogetintohisgraduateseminarontheLatinTraditionandRenaissanceLiterature,andhisundergraduatesurveyclasseswerealwaysfilled.Several graduate students asked him to direct their theses, and several moreaskedhimtobeontheirthesiscommittees.

In the fall of 1931 the seminar was nearly filled even before registration;manystudentshadmadearrangementswithStonerat theendof theprecedingyear or during the summer. A week after the semester started, and after theseminarhadheldonemeeting,astudentcametoStoner'sofficeandaskedtobeletintheclass.

Stonerwasathisdeskwithalistoftheseminarstudentsbeforehim;hewasattempting to decide upon seminar tasks for them, and it was particularlydifficultsincemanywerenewtohim.ItwasaSeptemberafternoon,andhehadthewindownexttohisdeskopen;thefrontofthegreatbuildinglayinshadow,sothatthegreenlawnbeforeitshowedthepreciseshapeofthebuilding,withitssemicircular dome and irregular roofline darkening the green and creepingimperceptibly outward over the campus and beyond. A cool breeze flowedthroughthewindow,bringingthecrispredolenceoffall.

Aknockcame;heturnedtohisopeneddoorwayandsaid,"Comein."Afigureshuffledoutof thedarknessof thehall into the lightof theroom.

Stonerblinkedsleepilyagainstthedimness,recognizingastudentwhomhehadnoticedinthehallsbutdidnotknow.Theyoungman's leftarmhungstifflyathisside,andhisleftfootdraggedashewalked.Hisfacewaspaleandround,hishorn-rimmedeyeglasseswereround,andhisblackthinhairwaspartedpreciselyonthesideandlayclosetotheroundskull.

"Dr. Stoner?" he asked; his voice was reedy and clipped, and he spokedistinctly.

"Yes,"Stonersaid."Won'tyouhaveachair?"The young man lowered himself into the straight wooden chair beside

Stoner'sdesk;his legwasextended ina straight line, andhis lefthand,whichwas permanently twisted into a half-closed fist, rested upon it. He smiled,bobbedhishead,andsaidwithacuriousairofself-depreciation,"Youmaynotknowme,sir;I'mCharlesWalker.I'masecond-yearPh.D.candidate;IassistDr.Lomax."

"Yes,Mr.Walker,"Stonersaid."WhatcanIdoforyou?""Well, I'm here to ask a favor, sir." Walker smiled again. "I know your

seminar is filled, but I want very much to get in it." He paused and saidpointedly,"Dr.LomaxsuggestedthatItalktoyou."

"Isee,"Stonersaid."What'syourspecialty,Mr.Walker?""TheRomanticpoets,"Walkersaid."Dr.Lomaxwillbe thedirectorofmy

dissertation."Stonernodded."Howfaralongareyouinyourcoursework?""Ihopetofinishwithintwoyears,"Walkersaid."Well,thatmakesiteasier,"Stonersaid."Ioffertheseminareveryyear.It's

really so full now that it's hardly a seminar any longer, and onemore personwouldjustaboutfinishthejob.Whycan'tyouwaituntilnextyearifyoureallywantthecourse?"

Walker'seyesshiftedawayfromhim."Well,frankly,"hesaidandflashedhissmileagain,"I'mthevictimofamisunderstanding.Allmyownfault,ofcourse.I didn't realize that each Ph.D. Student has to have at least four graduateseminarstogethisdegree,andIdidn'ttakeanyatalllastyear.Andasyouknow,theydon'tallowyoutotakemorethanoneeachsemester.SoifI'mtograduateintwoyears,Ihavetohaveonethissemester."

Stonersighed."Isee.Soyoudon'treallyhaveaveryspecialinterestintheinfluenceoftheLatintradition?"

"Oh,indeedIdo,sir.IndeedIdo.Itwillbemosthelpfulinmydissertation.""Mr.Walker,youshouldknowthis isaratherspecializedclass,andIdon't

encouragepeopletoenteritunlesstheyhaveaparticularinterest.""Yes,sir,"Walkersaid."IassureyouthatIdohaveaparticularinterest."

Stonernodded."HowisyourLatin?"Walkerbobbedhishead."Oh,it'sfine,sir.Ihaven'ttakenmyLatinexamyet,

butIreaditverywell.""DoyouhaveFrenchorGerman?""Oh,yes,sir.Again,Ihaven'ttakentheexamsyet;IthoughtI'dgetthemall

outofthewayatthesametime,attheendofthisyear.ButIreadthembothverywell."Walkerpaused,thenadded,"Dr.LomaxsaidhethoughtIwouldsurelybeabletodotheworkintheseminar."

Stonersighed."Verywell,"hesaid."MuchofthereadingwillbeinLatin,alittleinFrenchandGerman,thoughyoumightbeabletogetbywithoutthose.I'll give you a reading list, and we'll talk about your seminar topic nextWednesdayafternoon."

Walkerthankedhimeffusivelyandarosefromhischairwithsomedifficulty."I'llgetrightontothereading,"hesaid."I'msureyouwon'tregretlettingmeinyourclass,sir."

Stonerlookedathimwithfaintsurprise."Thequestionhadnotoccurredtome,Mr.Walker,"hesaiddryly."I'llseeyouonWednesday."

TheseminarwasheldinasmallbasementroominthesouthwingofJesseHall.A dank but not unpleasant odor seeped from the cementwalls, and feetshuffledinhollowwhispersuponthebarecementfloor.Asinglelighthungfromtheceilinginthecenteroftheroomandshonedownward,sothatthoseseatedatdesk-topchairsinthecenteroftheroomrestedinasplashofbrightness;butthewalls were a dim gray and the corners were almost black, as if the smoothunpaintedcementsuckedinthelightthatstreamedfromtheceiling.

On that second Wednesday of the seminar William Stoner came into theroomafewminuteslate;hespoketothestudentsandbegantoarrangehisbooksandpapersonthesmallstained-oakdeskthatstoodsquatiybeforethecenterofablackboardwall.Heglancedatthesmallgroupscatteredabouttheroom.Someof them he knew; two of themenwere Ph.D. candidateswhosework hewasdirecting; four others were M.A. students in the department who had doneundergraduateworkwithhim;oftheremainingstudents,threewerecandidatesforadvanceddegrees inmodernlanguage,onewasaphilosophystudentdoinghisdissertationontheScholastics,onewasawomanofadvancedmiddleage,ahigh-schoolteachertryingtogetanM.A.duringhersabbatical,andthelastwasadark-hairedyoungwoman,anewinstructorinthedepartment,whohadtakenajob for two years while she completed a dissertation she had begun afterfinishinghercourseworkataneasternuniversity.ShehadaskedStoner ifshemightaudittheseminar,andhehadagreedthatshemight.CharlesWalkerwasnotamongthegroup.Stonerwaitedafewmomentsmore,shufflinghispapers;

thenheclearedhisthroatandbegantheclass."During our firstmeetingwe discussed the scope of this seminar, andwe

decidedthatweshouldlimitourstudyofthemedievalLatintraditiontothefirstthreeof the seven liberal arts--that is, togrammar, rhetoric, anddialectic."Hepausedandwatchedthefaces--tentative,curious,andmasklike--focusuponhimandwhathesaid.

"Suchalimitingmayseemfoolishlyrigoroustosomeofyou;butIhavenodoubt that we shall find enough to keep us occupied even if we trace onlysuperficially the course of the trivium upward into the sixteenth century. It isimportantthatwerealizethattheseartsofrhetoric,grammar,anddialecticmeantsomethingtoalatemedievalandearlyRenaissancemanthatwe,today,canonlydimlysensewithoutanexerciseofthehistoricalimagination.Tosuchascholar,theartofgrammar,forexample,wasnotmerelyamechanicaldispositionofthepartsofspeech.FromlateHellenistictimesthroughtheMiddleAges,thestudyand practice of grammar included not only the 'skill of letters' mentioned byPlatoandAristotle;itincludedalso,andthisbecameveryimportant,astudyofpoetry in its technical felicities, an exegesis of poetry both in form andsubstance,andnicetyofstyle,insofarasthatcanbedistinguishedfromrhetoric."

Hefelthimselfwarmingtohissubject,andhewasawarethatseveralofthestudents had leaned forward and had stopped taking notes. He continued:"Moreover,ifweinthetwentiethcenturyareaskedwhichofthesethreeartsisthe most important, we might choose dialectic, or rhetoric--but we would bemost unlikely to choose grammar. Yet the Roman and medieval scholar--andpoet--would almost certainly consider grammar themost significant.Wemustremember--"

A loud noise interrupted him. The door had opened and Charles Walkerenteredtheroom;asheclosedthedoorthebookshecarriedunderhiscrippledarmslippedandcrashedto thefloor.Hebentawkwardly,hisbadlegextendedbehindhim, and slowly gathered his books andpapers.Thenhe drewhimselferectandshuffledacrosstheroom,thescrapeofhisfootacrossthebarecementraising a loud andgratinghiss that soundedsibilantlyhollow in the room.Hefoundachairinthefrontrowandsatdown.

After Walker had settled himself and got his papers and books in orderaroundhisdeskchair,Stonercontinued:"Wemustrememberthatthemedievalconception of grammar was even more general than the late Hellenistic orRoman. Not only did it include the science of correct speech and the art ofexegesis, it included as well the modern conceptions of analogy, etymology,methods of presentation, construction, the condition of poetic license and theexceptions to that condition--and even metaphorical language or figures of

speech."Ashecontinued,elaboratinguponthecategoriesofgrammarhehadnamed,

Stoner's eyes flitted over the class; he realized that he had lost them duringWalker's entrance and knew that itwould be some time before he could oncemorepersuadethemoutofthemselves.Againandagainhisglancefellcuriouslyupon Walker, who, after having taken notes furiously for a few moments,gradually let his pencil rest on his notebook,while he gazed at Stonerwith apuzzled frown.FinallyWalker's hand shot up;Stoner finished the sentencehehadbegunandnoddedtohim.

"Sir,"Walkersaid,"pardonme,butIdon'tunderstand.Whatcan"--hepausedand let his mouth curl around the word--"grammar have to do with poetry?FundamentallyImean.Realpoetry."

Stonersaidgently,"AsIwasexplainingbeforeyoucamein,Mr.Walker,theterm 'grammar' to both theRoman andmedieval rhetoricianswas a great dealmorecomprehensivethanitistoday.Tothem,itmeant--"Hepaused, realizingthathewasabout torepeat theearlypartofhis lecture;hesensedthestudentsstirringrestlessly."Ithinkthisrelationshipwillbecomeclearertoyouaswegoon,asweseetheextenttowhichthepoetsanddramatistsevenofthemiddleandlateRenaissancewereindebtedtotheLatinrhetoricians."

"All of them, sir?"Walker smiled and leaned back in his chair. "Wasn't itSamuelJohnsonwhosaidofShakespearehimselfthathehadlittleLatinandlessGreek?"

AstherepressedlaughterstirredintheroomStonerfeltakindofpitycomeoverhim."YoumeanBenJonson,ofcourse."

Walker took off his glasses and polished them, blinking helplessly. "Ofcourse,"hesaid."Aslipofthetongue."

ThoughWalkerinterruptedhimseveraltimes,Stonermanagedtogetthroughhis lecturewithoutseriousdifficulty,andhewasable tomakeassignments forthe first reports.He let the seminar out nearly half an hour early, and hurriedawayfromtheclassroomwhenhesawWalkershufflingtowardhimwithafixedgrinonhisface.Heclatteredupthewoodenstairsfromthebasementandtooktwoata time thesmoothmarblestairs that led to thesecondfloor;hehad thecurious feeling that Walker was doggedly shuffling behind him, trying toovertakehiminhisflight.Ahastywashofshameandguiltcameoverhim.

On the third floor he went directly to Lomax's office. Lomax was inconferencewithastudent.Stonerstuckhisheadinthedoorandsaid,"Holly,canIseeyouforaminuteafteryou'rethrough?"

Lomaxwavedgenially."Comeonin.We'rejustbreakingup."Stonercameinandpretendedtoexaminetherowsofbooksintheircasesas

Lomaxandthestudentsaidtheirlastwords.Whenthestudentleft,Stonersatinthechairthathehadvacated.Lomaxlookedathiminquiringly.

"It's about a student," Stoner said. "CharlesWalker.He said you sent himaroundtome."

Lomaxplaced the tipsofhis fingers togetherandcontemplated themashenodded."Yes. I believe Idid suggest thathemightprofit fromyour seminar--whatisit?--intheLatintradition."

"Canyoutellmesomethingabouthim?"Lomaxlookedupfromhishandsandgazedattheceiling,hislowerlipthrust

outjudiciously."Agoodstudent.Asuperiorstudent,Imightsay.HeisdoinghisdissertationonShelleyandtheHellenisticIdeal.Itpromisestobebrilliant,reallybrilliant.Itwillnotbewhatsomewouldcall"--hehestitateddelicatelyovertheword--"sound,but it ismost imaginative.Didyouhaveaparticular reason forasking?"

"Yes,"Stonersaid."Hebehavedratherfoolishlyintheseminartoday.IwasjustwonderingifIshouldattachanyspecialsignificancetoit."

Lomax's early geniality had disappeared, and the more familiar mask ofirony had slipped over him. "Ah, yes," he said with a frosty smile. "Thegaucherie and foolishness of the young. Walker is, for reasons you mayunderstand,ratherawkwardlyshyandthereforeattimesdefensiveandrathertooassertive. As do we all, he has his problems; but his scholarly and criticalabilities are not, I hope, to be judged in the light of his rather understandablepsychic disturbances." He looked directly at Stoner and said with cheerfulmalevolence,"Asyoumayhavenoticed,heisacripple."

"Itmay be that," Stoner said thoughtfully.He sighed and got up from thechair. "I suppose it's really too soon forme to be concerned. I justwanted tocheckwithyou."

SuddenlyLomax'svoicewastightandneartremblingwithsuppressedanger."Youwillfindhimtobeasuperiorstudent.Iassureyou,youwillfindhimtobeanexcellentstudent."

Stonerlookedathimforamoment,frowningperplexedly.Thenhenoddedandwentoutoftheroom.

The seminarmetweekly. For the first severalmeetingsWalker interruptedthe classwith questions and comments that were so bewilderingly far off themarkthatStonerwasatalossastohowtomeetthem.SoonWalker'squestionsand statements were greeted with laughter or pointedly disregarded by thestudents themselves; and after a fewweeks he spoke not at all but satwith astonyindignationandanairofoutragedintegrityastheseminarsurgedaroundhim.Itwould,Stonerthought,havebeenamusinghadtherenotbeensomething

sonakedinWalker'soutrageandresentment.ButdespiteWalkeritwasasuccessfulseminar,oneofthebestclassesStoner

hadevertaught.Almostfromthefirst,theimplicationsofthesubjectcaughtthestudents,andtheyallhadthatsenseofdiscoverythatcomeswhenonefeelsthatthesubjectathandliesatthecenterofamuchlargersubject,andwhenonefeelsintenselythatapursuitofthesubjectislikelytolead--where,onedoesnotknow.The seminar organized itself, and the students so involved themselves thatStonerhimselfbecamesimplyoneofthem,searchingasdiligentlyasthey.Eventhe auditor--the young instructor who was stopping over at Columbia whilefinishing her dissertation--asked if she might report on a seminar topic; shethoughtthatshehadcomeuponsomethingthatmightbeofvaluetotheothers.HernamewasKatherineDriscoll,andshewas inher late twenties.Stonerhadneverreallynoticedheruntilshe talkedtohimafterclassabout thereportandasked him if he would be willing to read her dissertation when she got itfinished.Hetoldherthathewelcomedthereportandthathewouldbegladtoreadherdissertation.

Theseminarreportswerescheduledforthesecondhalfofthesemester,aftertheChristmasvacation.Walker's report on "Hellenismand theMedievalLatinTradition"wasdueearlyintheterm,buthekeptdelayingit,explainingtoStonerhis difficulty in obtaining books he needed, which were not available in theUniversitylibrary.

IthadbeenunderstoodthatMissDriscoll,beinganauditor,wouldgiveherreportafter thecredit studentshadgiven theirs;buton the lastdayStonerhadallowed for the seminar reports, two weeks before the end of the semester,Walkeragainbeggedthathebeallowedonemoreweek;hehadbeenill,hiseyeshad been troubling him, and a crucial book had not arrived from inter-libraryloan.SoMissDriscollgaveherpaperonthedayvacatedbyWalker'sdefection.

Her paper was entitled "Donatus and Renaissance Tragedy." HerconcentrationwasuponShakespeare's useof theDonatan tradition, a traditionthathadpersisted in thegrammars andhandbooksof theMiddleAges.A fewmoments after she began, Stoner knew that the paperwould be good, and helistenedwithanexcitement thathehadnot felt for a long time.After shehadfinished the paper, and the class had discussed it, he detained her for a fewmomentswhiletheotherstudentswentoutoftheroom.

"MissDriscoll,Ijustwanttosay--"Hepaused,andforaninstantawaveofawkwardness and self-consciousness came over him. She was looking at himinquiringly with large dark eyes; her face was very white against the severeblackframeofherhair,drawntightandcaught inasmallbunat theback.Hecontinued,"IjustwanttosaythatyourpaperwasthebestdiscussionIknowof

thesubject,andI'mgratefulthatyouvolunteeredtogiveit."Shedidnot reply.Herexpressiondidnotchange,butStoner thought fora

momentthatshewasangry;somethingfierceglintedbehindhereyes.Thensheblushed furiously and ducked her head, whether in anger or acknowledgmentStonerdidnotknow,andhurriedawayfromhim.Stonerwalkedslowlyoutofthe room, disquieted and puzzled, fearful that in his clumsiness he mightsomehowhaveoffendedher.

HehadwarnedWalkerasgentlyashecouldthatitwouldbenecessaryforhimtodeliverhispaperthenextWednesdayifhewastoreceivecreditforthecourse;ashehalfexpected,Walkerbecamecoldlyandrespectfullyangryatthewarning, repeated thevariousconditionsanddifficulties thathaddelayed him,andassuredStoner that therewasnoneed toworry, that his paperwasnearlycompleted.

OnthatlastWednesday,StonerwasdelayedseveralminutesinhisofficebyadesperateundergraduatewhowishedtobeassuredthathewouldreceiveaCinthe sophomore survey course, so that he would not be kicked out of hisfraternity.Stonerhurrieddownstairs andentered thebasement seminar roomalittle out of breath; he found Charles Walker seated at his desk, lookingimperiouslyandsomberlyatthesmallgroupofstudents.Itwasapparentthathewas engaged in some private fantasy. He turned to Stoner and gazed at himhaughtily, as if he were a professor putting down a rowdy freshman. ThenWalker's expression broke and he said, "We were just about to start withoutyou"--hepausedatthelastminute,letasmilethroughhislips,bobbedhishead,andadded,sothatStonerwouldknowajokewasbeingmade--"sir."

Stoner lookedathimforamomentandthenturnedto theclass."I'msorryI'mlate.Asyouknow,Mr.Walkeristodeliverhisseminarpapertodayuponthetopicof 'HellenismandtheMedievalLatinTradition.'"Andhefoundaseat inthefirstrow,nexttoKatherineDriscoll.

CharlesWalker fiddled for amomentwith the sheafofpaperson thedeskbeforehimandallowedtheremotenesstocreepbackintohisface.Hetappedtheforefingerofhisrighthandonhismanuscriptand lookedtoward thecornerofthe room away from where Stoner andKatherine Driscoll sat, as if he werewaitingforsomething.Then,glancingeverynowandthenatthesheafofpapersonthedesk,hebegan.

"Confronted aswe are by themystery of literature, and by its inenarrablepower,wearebehoovedtodiscoverthesourceof thepowerandmystery.Andyet,finally,whatcanavail?Theworkofliteraturethrowsbeforeusaprofoundveilwhichwecannotplumb.Andwearebutvotariesbefore it,helpless in itssway. Who would have the temerity to lift that veil aside, to discover the

undiscoverable,toreachtheunreachable?Thestrongestofusarebutthepuniestweaklings, are but tinkling cymbals and sounding brass, before the eternalmystery."

His voice rose and fell, his right hand went out with its fingers curledsupplicatinglyupward,andhisbodyswayedtotherhythmofhiswords;hiseyesrolledslightlyupward,asifheweremakinganinvocation.Therewassomethinggrotesquelyfamiliarinwhathesaidanddid.AndsuddenlyStonerknewwhatitwas.ThiswasHollisLomax--or,rather,abroadcaricatureofhim,whichcameunsuspected from the caricaturer, a gesture not of contempt or dislike, but ofrespectandlove.

Walker'svoicedroppedtoaconversationallevel,andheaddressedthebackwalloftheroominatonethatwascalmandequablewithreason."Recentlywehave heard a paper that, to the mind of academe, must be accounted mostexcellent.Theseremarksthatfollowareremarksthatarenotpersonal.Iwishtoexemplifyapoint.Wehaveheard,inthispaper,anaccountthatpurportstobeanexplanationofthemysteryandsoaringlyricismofShakespeare'sart.Well,Isaytoyou"--andhethrustaforefingerathisaudienceasifhewouldimpalethem--"Isaytoyou,itisnottrue."Heleanedbackinhischairandconsultedthepaperson the desk. "We are asked to believe that one Donatus--an obscure Romangrammarianofthefourthcenturya.d.--weareaskedtobelievethatsuchaman,a pedant, had sufficient power to determine the work of one of the greatestgeniusesinallofthehistoryofart.Maywenotsuspect,onthefaceofit,suchatheory?Mustwenotsuspectit?"

Anger,simpleanddull,rosewithinStoner,overwhelmingthecomplexityoffeelinghehadhadatthebeginningofthepaper.Hisimmediateimpulsewastorise, tocutshort thefarcethatwasdeveloping;heknewthat ifhedidnotstopWalkeratoncehewouldhavetolethimgoonforaslongashewantedtotalk.His head turned slightly so that he could seeKatherineDriscoll's face; it wassereneandwithoutanyexpression,saveoneofpoliteanddetachedinterest;thedarkeyesregardedWalkerwithanunconcernthatwaslikeboredom.Covertly,Stonerlookedatherforseveralmoments;hefoundhimselfwonderingwhatshewas feeling andwhat shewished him to do.When he finally shifted his gazeawayfromherhehadtorealizethathisdecisionwasmade.Hehadwaitedtoolong to interrupt,andWalkerwasrushing impetuously throughwhathehad tosay.

"...themonumentaledificethatisRenaissanceliterature,thatedificewhichisthecornerstoneofthegreatpoetryofthenineteenthcentury.Thequestionofproof,endemictothedullcourseofscholarshipasdistinguishedfromcriticism,is also sadly at lack. What proof is offered that Shakespeare even read this

obscure Roman grammarian? We must remember it was Ben Jonson"--hehesitatedforabriefmoment--"itwasBenJonsonhimself,Shakespeare'sfriendand contemporary,who said he had little Latin and lessGreek.And certainlyJonson, who idolized Shakespeare this side of idolatry, did not impute to hisgreat friend any lack.On the contrary, hewished to suggest, as do I, that thesoaring lyricism of Shakespeare was not attributable to the burning of themidnight oil, but to a genius natural and supreme to rule and mundane law.Unlike lesser poets, Shakespearewas not born to blush unseen andwaste hissweetness on the desert air; partaking of thatmysterious source towhence allpoets go for their sustenance, what need had the immortal bard of suchstultifyingrulesasaretobefoundinameregrammar?WhatwouldDonatusbetohim,evenifhehadreadhim?Genius,uniqueandalawuntoitself,needsnotthe support of such a tradition as has been described to us, whether it begenericallyLatinorDonatanorwhatever.Genius,soaringandfree,must..."

After he became used to his anger Stoner found a reluctant and perverseadmirationstealingoverhim.Howeverfloridandimprecise,theman'spowersofrhetoricandinventionweredismayinglyimpressive;andhowevergrotesque,hispresencewasreal.Therewassomethingcoldandcalculatingandwatchfulinhiseyes,somethingneedlesslyrecklessandyetdesperatelycautious.Stonerbecameawarethathewasinthepresenceofabluffsocolossalandboldthathehadnoreadymeansofdealingwithit.

ForitwascleareventothemostinattentivestudentsintheclassthatWalkerwasengagedinaperformancethatwasentirelyimpromptu.Stonerdoubtedthathehadhadanyveryclearideaofwhathewasgoingtosayuntilhehadsatatthedeskbefore the class and lookedat the students inhis cold, imperiousway. Itbecameclearthatthesheafofpapersonthedeskbeforehimwasonlyasheafofpapers; as he became heated, he did not even glance at them in pretense, andtowardtheendofhistalk,inhisexcitementandurgencyheshovedthemawayfromhim.

He talked for nearly an hour. Toward the end the other students in theseminarwereglancingworriedlyatoneanother,almostasiftheywereinsomedanger,asiftheywerecontemplatingescape;theycarefullyavoidedlookingateitherStonerortheyoungwomanwhosatimpassivelybesidehim.Abruptly,asifsensingtheunrest,Walkerbroughthistalktoaclose,leanedbackinthechairbehindthedesk,andsmiledtriumphantly.

ThemomentWalkerstoppedtalkingStonergottohisfeetanddismissedtheclass; though he did not realize it at the time, he did so out of a vagueconsiderationforWalker,sothatnoneofthemmighthavethechancetodiscusswhat he had said. Then Stoner went to the desk whereWalker remained and

askedhimifhewouldstayforafewmoments.Asifhismindweresomewhereelse,Walkernoddeddistantly.Stonerthenturnedandfollowedafewstragglingstudentsoutoftheroomintothehall.HesawKatherineDriscollstartingaway,walking alone down the hall. He called her name, and when she stopped hewalkedup and stood in front of her.And as he spoke to her he felt again theawkwardnessthathadcomeoverhimwhen,lastweek,hehadcomplimentedheronherpaper.

"MissDriscoll,I--I'msorry.Itwasreallymostunfair.IfeelthatsomehowIamresponsible.PerhapsIshouldhavestoppedit."

Stillshedidnotreply,nordidanyexpressioncomeonherface;shelookedupathimasshehadlookedacrosstheroomatWalker.

"Anyhow,"hecontinued,stillmoreawkwardly,"I'msorryheattackedyou."Andthenshesmiled.Itwasaslowsmilethatstartedinhereyesandpulled

at her lips until her facewaswreathed in radiant, secret, and intimate delight.Stoneralmostpulledbackfromthesuddenandinvoluntarywarmth.

"Oh, it wasn't me," she said, a tiny tremor of suppressed laughter givingtimbretoherlowvoice."Itwasn'tmeatall.Itwasyouhewasattacking.Iwashardlyeveninvolved."

Stoner felt lifted from him a burden of regret and worry that he had notknownhecarried;thereliefwasalmostphysical,andhefeltlightonhisfeetandalittlegiddy.Helaughed.

"Ofcourse,"hesaid."Ofcoursethat'strue."The smile eased itself off her face, and she looked at him gravely for a

momentmore.Then shebobbedherhead, turnedaway fromhim, andwalkedswiftlydown thehall.Herbodywas slimand straight, and shecarriedherselfunobtrusively.Stonerstoodlookingdownthehallforseveralmomentsaftershedisappeared.ThenhesighedandwentbackintotheroomwhereWalkerwaited.

Walkerhadnotmovedfromthedesk.HegazedatStonerandsmiled,uponhisfaceanoddmixtureofobsequiousnessandarrogance.StonersatinthechairhehadvacatedafewminutesbeforeandlookedcuriouslyatWalker.

"Yes,sir?"Walkersaid."Doyouhaveanexplanation?"Stoneraskedquietly.AlookofhurtsurprisecameuponWalker'sroundface."Whatdoyoumean,

sir?""Mr.Walker,please,"Stonersaidwearily."Ithasbeenalongday,andwe're

bothtired.Doyouhaveanexplanationforyourperformancethisafternoon?""I'msure, sir, I intendednooffense."He removedhisglassesandpolished

themrapidly;againStonerwasstruckbythenakedvulnerabilityofhisface."Isaidmyremarkswerenotintendedpersonally.Iffeelingshavebeenhurt,Ishall

bemosthappytoexplaintotheyounglady--""Mr.Walker,"Stonersaid."Youknowthatisn'tthepoint.""Has theyoung ladybeencomplaining toyou?"Walkerasked.His fingers

weretremblingasheputhisglassesbackon.Withthemon,hisfacemanagedafrown of anger. "Really, sir, the complaints of a student whose feelings havebeenhurtshouldnot--"

"Mr.Walker!" Stoner heard his voice go a little out of control.He took adeepbreath."Thishasnothingtodowiththeyounglady,orwithmyself,orwithanythingexceptyourperformance.AndIstillawaitanyexplanationyouhavetooffer."

"ThenI'mafraidIdon'tunderstandatall,sir.Unless...""Unlesswhat,Mr.Walker?""Unless it is simply amatter ofdisagreement,"Walker said. "I realize that

my ideas do not coincide with yours, but I have always thought thatdisagreementwashealthy.Iassumedthatyouwerebigenoughto--

"Iwillnotallowyoutoevadetheissue,"Stonersaid.Hisvoicewascoldandlevel."Now.Whatwastheseminartopicassignedtoyou?"

"You'reangry,"Walkersaid."Yes,Iamangry.Whatwastheseminartopicassignedtoyou?"Walkerbecamestifflyformalandpolite."Mytopicwas 'Hellenismandthe

MedievalLatinTradition,'sir.""Andwhendidyoucompletethatpaper,Mr.Walker?""Twodaysago.AsItoldyou,itwasnearlycompleteacoupleofweeksago,

butabookIhadtogetthroughinter-libraryloandidn'tcomeinuntil--""Mr.Walker, if yourpaperwasnearly finished twoweeks ago, how could

youhavebasedit, in itsentirety,uponMissDriscoll'sreport,whichwasgivenonlylastweek?"

"I made a number of changes, sir, at the last minute." His voice becameheavywith irony. "Iassumed that thatwaspermissible.And Ididdepart fromthetextnowandthen.Inoticedthatotherstudentsdidthesame,andIthoughttheprivilegewouldbeallowedmealso."

Stonerfoughtdownanear-hystericalimpulsetolaugh."Mr.Walker,willyouexplain to me what your attack on Miss Driscoll's paper has to do with thesurvivalofHellenisminthemedievalLatintradition?"

"I approachedmy subject indirectly, sir,"Walker said. "I thoughtwewereallowedacertainlatitudeindevelopingourconcepts."

Stonerwassilentforamoment.Thenhesaidwearily,"Mr.Walker,Idislikehavingtoflunkagraduatestudent.EspeciallyIdislikehavingtoflunkonewhosimplyhasgotinoverhishead."

"Sir!"Walkersaidindignantly."Butyou'remakingitverydifficultformenotto.Now,itseemstomethat

there are only a few alternatives. I can give you an incomplete in the course,withtheunderstandingthatyouwilldoasatisfactorypaperontheassignedtopicwithin thenext threeweeks.""But,sir,"Walkersaid. "Ihavealreadydonemypaper.IfIagreetodoanotheroneIwillbeadmitting--Iwilladmit--"

"All right," Stoner said. "Then if you will give me the manuscript fromwhichyou--deviatedthisafternoon,Ishallseeifsomethingcanbesalvaged."

"Sir,"Walkercried."Iwouldhesitatetoletitoutofmypossessionjustnow.Thedraftisveryrough."

Withagrimandrestlessshame,Stonercontinued,"That'sallright.IshallbeabletofindoutwhatIwanttoknow."

Walker lookedathimcraftily."Tellme,sir,haveyouaskedanyoneelse tohandhismanuscriptintoyou?"

"Ihavenot,"Stonersaid."Then,"Walkersaidtriumphantly,almosthappily,"Imustrefusealsotohand

mymanuscriptintoyouonprinciple.Unlessyourequireeveryoneelsetohandtheirsin."

Stoner looked at him steadily for amoment. "Verywell,Mr.Walker.Youhavemadeyourdecision.Thatwillbeall."

Walker said, "What am I tounderstand then, sir?Whatmay I expect fromthiscourse?"

Stoner laughed shortly. "Mr.Walker, you amaze me. You will, of course,receiveanF."

Walker tried tomake his round face long.With the patient bitterness of amartyrhesaid, "I see.Verywell, sir.Onemustbeprepared tosuffer forone'sbeliefs."

"And for one's laziness and dishonesty and ignorance," Stoner said. "Mr.Walker,itseemsalmostsuperfluoustosaythis,butIwouldmoststronglyadviseyou to re-examineyourpositionhere. I seriouslyquestionwhetheryouhaveaplaceinagraduateprogram."

For the first timeWalker's emotion appeared genuine; his anger gave himsomethingthatwasclosetodignity."Mr.Stoner,you'regoingtoofar!Youcan'tmeanthat."

"Imostcertainlymeanit,"Stonersaid.ForamomentWalkerwasquiet;helookedthoughtfullyatStoner.Thenhe

said,"Iwaswillingtoacceptthegradeyougaveme.ButyoumustrealizethatIcannotacceptthis.Youarequestioningmycompetence!"

"Yes,Mr.Walker," Stoner said wearily. He raised himself from the chair.

"Now,ifyouwillexcuseme..."Hestartedforthedoor.Butthesoundofhisshoutednamehaltedhim.Heturned.Walker'sfacewas

adeepred;theskinwaspuffedsothattheeyesbehindtheirthickglasseswerelike tinydots. "Mr.Stoner!"heshoutedagain. "Youhavenotheard the lastofthis.Believeme,youhavenotheardthelastofthis!"

Stonerlookedathimdully,incuriously.Henoddeddistractedly,turned,andwentoutintothehall.Hisfeetwereheavy,andtheydraggedonthebarecementfloor.Hewasdrainedoffeeling,andhefeltveryoldandtired.

XAndhehadnotheardthelastofit.He turnedhisgrades inon theMondayfollowingtheFridayclosingof the

semester.Itwasthepartofteachinghemostdisliked,andhealwaysgotitoutofthewayassoonashecould.HegaveWalkerhisFandthoughtnomoreaboutthematter.Hespentmostoftheweekbetweensemestersreadingthefirstdraftsof two theses due for final presentation in the spring. They were awkwardlydone,andtheyneededmuchofhisattention.TheWalkerincidentwascrowdedfromhismind.

Buttwoweeksafterthesecondsemesterstartedhewasagainremindedofit.HefoundonemorninginhismailboxanotefromGordonFinchaskinghimtodropbytheofficeathisconvenienceforachat.

The friendship between Gordon Finch andWilliam Stoner had reached apointthatallsuchrelationships,carriedonlongenough,cometo;itwascasual,deep,andsoguardedlyintimatethatitwasalmostimpersonal.Theyseldomsaweach other socially, although occasionally Caroline Finch made a perfunctorycallonEdith.Whiletheytalkedtheyrememberedtheyearsoftheiryouth,andeachthoughtoftheotherashehadbeenatanothertime.

In his earlymiddle age Finch had the erect soft bearing of onewho triesvigorously to keep his weight under control; his face was heavy and as yetunlined,thoughhisjowlswerebeginningtosagandthefleshwasgatheringinrollsonthebackofhisneck.Hishairwasverythin,andhehadbeguntocombitsothatthebaldnesswouldnotbereadilyapparent.

On the afternoon that Stoner stopped by his office, they spoke for a fewmomentscasuallyabouttheirfamilies;Finchmaintainedtheeasyconventionofpretending that Stoner'smarriagewas a normal one, and Stoner professed hisconventional disbelief that Gordon and Caroline could be the parents of twochildren,theyoungerofwhichwasalreadyinkindergarten.

After theyhadmade their automaticgestures toward their casual intimacy,Finchlookedouthiswindowdistractedlyandsaid,"Now,whatwasitIwantedto talk to you about?Oh, yes. The dean of theGraduateCollege--he thought,sincewewerefriends,Ioughttomentionittoyou.Nothingofanyimportance."He looked at a note on his memo book. "Just an irate graduate student whothinkshegotscrewedinoneofyourclasseslastsemester."

"Walker,"Stonersaid."CharlesWalker."Finchnodded."That'stheone.What'sthestoryonhim?"Stoner shrugged. "As far as I could tell, he didn't do any of the reading

assigned--itwasmyseminarintheLatinTradition.Hetriedtofakehisseminarreport, andwhen Igavehim thechanceeither todoanotheroneorproducea

copyofhispaper,herefused.Ihadnoalternativebuttoflunkhim."Finchnoddedagain."Ifigureditwassomethinglikethat.Godknows,Iwish

theywouldn'twastemytimewithstufflikethis;butithastobecheckedout,asmuchforyourprotectionasanythingelse."

Stonerasked,"Istheresome--specialdifficultyhere?""No, no," Finch said. "Not at all. Just a complaint. You know how these

thingsgo.Asamatterof fact,Walker receivedaC in the first coursehe tookhereasagraduatestudent;hecouldbekickedoutoftheprogramrightnowifwewantedtodoit.ButIthinkwe'veaboutdecidedtolethimtakehispreliminaryoralsnextmonth,and let that tell thestory. I'msorryIevenhad tobotheryouaboutit."

Theytalkedforafewmomentsaboutotherthings.Then,justasStonerwasabouttoleave,Finchdetainedhimcasually.

"Oh,therewassomethingelseIwantedtomentiontoyou.Thepresidentandtheboardhavefinallydecidedthatsomething'sgoingtohavetobedoneaboutClaremont.SoIguess,beginningnextyear, I'llbedeanofArtsandSciences--officially."

"I'mglad,Gordon,"Stonersaid."It'sabouttime.""Sothatmeanswe'regoingtohavetogetanewchairmanofthedepartment.

Doyouhaveanythoughtsonit?""No,"Stonersaid,"Ireallyhaven'tthoughtofitatall.""Wecaneithergooutsidethedepartmentandbringinsomebodynew,orwe

canmakeoneofthepresentmenchairman.WhatI'mtryingtofindoutis,ifwedidchoosesomeonefromthedepartment--Well,doyouhaveyoureyeson thejob?"

Stonerthoughtforamoment."Ihadn'tthoughtaboutit,but--no.No,Idon'tthinkI'dwantit."

Finch's reliefwas soobvious thatStoner smiled. "Good. Ididn't thinkyouwould. It means a lot of horse-shit. Entertaining and socializing and--" Helooked away fromStoner. "I know you don't go in for that sort of thing. ButsinceoldSloanedied,andsinceHugginsandwhat's-his-name,Cooper, retiredlastyear,you're the seniormemberof thedepartment.But ifyouhaven'tbeencastingcovetouseyes,then--"

"No," Stoner said definitely. "I'd probably be a rotten chairman. I neitherexpectnorwanttheappointment."

"Good,"Finchsaid."Good.Thatsimplifiesthingsagreatdeal."Theysaidtheirgood-bys,andStonerdidnotthinkoftheconversationagain

forsometime.CharlesWalker's preliminary oral comprehensives were scheduled for the

middleofMarch;somewhattoStoner'ssurprise,hereceivedanotefromFinchinforming him that he would be a member of the three-man committee whowouldexaminehim.HeremindedFinchthathehadflunkedWalker,thatWalkerhadtakentheflunkpersonally,andheaskedtoberelievedofthisparticularduty.

"Regulations," Finch answered with a sigh. "You know how it is. Thecommitteeismadeupofthecandidate'sadviser,oneprofessorwhohashadhiminagraduateseminar,andoneoutsidehisfieldofspecialization.Lomaxistheadviser,you'retheonlyonehe'shadagraduateseminarfrom,andI'vepickedthenewman,JimHolland,fortheoneoutsidehisspecialty.DeanRutherfordoftheGraduateCollegeandIwillbesittinginex-officio.I'lltrytomakeitaspainlessaspossible."

Butitwasanordealthatcouldnotbemadepainless.ThoughStonerwishedtoaskasfewquestionsaspossible,therulesthatgovernedthepreliminaryoralwere inflexible; each professor was allowed forty-five minutes to ask thecandidate any questions that he wished, though other professors habituallyjoinedin.

OntheafternoonsetfortheexaminationStonercamedeliberatelylatetotheseminarroomonthethirdfloorofJesseHall.Walkerwasseatedattheendofalong,highlypolished table; the fourexaminersalreadypresent--Finch,Lomax,thenewman,Holland,andHenryRutherford--wererangeddownthetablefromhim.StonerslippedinthedoorandtookachairattheendofthetableoppositeWalker.FinchandHollandnoddedtohim;Lomax,slumpedinhischair,staredstraight ahead, tapping his longwhite fingers on themirrorlike surface of thetable.Walkerstareddownthelengthofthetable,hisheadheldstiffandhighincolddisdain.

Rutherford clearedhis throat. "Ah,Mr." --he consulted a sheet of paper infront of him--"Mr. Stoner."Rutherfordwas a slight thin graymanwith roundshoulders;hiseyesandbrowsdroppedattheoutercorners,sothathisexpressionwasalwaysoneofgentlehopelessness.ThoughhehadknownStonerformanyyears,heneverrememberedhisname.Heclearedhisthroatagain."Wewerejustabouttobegin."

Stoner nodded, rested his forearms on the table, clasped his fingers, andcontemplated them as Rutherford's voice droned through the formalpreliminariesoftheoralexamination.

Mr.Walker was being examined (Rutherford's voice dropped to a steady,uninflectedhum)todeterminehisabilitytocontinueinthedoctoralprograminthe Department of English at the University of Missouri. This was anexaminationwhich all doctoral candidates underwent, and itwasdesignednotonlytojudgethecandidate'sgeneralfitness,butalsotodeterminestrengthsand

weaknesses,sothathisfuturecourseofstudycouldbeprofitablyguided.Threeresults were possible: a pass, a conditional pass, and a failure. Rutherforddescribedthetermsoftheseeventualities,andwithoutlookingupperformedtheritualistic introductionof theexaminersand thecandidate.Thenhepushed thesheetofpaperawayfromhimandlookedhopelesslyatthosearoundhim.

"Thecustom is," he said softly, "for the candidate's thesis adviser tobeginthe questioning.Mr."--he glanced at the paper--"Mr. Lomax is, I believe,Wr.Walker'sadviser.So..."

Lomax'sheadjerkedbackasifhehadbeensuddenlyawakenedfromadoze.Heglancedaroundthetable,blinking,alittlesmileonhislips;buthiseyeswereshrewdandalert.

"Mr.Walker,youareplanningadissertationonShelleyandtheHellenisticIdeal. It isunlikely thatyouhave thought throughyour subjectyet,butwouldyoubeginbygivingussomeofthebackground,yourreasonforchoosingit,andsoforth."

Walkernoddedandbeganswiftly tospeak."I intendto traceShelley's firstrejectionofGodwiniannecessitarianismforamoreorlessPlatonicideal,inthe'Hymn to Intellectual Beauty,' through the mature use of that ideal, inPrometheus Unbound, as a comprehensive synthesis of his earlier atheism,radicalism, Christianity, and scientific necessitarianism, and ultimately toaccountforthedecayoftheidealinsuchalateworkasHellas.Itistomymindanimportanttopicforthreereasons:First,itshowsthequalityofShelley'smind,and hence leads us into a better understanding of his poetry. Second, itdemonstrates the leading philosophical and literary conflicts of the earlynineteenth century, and hence enlarges our understanding and appreciation ofRomanticpoetry.Andthird,itisasubjectthatmighthaveapeculiarrelevancetoour own time, a time in which we face many of the same conflicts thatconfrontedShelleyandhiscontemporaries."

Stoner listened, and as he listened his astonishment grew. He could notbelievethatthiswasthesamemanwhohadtakenhisseminar,whomhethoughtheknew.Walker'spresentationwaslucid,forthright,andintelligent;at timesitwasalmostbrilliant.Lomaxwasright;ifthedissertationfulfilleditspromise,itwouldbebrilliant.Hope,warmandexhilarating,rusheduponhim,andheleanedforwardattentively.

Walker talked upon the subject of his dissertation for perhaps tenminutesandthenabruptlystopped.QuicklyLomaxaskedanotherquestion,andWalkerrespondedatonce.

Gordon Finch caught Stoner's eye and gave him a look of mild inquiry;Stoner smiled slightly, self-deprecatingly, and gave a small shrug of his

shoulders.WhenWalkerstoppedagain,JimHollandspokeimmediately.Hewasathin

youngman,intenseandpale,withslightlyprotuberantblueeyes;hespokewitha deliberate slowness, with a voice that seemed always to tremble before aforced restraint. "Mr. Walker, you mentioned a bit earlier Godwin'snecessitarianism.Iwonderifyoucouldmakeaconnectionbetweenthatandthephenomenalism of John Locke?" Stoner remembered that Holland was aneighteenth-centuryman.

There was a moment of silence. Walker turned to Holland, removed theroundglasses,andpolishedthem;hiseyesblinkedandstared,atrandom.Heputthembackonandblinkedagain."Wouldyourepeatthequestion,please."

Hollandstartedtospeak,butLomaxinterrupted."Jim,"hesaidaffably,"doyoumind if I extend the question a bit?"He turned quickly toWalker beforeHolland could answer. "Mr. Walker, proceeding from the implications ofProfessorHolland's question--namely, thatGodwin acceptedLocke's theory ofthe sensational nature of knowledge--the tabula rasa, and all that--and thatGodwin believed with Locke that judgment and knowledge falsified by theaccidents of passion and the inevitability of ignorance could be rectified byeducation--giventheseimplications,wouldyoucommentonShelley'sprincipleof knowledge--specifically, the principle of beauty --enunciated in the finalstanzasof'Adonais?'"

Hollandleanedbackinhischair,apuzzledfrownonhisface.Walkernoddedandsaidrapidly,"Though theopeningstanzasof 'Adonais,'Shelley's tribute tohis friend and peer, John Keats, are conventionally classical, what with theirallusions to the Mother, the Hours, to Urania and so forth, and with theirrepetitiveinvocations--thereallyclassicalmomentdoesnotappearuntilthefinalstanzas,whichare,ineffect,asublimehymntotheeternalPrincipleofBeauty.If,foramoment,wemayfocusourattentionuponthesefamouslines:

Life,likeadomeofmany-coloredglass,Stainsthewhiteradianceofeternity,UntilDeathtramplesittofragments."Thesymbolismimplicitintheselinesisnotclearuntilwetakethelinesin

their context. The One remains,' Shelley writes a few lines earlier, 'the manychangeandpass.'AndweareremindedofKeat'sequallyfamouslines,

'Beautyistruth,truthBeauty,'--thatisallYeknowonearth,andallyeneedtoknow.The principle, then, is Beauty; but beauty is also knowledge. And it is a

conceptionthathasitsroots..Walker'svoicecontinued,fluentandsureofitself,thewordsemergingfrom

his rapidlymovingmouth almost as if--Stoner started, and the hope that hadbeguninhimdiedasabruptlyasithadbeenborn.Foramomenthefeltalmostphysicallyill.Helookeddownatthetableandsawbetweenhisarmstheimageofhis facereflected in thehighpolishof thewalnut top.The imagewasdark,andhecouldnotmakeout itsfeatures; itwasas ifhesawaghostglimmeringunsubstantiallyoutofahardness,comingtomeethim.

Lomaxfinishedhisquestioning,andHollandbegan.Itwas,Stoneradmitted,a masterful performance; unobtrusively, with great charm and good humor,Lomax managed it all. Sometimes, when Holland asked a question, Lomaxpretended a good-natured puzzlement and asked for a clarification. At othertimes, apologizing for his own enthusiasm, he followed up one of Holland'squestionswithaspeculationofhisown,drawingWalkerintothediscussion,sothatitseemedthathewasanactualparticipant.Herephrasedquestions(alwaysapologetically), changing them so that the original intent was lost in theelucidation. He engagedWalker in what seemed to be elaborately theoreticalarguments,althoughhedidmostofthetalking.Andfinally,stillapologizing,hecutintoHolland'squestionswithquestionsofhisownthatledWalkerwherehewantedhimtogo.

Dining this time Stoner did not speak.He listened to the talk that swirledaround him; he gazed at Finch's face, which had become a heavy mask; helooked atRutherford,who satwith his eyes closed, his head nodding; and helookedatHolland'sbewilderment,atWalker'scourteousdisdain,andatLomax'sfeverishanimation.Hewaswaitingtodowhatheknewhehadtodo,andhewaswaitingwith a dread and an anger and a sorrow that grewmore intensewitheveryminutethatpassed.Hewasgladthatnoneoftheireyesmethisownashegazedatthem.

Finally Holland's period of questioning was over. As if he somehowparticipatedinthedreadthatStonerfelt,Finchglancedathiswatchandnodded.Hedidnotspeak.

Stoner took a deep breath. Still looking at the ghost of his face in themirrorlikefinishofthetabletop,hesaidexpressionlessly,"Mr.Walker,I'mgoingto ask you a few questions about English literature. They will be simplequestions, and theywillnot require elaborateanswers. I shall start earlyand Ishallproceedchronologically, so faras timewillallowme.WillyoubeginbydescribingtometheprinciplesofAnglo-Saxonversification?"

"Yes, sir," Walker said. His face was frozen. "To begin with, the Anglo-Saxonpoets,existingastheydidintheDarkAges,didnothavetheadvantagesofsensibilityasdidlaterpoetsintheEnglishtradition.Indeed,Ishouldsaythattheir poetry was characterized by primitivism. Nevertheless, within this

primitivism there is potential, though perhaps hidden to some eyes, there ispotentialthatsubtletyoffeelingthatistocharacterize--"

"Mr.Walker,"Stoner said, "I asked for the principles of versification.Canyougivethemtome?"

"Well,sir,"Walkersaid,"it isveryroughandirregular.Theversification, Imean."

"Isthatallyoucantellmeaboutit?""Mr. Walker," Lomax said quickly--a little wildly, Stoner thought--"this

roughnessyouspeakof--couldyouaccountforthis,givethe--""No,"Stonersaidfirmly,lookingatnoone."Iwantmyquestionanswered.

IsthatallyoucantellmeaboutAnglo-Saxonversification?""Well,sir,"Walkersaid;hesmiled,andthesmilebecameanervousgiggle.

"Frankly,Ihaven'thadmyrequiredcourseinAnglo-Saxonyet,andIhesitatetodiscusssuchmatterswithoutthatauthority."

"Verywell,"Stonersaid."Let'sskipAnglo-Saxonliterature.Canyounamefor me a medieval drama that had any influence in the development ofRenaissancedrama?"

Walkernodded."Ofcourse,allmedievaldramas,intheirownway,ledintothehighaccomplishmentoftheRenaissance.Itisdifficulttorealizethatoutofthebarren soil of theMiddleAges thedramaofShakespearewas, only a fewyearslater,toflowerand--"

"Mr. Walker, I am asking simple questions. I must insist upon simpleanswers.Ishallmakethequestionevensimpler.Namethreemedievaldramas."

"Early or late, sir?" He had taken his glasses off and was polishing themfuriously.

"Anythree,Mr.Walker.""Therearesomany,"Walkersaid."It'sdifficultto--There'sEveryman...""Canyounameanymore?""No,sir,"Walkersaid."Imustconfesstoaweaknessintheareasthatyou--""Canyounameanyothertitles--justthetitles--ofanyoftheliteraryworksof

theMiddleAges?"Walker's hands were trembling. "As I have said, sir, I must confess to a

weaknessin--""Then we shall go on to the Renaissance. What genre do you feel most

confidentofinthisperiod,Mr.Walker?""The"--WalkerhesitatedanddespitehimselflookedsupplicatinglyatLomax-

-"thepoem,sir.Or--thedrama.Thedrama,perhaps.""The drama then. What is the first blank verse tragedy in English, Mr.

Walker?"

'"Thefirst?"Walkerlickedhislips."Scholarshipisdividedonthequestion,sir.Ishouldhesitateto--"

"CanyounameanydramaofsignificancebeforeShakespeare?""Certainly,sir,"Walkersaid."There'sMarlowe--themightyline--""NamesomeplaysofMarlowe."WithaneffortWalkerpulledhimselftogether."Thereis,ofcourse,thejustly

famousDr.Faust.And--andthe--TheJewofMalfi.""FaustusandTheJewofMalta.Canyounameanymore?""Frankly,sir,thosearetheonlytwoplaysthatIhavehadachancetoreread

inthelastyearorso.SoIwouldprefernotto--""Allright.TellmesomethingaboutTheJewofMalta.""Mr.Walker,"Lomaxcriedout."IfImaybroadenthequestionabit.Ifyou

will--""No!" Stoner said grimly, not looking at Lomax. "I want answers to my

questions.Mr.Walker?"Walkersaiddesperately,"Marlowe'smightyline--""Let'sforgetaboutthe'mightyline,'"Stonersaidwearily."Whathappensin

theplay?""Well,"Walkersaidalittlewildly,"Marloweisattackingtheproblemofanti-

Semitismas itmanifested itself in theearlysixteenthcentury.Thesympathy, Imightevensay,theprofoundsympathy--"

"Nevermind,Mr.Walker.Let'sgoonto--"Lomax shouted, "Let the candidate answer the question!Give him time to

answeratleast.""Verywell,"Stonersaidmildly."Doyouwishtocontinuewithyouranswer,

Mr.Walker?"Walkerhesitatedforamoment."No,sir,"hesaid.RelentlesslyStonercontinuedhisquestioning.Whathadbeenanangerand

outrage that includedbothWalker andLomaxbecame a kindof pity and sickregretthatincludedthemtoo.AfterawhileitseemedtoStonerthathehadgoneoutsidehimself,anditwasas ifheheardavoicegoingonandon, impersonalanddeadly.

At last he heard the voice say, "All right, Mr. Walker. Your period ofspecialization is the nineteenth century. You seem to know little about theliterature of earlier centuries; perhaps you will feel more at ease among theRomanticpoets."

HetriednottolookatWalker'sface,buthecouldnotpreventhiseyesfromrisingnowand then tosee theround,staringmask that facedhimwithacold,palemalevolence.Walkernoddedcurtly.

"YouarefamiliarwithLordByron'smoreimportantpoems,areyounot?""Ofcourse,"Walkersaid."Then would you care to comment upon 'English Bards and Scottish

Reviewers?'"Walker looked at him suspiciously for a moment. Then he smiled

triumphantly. "Ah, sir,"he saidandnoddedhisheadvigorously. "I see.Now Isee.You'retryingtotrickme.Ofcourse.'EnglishBardsandScottishReviewers'is not by Byron at all. It is JohnKeats's famous reply to the journalists whoattempted to smirch his reputation as a poet, after the publication of his firstpoems.Verygood,sir.Very--"

"Allright,Mr.Walker,"Stonersaidwearily."Ihavenomorequestions."Forseveralmomentssilencelayuponthegroup.ThenRutherfordclearedhis

throat, shuffled thepapers on the tablebeforehim, and said, "Thankyou,Mr.Walker.Ifyouwillstepoutsideforafewmomentsandwait,thecommitteewilldiscussyourexaminationandletyouknowitsdecision."

InthefewmomentsthatittookRutherfordtosaywhathehadtosay,Walkerrecomposedhimself.Heroseandrestedhiscrippledhanduponthetabletop.Hesmiledat thegroupalmost condescendingly. "Thankyou,gentlemen,"he said."Ithasbeenamostrewardingexperience."Helimpedoutoftheroomandshutthedoorbehindhim.

Rutherfordsighed."Well,gentlemen,isthereanydiscussion?"Anothersilencecameovertheroom.Lomaxsaid,"Ithoughthedidquitewellonmypartoftheexamination.And

he did rather well on Holland's portion. I must confess that I was somewhatdisappointedbythewaythelatterpartoftheexamwent,butIimaginehewasrathertiredbythattime.Heisagoodstudent,buthedoesn'tshowupaswellashemightunderpressure."Heflashedanempty,painedsmileatStoner."Andyoudidpresshimabit,Bill.Youmustadmitthat.Ivotepass."

Rutherfordsaid,"Mr.--Holland?"HollandlookedfromLomaxtoStoner;hewasfrowninginpuzzlement,and

his eyes blinked. "But--well, he seemed awfully weak to me. I don't knowexactlyhow to figure it."Heswalloweduncomfortably. "This is the firstoralsI've sat in on here. I really don't know what the standards are, but--well, heseemedawfullyweak.Letmethinkaboutitforaminute."

Rutherfordnodded."Mr.--Stoner?""Fail,"Stonersaid."It'saclearfailure.""Oh, come now, Bill," Lomax cried. "You're being a bit hard on the boy,

aren'tyou?""No,"Stonersaid levelly,hiseyesstraightbeforehim."YouknowI'mnot,

Holly.""Whatdoyoumeanby that?"Lomaxasked; itwasas ifhewere trying to

generatefeelinginhisvoicebyraisingit."Justwhatdoyoumean?""Comeoffit,Holly,"Stonersaidtiredly."Theman'sincompetent.Therecan

benoquestionof that.Thequestions Iaskedhimwere those that shouldhavebeen asked a fair undergraduate; andhewasunable to answer a singleoneofthem satisfactorily. And he's both lazy and dishonest. In my seminar lastsemester--"

"Your seminar!" Lomax laughed curtly. "Well, I've heard about that. Andbesides,that'sanothermatter.Thequestionis,howhedidtoday.Andit'sclear"--hiseyesnarrowed--"it'sclearthathedidquitewelltodayuntilyoustartedinonhim."

"I asked him questions," Stoner said. "The simplest questions I couldimagine. I was prepared to give him every chance." He paused and saidcarefully,"Youarehisthesisadviser,anditisnaturalthatyoutwoshouldhavetalkedoverhisthesissubject.Sowhenyouquestionedhimonhisthesishedidverywell.Butwhenwegotbeyondthat--"

"Whatdoyoumean!"Lomaxshouted."AreyousuggestingthatI--thattherewasany--"

"Iamsuggestingnothing,exceptthatinmyopinionthecandidatedidnotdoanadequatejob.Icannotconsenttohispassing."

"Look,"Lomaxsaid.Hisvoicehadquieted,andhetriedtosmile."IcanseehowIwouldhaveahigheropinionofhisworkthanyouwould.Hehasbeeninseveralofmyclasses,and--nomatter.I'mwillingtocompromise.ThoughIthinkit'stoosevere,I'mwillingtoofferhimaconditionalpass.Thatwouldmeanhecouldreviewforacoupleofsemesters,andthenhe--"

"Well,"Holland saidwith some relief, "thatwould seem to be better thangivinghimaclearpass.Idon'tknowtheman,butit'sobviousthatheisn'treadyto--"

"Good," Lomax said, smiling vigorously at Holland. "Then that's settled.Well--"

"No,"Stonersaid."Imustvoteforfailure.""Goddamnit,"Lomaxshouted."Doyourealizewhatyou'redoing,Stoner?

Doyourealizewhatyou'redoingtotheboy?""Yes,"Stonersaidquietly,"andI'msorryforhim.Iampreventinghimfrom

getting his degree, and I'm preventing him from teaching in a college oruniversity.WhichispreciselywhatIwanttodo.Forhimtobeateacherwouldbea--disaster."

Lomaxwasverystill."Thatisyourfinalword?"heaskedicily.

"Yes,"Stonersaid.Lomaxnodded."Well,letmewarnyou,ProfessorStoner,Idonotintendto

letthematterdrophere.Youhavemade--youhaveimpliedcertainaccusationsheretoday--youhaveshownaprejudicethat--that--"

"Gentlemen, please," Rutherford said. He looked as if he were going toweep."Letuskeepourperspective.Asyouknow,forthecandidatetopass,theremustbeunanimousconsent.Istherenowaythatwecanresolvethisdifference?"

Noonespoke.Rutherfordsighed."Verywell,then,Ihavenoalternativebuttodeclarethat-

-""Justaminute."ItwasGordonFinch;duringtheentireexaminationhehad

been so still that the others had nearly forgotten his presence. Now he raisedhimself a little in his chair and addressed the top of the table in a tired butdeterminedvoice."AsactingchairmanofthedepartmentIamgoingtomakearecommendation. I trust it will be followed. I recommend that we defer thedecisionuntilthedayaftertomorrow.Thatwillgiveustimetocooloffandtalkitover."

"There'snothingtotalkover,"Lomaxsaidhotly."IfStonerwantsto--""I have made my recommendation," Finch said softly, "and it will be

followed. Dean Rutherford, I suggest that we inform the candidate of ourresolutionofthismatter."

They found Walker sitting in perfect ease in the corridor outside theconferenceroom.Heheldacigarettenegligently inhisrighthand,andhewaslookingboredlyattheceiling.

"Mr.Walker,"Lomaxcalledandlimpedtowardhim.Walkerstoodup;hewasseveralinchestallerthanLomax,sothathehadto

lookdownathim."Mr.Walker,Ihavebeendirectedtoinformyouthatthecommitteehasbeen

unable to reachagreementconcerningyourexamination;youwillbe informedthedayaftertomorrow.ButIassureyou"--hisvoicerose--"Iassureyouthatyouhavenothingtoworryabout.Nothingatall."

Walkerstoodforamoment lookingcoolly fromoneof themtoanother. "Ithankyouagain,gentlemen,foryourconsideration."HecaughtStoner'seye,andtheflickerofasmilewentacrosshislips.

Gordon Finch hurried away without speaking to any of them; Stoner,Rutherford, and Holland wandered down the hall together; Lomax remainedbehind,talkingearnestlytoWalker.

"Well," Rutherford said, walking between Stoner and Holland, "it's anunpleasantbusiness.Nomatterhowyoulookatit,it'sanunpleasantbusiness."

"Yes, it is," Stoner said and turned away from them.Hewalked down themarble steps, his steps becomingmore rapid as he neared the first floor, andwentoutside.Hebreatheddeeplythesmokyfragranceoftheafternoonair,andbreathedagain,asifhewereaswimmeremergingfromwater.Thenhewalkedslowlytowardhishouse.

Earlythenextafternoon,beforehehadachancetogetlunch,hereceivedacall fromGordonFinch's secretary, asking him to come down to the office atonce.

FinchwaswaitingimpatientlywhenStonercameintotheroom.HeroseandmotionedforStonertositinthechairhehaddrawnbesidehisdesk.

"IsthisabouttheWalkerbusiness?"Stonerasked."Inaway,"Finchreplied."Lomaxhasaskedmeforameetingtotrytosettle

thisthing.It'slikelytobeunpleasant.Iwantedtotalktoyouforafewminutesalone, before Lomax gets here." He sat again and for severalminutes rockedback and forth in the swivel chair, looking contemplatively at Stoner.He saidabruptly,"Lomaxisagoodman."

"Iknowheis,"Stonersaid."Insomewayshe'sprobablythebestmaninthedepartment."

AsifStonerhadnotspokenFinchwenton,"Hehashisproblems,buttheydon'tcropupveryoften;andwhentheydohe'susuallyabletohandlethem.It'sunfortunate that this business should have come up just now; the timing isawkwardashell.Asplitinthedepartmentrightnow--"Finchshookhishead.

"Gordon,"Stonersaiduncomfortably,"Ihopeyou'renot--"Finchhelduphishand."Wait,"hesaid."IwishIhad toldyou thisbefore.

But then itwasn't supposed to be let out, and itwasn't really official. It's stillsupposedtobeconfidential,but--doyourememberafewweeksbackourtalkingaboutthechairmanship?"

Stonernodded."Well,it'sLomax.He'sthenewhead.It'sfinished,settled.Thesuggestioncamefromupstairs,butIoughttotellyouthatIwentalong

with it."He laughedshortly. "Not that Iwas inaposition todoanythingelse.Buteven if IhadbeenIwouldhavegonealongwith it--then.NowI'mnotsosure."

"I see," Stoner said thoughtfully.After a fewmoments he continued, "I'mgladyoudidn't tellme.Idon't thinkitwouldhavemadeanydifference,butatleastitwasn'ttheretocloudtheissue."

"God damn it, Bill," Finch said. "You've got to understand. I don't give adamnaboutWalker,orLomax,or--butyou'reanoldfriend.Look.Ithinkyou'rerightinthis.Damnit,Iknowyou'reright.Butlet'sbepractical.Lomaxistaking

thisveryseriously,andhe'snotgoingtoletitdrop.Andifitcomestoafightit'sgoingtobeawkwardashell.Lomaxcanbevindictive;youknowthataswellasIdo.Hecan'tfireyou,buthecandodamnneareverythingelse.Andtoacertainextent I'll have to go alongwith him." He laughed again, bitterly. "Hell, to alarge extent I'll have to go along with him. If a dean starts reversing thedecisionsofadepartmentheadhehastofirehimfromhischairmanship.Now,ifLomaxgotoutofline,Icouldremovehimfromthechairmanship;oratleastIcouldtry.Imightevengetawaywithit,orImightnot.ButevenifIdid,therewouldbeafightthatwouldsplitthedepartment,maybeeventhecollege,wideopen.And,Goddamnit--"Finchwassuddenlyembarrassed;hemumbled,"Goddamnit,I'vegottothinkofthecollege."HelookeddirectlyatStoner."DoyouseewhatI'mtryingtosay?"

Awarmthoffeeling,ofloveandfondrespectforhisoldfriend,cameoverStoner.Hesaid,"OfcourseIdo,Gordon.DidyouthinkIwouldn'tunderstand?"

"All right,"Finchsaid. "And there'sonemore thing.SomehowLomaxhasgothisfingerinthepresident'snose,andheleadshimaroundlikeacutbull.Soitmaybeevenrougherthanyouthink.Look,allyou'dhavetodoissayyou'dreconsidered.Youcouldevenblameitonme--sayImadeyoudoit."

"Itisn'tamatterofmysavingface,Gordon.""Iknowthat,"Finchsaid."Isaiditwrong.Lookatitthisway.Whatdoesit

matter aboutWalker? Sure, I know; it's the principle of the thing; but there'sanotherprincipleyououghttothinkof."

"It'snottheprinciple,"Stonersaid."It'sWalker.Itwouldbeadisastertolethimlooseinaclassroom."

"Hell,"Finchsaidwearily."Ifhedoesn'tmakeithere,hecangosomewhereelseandgethisdegree;anddespiteeverythinghemightevenmakeithere.Youcould lose this, youknow, nomatterwhat youdo.We can't keep theWalkersout."

"Maybenot,"Stonersaid."Butwecantry."Finchwassilentforseveralmoments.Hesighed."Allright.There'snouse

keepingLomaxwaitinganylonger.Wemightaswellgetitoverwith."Hegotupfromhisdeskandstartedforthedoorthatledtothesmallanteroom.ButashepassedStoner,Stonerputhishandonhisarm,delayinghimforamoment.

"Gordon,doyouremembersomethingDaveMasterssaidonce?"Finchraisedhisbrowsinpuzzlement."WhydoyoubringDaveMastersup?"Stonerlookedacrosstheroom,outofthewindow,tryingtoremember."The

threeofusweretogether,andhesaid--somethingabouttheUniversitybeinganasylum,arefugefromtheworld,forthedispossessed,thecrippled.Buthedidn'tmeanWalker.Davewould have thought ofWalker as --as theworld.Andwe

can'tlethimin.Forifwedo,webecomeliketheworld,justasunreal,justas...Theonlyhopewehaveistokeephimout."

Finchlookedathimforseveralmoments.Thenhegrinned."Youson-of-a-bitch,"he saidcheerfully. "We'dbetter seeLomaxnow."He

openedthedoor,beckoned,andLomaxcameintotheroom.Hecameintotheroomsostifflyandformallythattheslighthitchinhisright

legwasbarelynoticeable;histhinhandsomefacewassetandcold,andheheldhisheadhigh,sothathisratherlongandwavyhairnearlytouchedthehumpthatdisfiguredhisbackbeneathhisleftshoulder.Hedidnotlookateitherofthetwomenintheroomwithhim;hetookachairoppositeFinch'sdeskandsataserectashecould,staringat thespacebetweenFinchandStoner.HeturnedhisheadslightlytowardFinch.

"I asked for the three of us tomeet for a simple purpose. Iwish to knowwhetherProfessorStonerhasreconsideredhisill-advisedvoteyesterday."

"Mr.StonerandIhavebeendiscussing thematter,"Finchsaid."I'mafraidthatwe'vebeenunabletoresolveit."

LomaxturnedtoStonerandstaredathim;hislightblueeyesweredull,asifatranslucentfilmhaddroppedoverthem."ThenI'mafraidI'mgoingtohavetobringsomeratherseriouschargesoutintheopen."

"Charges?"Finch'svoicewassurprised,alittleangry."Younevermentionedanythingabout--"

"I'msorry,"Lomaxsaid."Butthisisnecessary."HesaidtoStoner,"ThefirsttimeyouspoketoCharlesWalkerwaswhenheaskedyouforadmittancetoyourgraduateseminar.Isthatright?"

"That'sright,"Stonersaid."Youwerereluctanttoadmithim,wereyounot?""Yes,"Stonersaid."Theclassalreadyhadtwelvestudents."Lomax glanced at some notes he held in his right hand. "And when the

studenttoldyouhehadtogetin,youreluctantlyadmittedhim,atthesametimesayingthathisadmissionwouldvirtuallyruintheseminar.Isthatright?"

"Not exactly," Stoner said. "As I remember, I said onemore in the classwould--"

Lomax waved his hand. "It doesn't matter. I'm just trying to establish acontext.Now,duringthisfirstconversation,didyounotquestionhiscompetencetodotheworkintheseminar?"

GordonFinchsaidtiredly,"Holly,where'sallthisgettingus?Whatgooddoyou--"

"Please,"Lomax said. "I have said that I have charges to bring.Youmustallowmetodevelopthem.Now.Didyounotquestionhiscompetence?"

Stonersaidcalmly,"Iaskedhimafewquestions,yes,toseewhetherhewascapableofdoingthework."

"Anddidyousatisfyyourselfthathewas?""Iwasunsure,Ibelieve,"Stonersaid."It'sdifficulttoremember."Lomax turned to Finch. "We have established, then, first that Professor

StonerwasreluctanttoadmitWalkertohisseminar;second,thathisreluctancewassointensethathethreatenedWalkerwiththefactthathisadmissionwouldruintheseminar;third,thathewasatleastdoubtfulthatWalkerwascompetenttodo thework;andfourth, thatdespite thisdoubtand thesestrongfeelingsofresentment,heallowedhimintheclassanyway."

Finchshookhisheadhopelessly."Holly,thisisallpointless.""Wait," Lomax said. He glanced hastily at his notes and then looked up

shrewdly atFinch. "I have anumberofotherpoints tomake. I coulddevelopthemby 'crossexamination'--hegave thewordsan ironic inflection--"but I amno attorney. But I assure you I am prepared to specify these charges, if itbecomesnecessary."Hepaused,as ifgatheringhisstrength."Iamprepared todemonstrate, first, that Professor Stoner allowedMr.Walker into his seminarwhile holding incipiently prejudiced feelings against him; I am prepared todemonstrate that thisprejudicial feelingwas intensifiedby the fact thatcertainconflictsoftemperamentandfeelingcameoutduringthecourseofthisseminar,thattheconflictwasaidedandintensifiedbyMr.Stonerhimself,whoallowed,andindeedattimesencouraged,othermembersoftheclasstoridiculeandlaughatMr.Walker.Iampreparedtodemonstratethatonmorethanoneoccasionthisprejudice was manifested by statements by Professor Stoner, to students andothers; that he accusedMr.Walker of 'attacking' amember of the class,whenMr.Walkerwasmerely expressing a contrary opinion, that he admitted angerabout this so-called 'attack' and that hemoreover indulged in loose talk aboutMr.Walker's'behavingfoolishly.'Iampreparedtodemonstrate,too,thatwithoutprovocation Professor Stoner, out of this prejudice, accused Mr. Walker oflaziness, of ignorance, and of dishonesty. And, finally, that of all the thirteenmembersoftheclass,Mr.Walkerwastheonlyone--theonlyone--thatProfessorStoner singled out for suspicion, asking him alone to hand in the text of hisseminar report.NowIcalluponProfessorStoner todeny thesecharges,eithersinglyorcategorically."

Stonershookhishead,almostinadmiration."MyGod,"hesaid."Howyoumakeitsound!Sure,everythingyousayisafact,butnoneofitistrue.Notthewayyousayit."

Lomax nodded, as if he had expected the answer. "I am prepared todemonstratethetruthofeverythingIhavesaid.Itwouldbeasimplematter, if

necessary,tocallthemembersofthatseminar,individually,andquestionthem.""No!"Stonersaidsharply."Thatisinsomewaysthemostoutrageousthing

you'vesaidallafternoon.Iwillnothavethestudentsdraggedintothismess.""Youmay have no choice, Stoner," Lomax said softly. "Youmay have no

choiceatall."GordonFinchlookedatLomaxandsaidquietly,"Whatareyougettingat?"Lomax ignored him. He said to Stoner, "Mr. Walker has told me that,

althoughheisagainstdoingsoinprinciple,heisnowwillingtodeliverovertoyoutheseminarpaperthatyoucastsomanyuglydoubtsabout;heiswillingtoabide by any decision that you and any other two qualified members of thedepartmentmaymake.Ifitreceivesapassinggradefromamajorityofthethree,hewillreceiveapassinggradeintheseminar,andhewillbeallowedtoremainingraduateschool."

Stonershookhishead;hewasashamedtolookatLomax."YouknowIcan'tdothat."

"Very well. I dislike doing this, but--if you do not change your vote ofyesterdayIshallbecompelledtobringformalchargesagainstyou."

GordonFinch'svoicerose."You'llbecompelledtodowhat?"Lomax said coolly, "The constitution of theUniversity ofMissouri allows

any faculty member with tenure to bring charges against any other facultymemberwith tenure, if there is compelling reason to believe that the chargedfacultymemberisincompetent,unethical,ornotperforminghisdutiesinaccordwith the ethical standards laid out in Article Six, Section Three of theConstitution.Thesecharges,andtheevidencetosupportthem,willbeheardbythe entire faculty, and at the end of the trial the facultywill either uphold thechargesbyatwo-thirdsvoteordismissthemwithalesservote."

Gordon Finch sat back in his chair, his mouth open; he shook his headunbelievingly.Hesaid,"Now,look.Thisthingisgettingoutofhand.Youcan'tbeserious,Holly."

"IassureyouthatIam,"Lomaxsaid."Thisisaseriousmatter.It'samatterofprinciple;and--andmyintegrityhasbeenquestioned. It ismyright tobringchargesifIseefit."

Finchsaid,"Youcouldnevermakethemstick.""Itismyright,nevertheless,tobringcharges."ForamomentFinchgazedatLomax.Thenhesaidquietly,almostaffably,

"Therewillbenocharges.Idon'tknowhowthisthingisgoingtoresolveitself,andIdon'tparticularlycare.Buttherewillbenocharges.We'reallgoingtowalkoutofhereinafewminutes,andwe'regoingtotrytoforgetmostofwhathasbeensaidthisafternoon.Oratleastwe'regoingtopretendto.I'mnotgoingto

have the department or the college dragged into a mess. There will be nocharges.Because,"headdedpleasantly,"ifthereare,IpromiseyouthatIwilldomydamnedesttoseethatyouareruined.Iwillstopatnothing.IwilluseeveryounceofinfluenceIhave;Iwilllieifnecessary;IwillframeyouifIhaveto.IamnowgoingtoreporttoDeanRutherfordthatthevoteonMr.Walkerstands.Ifyoustillwanttocarrythroughonthis,youcantakeitupwithhim,withthepresident,orwithGod.Butthisofficeisthroughwiththematter.Iwanttohearnomoreaboutit."

Dining Finch's speech, Lomax's expression had gone thoughtful and cool.WhenFinchfinished,Lomaxnoddedalmostcasuallyandgotupfromhischair.HelookedonceatStoner,andthenhelimpedacrosstheroomandwentout.ForseveralmomentsFinchandStonersat insilence.FinallyFinchsaid,"IwonderwhatitisbetweenhimandWalker."

Stonershookhishead."Itisn'twhatyou'rethinking,"hesaid."Idon'tknowwhatitis.Idon'tbelieveIwanttoknow."

TendayslaterHollisLomax'sappointmentaschairmanoftheDepartmentofEnglishwasannounced;andtwoweeksafterthatthescheduleofclassesforthefollowingyearwasdistributedamongthemembersof thedepartment.WithoutsurpriseStonerdiscovered that foreachof the twosemesters thatmadeup theacademicyearhehadbeenassignedthreeclassesoffreshmancompositionandonesophomoresurveycourse;hisupper-classReadings inMedievalLiteratureand his graduate seminar had been dropped from the program. It was, Stonerrealized, the kind of schedule that a beginning instructormight expect. Itwasworse in someways; for the schedulewas so arranged that he taught at odd,widelyseparatedhours,sixdaysaweek.Hemadenoprotestabouthisscheduleandresolvedtoteachthefollowingyearasifnothingwereamiss.

Butfor thefirst timesincehehadstarted teachingitbegantoseemtohimthat it was possible that he might leave the University, that he might teachelsewhere.Hespoke toEdithof thepossibility,andshe lookedathimas ifhehadstruckher.

"Icouldn't,"shesaid."Oh,Icouldn't."Andthen,awarethatshehadbetrayedherselfbyshowingherfear,shebecameangry."Whatareyouthinkingof?"sheasked. "Our home--our lovely home. And our friends. And Grace's school. Itisn'tgoodforachildtobeshiftedaroundfromschooltoschool."

"It may be necessary," he said. He had not told her about the incident ofCharlesWalkerandofLomax'sinvolvement;butitbecamequicklyevidentthatsheknewallaboutit.

"Thoughtless,"shesaid."Absolutelythoughtless."Butherangerwasoddlydistracted,almostperfunctory;herpaleblueeyeswanderedfromtheirregardof

him and rested casually upon odd objects in the living room, as if she werereassuringherselfof theircontinuedpresence;her thin, lightly freckled fingersmovedrestlessly."Oh,Iknowallaboutyourtrouble.I'veneverinterferedwithyourwork,but--really,you'reverystubborn.Imean,GraceandIareinvolvedinthis.Andcertainlywecan'tbeexpectedtopickupandmovejustbecauseyou'veputyourselfinanawkwardposition."

"Butit'sforyouandGrace,partly,atleast,thatI'mthinkingaboutit.Itisn'tlikelythatI'll--gomuchfartherinthedepartmentifIstayhere."

"Oh," Edith said distantly, summoning bitterness to her voice. "That isn'timportant.We'vebeenpoorsofar;there'snoreasonwecan'tgoonlikethis.Youshouldhavethoughtofthisbefore,ofwhatitmightleadto.Acripple."Suddenlyhervoicechanged,andshelaughedindulgently,almostfondly."Honestly,thingsaresoimportanttoyou.Whatdifferencecoulditmake?"

Andshewouldnotconsider leavingColumbia. If itcame to that, shesaid,she andGrace could alwaysmove inwithAunt Emma; shewas getting veryfeebleandwouldwelcomethecompany.

Sohedropped thepossibility almost as soonashebroached it.Hewas toteachthatsummer,andtwoofhisclasseswereonesinwhichhehadaparticularinterest;theyhadbeenscheduledbeforeLomaxbecamechairman.Heresolvedtogivethemallofhisattention,forheknewthatitmightbesometimebeforehehadachancetoteachthemagain.

XIAfewweeksafter thefallsemesterof1932began, itwasclear toWilliam

StonerthathehadbeenunsuccessfulinhisbattletokeepCharlesWalkeroutofthegraduateEnglishprogram.AfterthesummerholidaysWalkerreturnedtothecampus as if triumphantly entering an arena; and when he saw Stoner in thecorridorsofJesseHallheinclinedhisheadinanironicbowandgrinnedathimmaliciously.StonerlearnedfromJimHollandthatDeanRutherfordhaddelayedmaking the vote of last year official and that finally it had been decided thatWalkerwouldbeallowedtotakehisoralpreliminariesagain,hisexaminers tobeselectedbythechairmanofthedepartment.

Thebattlewasoverthen,andStonerwaswillingtoconcedehisdefeat;butthe fighting did not end. When Stoner met Lomax in the corridors or at adepartmentmeeting,oratacollegefunction,hespoketohimashehadspokenbefore,asifnothinghadhappenedbetweenthem.ButLomaxwouldnotrespondtohisgreeting;he staredcoldly and turnedhis eyes away, as if to say thathewouldnotbeappeased.

One day in late fall Stonerwalked casually intoLomax's office and stoodbesidehisdeskforseveralminutesuntil, reluctantly,Lomaxlookedupathim,hislipstightandhiseyeshard.

WhenherealizedthatLomaxwasnotgoingtospeakStonersaidawkwardly,"Look,Holly,it'soveranddonewith.Can'twejustdropit?"

Lomaxlookedathimsteadily.Stoner continued, "We'vehadadisagreement, but that isn't unusual.We've

beenfriendsbefore,andIseenoreason--""Wehaveneverbeenfriends,"Lomaxsaiddistinctly."Allright,"Stonersaid."Butwe'vegotalongatleast.Wecankeepwhatever

differenceswehave,but forGod'ssake, there'snoneed todisplay them.Eventhestudentsarebeginningtonotice."

"Andwellthestudentsmight,"Lomaxsaidbitterly,"sinceoneoftheirownnumbernearlyhadhiscareerruined.Abrilliantstudent,whoseonlycrimeswerehis imagination, anenthusiasmand integrity that forcedhim intoconflictwithyou --and, yes, I might as well say it--an unfortunate physical affliction thatwould have called forth sympathy in a normal human being."With his goodrighthandLomaxheldapencil,andittrembledbeforehim;almostwithhorrorStonerrealizedthatLomaxwasdreadfullyandirrevocablysincere."No,"Lomaxwentonpassionately,"forthatIcannotforgiveyou."

Stoner tried to keep his voice from becoming stiff. "It isn't a question offorgiving. It's simplyaquestionofourbehaving towardeachother so thatnottoo much discomfort is made for the students and the other members of the

department.""I'mgoing to be very frankwith you,Stoner,"Lomax said.His anger had

quieted,andhisvoicewascalm,matteroffact."Idon't thinkyou'refit tobeateacher; no man is, whose prejudices override his talents and his learning. Ishouldprobablyfireyou if Ihad thepower;but Idon'thave thepower,aswebothknow.Weare--youareprotectedbythetenuresystem.Imustacceptthat.But Idon'thave toplay thehypocrite. Iwant tohavenothing todowithyou.Nothingatall.AndIwillnotpretendotherwise."

Stonerlookedathimsteadilyforseveralmoments.Thenheshookhishead."Allright,Holly,"hesaidtiredly.Hestartedtogo-

"Justaminute,"Lomaxcalled.Stoner turned.Lomaxwas gazing intently at somepapers on his desk; his

facewasred,andheseemedtobestrugglingwithhimself.Stonerrealizedthatwhathesawwasnotangerbutshame.

Lomaxsaid,"Hereafter,ifyouwanttoseeme--ondepartmentbusiness--youwill make an appointment with the secretary." And although Stoner stoodlookingathimforseveralmomentsmore,Lomaxdidnotraisehishead.Abriefwrithingwentacrosshisface;thenitwasstill.Stonerwentoutoftheroom.

Andformorethantwentyyearsneithermanwastospeakagaindirectlytotheother.

Itwas,Stonerrealizedlater,inevitablethatthestudentsbeaffected;evenifhehadbeensuccessfulinpersuadingLomaxtoputonanappearance,hecouldnotinthelongrunhaveprotectedthemfromaconsciousnessofthebattle.

Former students of his, even students he had known rather well, begannodding and speaking to him self-consciously, even furtively. A few wereostentatiously friendly, going out of their way to speak to him or to be seenwalkingwithhiminthehalls.Buthenolongerhadtherapportwiththemthatheoncehadhad;hewasaspecialfigure,andonewasseenwithhim,ornotseenwithhim,forspecialreasons.

Hecametofeelthathispresencewasanembarrassmentbothtohisfriendsandhisenemies,andsohekeptmoreandmoretohimself.

Akindoflethargydescendeduponhim.Hetaughthisclassesaswellashecould, though the steady routine of required freshman and sophomore classesdrained him of enthusiasm and left him at the end of the day exhausted andnumb. As well as he could, he filled the hours between his widely separatedclasseswith student conferences, painstakingly going over the students' work,keepingthemuntiltheybecamerestlessandimpatient.

Time dragged slowly around him. He tried to spendmore of that time athomewithhiswifeandchild;butbecauseofhisoddschedulethehourshecould

spend therewereunusualandnotaccounted forbyEdith's tightdispositionofeach day; he discovered (not to his surprise) that his regular presencewas soupsetting to his wife that she became nervous and silent and sometimesphysicallyill.AndhewasabletoseeGraceinfrequentlyinallthetimehespentathome.Edithhadscheduledherdaughter'sdayscarefully;heronly"free"timewasintheevening,andStonerwasscheduledtoteachalateclassfoureveningsaweek.BythetimetheclasswasoverGracewasusuallyinbed.

SohecontinuedtoseeGraceonlybrieflyinthemornings,atbreakfast;andhe was alone with her for only the few minutes it took Edith to clear thebreakfast dishes from the table and put them to soak in the kitchen sink. Hewatched her body lengthen, an awkward grace come into her limbs, and anintelligencegrowinherquieteyesandwatchfulface.Andattimeshefelt thatsomeclosenessremainedbetweenthem,aclosenesswhichneitherofthemcouldaffordtoadmit.

AtlasthewentbacktohisoldhabitofspendingmostofhistimeathisofficeinJesseHall.Hetoldhimselfthatheshouldbegratefulforthechanceofreadingonhisown,freefromthepressuresofpreparingforparticularclasses,freefromthepredetermineddirectionsofhislearning.Hetriedtoreadatrandom,forhisownpleasureand indulgence,manyof the things thathehadbeenwaiting foryears to read. But his mind would not be led where he wished it to go; hisattentionwanderedfromthepagesheheldbeforehim,andmoreandmoreoftenhe found himself staring dully in front of him, at nothing; it was as if frommomenttomomenthismindwereemptiedofallitknewandasifhiswillweredrainedofitsstrength.Hefeltattimesthathewasakindofvegetable,andhelongedforsomething--evenpain--topiercehim,tobringhimalive.

Hehad come to thatmoment in his agewhen there occurred to him,withincreasingintensity,aquestionofsuchoverwhelmingsimplicitythathehadnomeanstofaceit.Hefoundhimselfwonderingifhislifewereworththeliving;ifithadeverbeen.Itwasaquestion,hesuspected,thatcametoallmenatonetimeoranother;hewonderedifitcametothemwithsuchimpersonalforceasitcameto him. The question brought with it a sadness, but it was a general sadnesswhich (he thought) had little todowithhimself orwithhis particular fate; hewasnotevensurethatthequestionsprangfromthemostimmediateandobviouscauses, from what his own life had become. It came, he believed, from theaccretionofhisyears,fromthedensityofaccidentandcircumstance,andfromwhat he had come to understand of them.He took a grim and ironic pleasurefromthepossibilitythatwhatlittlelearninghehadmanagedtoacquirehadledhimtothisknowledge:thatinthelongrunallthings,eventhelearningthatlethimknowthis,werefutileandempty,andatlastdiminishedintoanothingness

theydidnotalter.Once, late, after his evening class, he returned to his office and sat at his

desk,tryingtoread.Itwaswinter,andasnowhadfallenduringtheday,sothattheout-of-doorswascoveredwithawhitesoftness.Theofficewasoverheated;he opened awindowbeside the desk so that the cool airmight come into thecloseroom.Hebreatheddeeply,andlethiseyeswanderoverthewhitefloorofthecampus.Onanimpulseheswitchedoutthelightonhisdeskandsatinthehotdarknessofhisoffice;thecoldairfilledhislungs,andheleanedtowardtheopenwindow.Heheardthesilenceofthewinternight,anditseemedtohimthathe somehow felt the sounds thatwere absorbedby thedelicate and intricatelycellular being of the snow.Nothingmoved upon thewhiteness; itwas a deadscene,whichseemedtopullathim,tosuckathisconsciousnessjustasitpulledthesoundfromtheairandburieditwithinacoldwhitesoftness.Hefelthimselfpulledoutward toward thewhiteness,whichspreadas farashecouldsee,andwhich was a part of the darkness from which it glowed, of the clear andcloudlessskywithoutheightordepth.Foraninstanthefelthimselfgooutofthebody that satmotionless before thewindow; and as he felt himself slip away,everything--theflatwhiteness,thetrees,thetallcolumns,thenight,thefarstars-- seemed incredibly tiny and far away, as if they were dwindling to anothingness. Then, behind him, a radiator clanked. He moved, and the scenebecame itself.With a curiously reluctant relief he again snapped on his desklamp. He gathered a book and a few papers, went out of the office, walkedthroughthedarkenedcorridors,andlethimselfoutofthewidedoubledoorsatthe back of Jesse Hall. He walked slowly home, aware of each footstepcrunchingwithmuffledloudnessinthedrysnow.

XIIDuring that year, and especially in the winter months, he found himself

returning more and more frequently to such a state of unreality; at will, heseemedabletoremovehisconsciousnessfromthebodythatcontainedit,andheobserved himself as if he were an oddly familiar stranger doing the oddlyfamiliar things that he had to do. It was a dissociation that he had never feltbefore; he knew that he ought to be troubled by it, but hewas numb, and hecouldnotconvincehimselfthatitmattered.Hewasforty-twoyearsold,andhecouldseenothingbeforehimthathewishedtoenjoyandlittlebehindhimthathecaredtoremember.

Initsforty-thirdyearWilliamStoner'sbodywasnearlyasleanasithadbeenwhenhewasayouth,whenhehadfirstwalkedindazedaweuponthecampusthat had never wholly lost its effect upon him. Year by year the stoop of hisshouldershadincreased,andhehadlearnedtoslowhismovementssothathisfarmer's clumsiness of hand and foot seemed a deliberation rather than anawkwardness bred in the bone. His long face had softened with time; andalthough the fleshwasstill like tanned leather, it no longer stretched so tautlyover the sharp cheekbones; itwas loosened by thin lines around his eyes andmouth.Stillsharpandclear,hisgrayeyesweresunkmoredeeplyinhisface,theshrewdwatchfulnesstherehalfhidden;hishair,oncelightbrown,haddarkened,althoughafewtouchesofgraywerebeginningaroundhistemples.Hedidnotthinkoftenof theyears,or regret theirpassing;butwhenhesawhis face inamirror,orwhenheapproachedhis reflection inoneof theglassdoors that ledintoJesseHall,herecognizedthechangesthathadcomeoverhimwithamildshock.

Late one afternoon in the early spring he sat alone in his office.Apile offreshmanthemeslayonhisdesk;heheldoneofthepapersinhishand,buthewasnotlookingatit.Ashehadbeendoingfrequentlyoflate,hegazedoutthewindowuponthatpartofthecampushecouldseefromhisoffice.Thedaywasbright,andtheshadowcastbyJesseHallhadcrept,whilehewatched,nearlyuptothebaseofthefivecolumnsthatstoodinpowerful,isolategraceinthecenteroftherectangularquad.Theportionofthequadinshadowwasadeepbrownish-gray;beyondtheedgeof theshadowthewintergrasswasa light tan,overlaidwithashimmeringfilmofthepalestgreen.Againstthespideryblacktracingsofvinestemsthatcurledaroundthem,themarblecolumnswerebrilliantlywhite;soontheshadowwouldcreepuponthem,Stoner thought,andthebaseswoulddarken,andthedarknesswouldcreepup,slowlyandthenmorerapidly,until...Hebecameawarethatsomeonewasstandingbehindhim.

He turned inhischairand lookedup. ItwasKatherineDriscoll, theyoung

instructorwholastyearhadsatinonhisseminar.Sincethattime,thoughtheysometimesmetinthecorridorsandnodded,theyhadnotreallyspokentoeachother.Stonerwasawarethathewasdimlyannoyedbythisconfrontation;hedidnot wish to be reminded of the seminar and of what had ensued from it. Hepushedhischairbackandgotawkwardlytohisfeet.

"MissDriscoll,"hesaidsoberlyandmotioned to thechairbesidehisdesk.Shegazedathimforamoment;hereyeswere largeanddark,andhe thoughtthatherfacewasextraordinarilypale.Withaslightduckingmotionoftheheadshemovedawayfromhimandtookthechairtowhichhevaguelymotioned.

Stoner seated himself again and stared at her for amomentwithout reallyseeing her. Then, aware that his regard of hermight be taken as rudeness, hetriedtosmile,andhemurmuredaninane,automaticquestionaboutherclasses.

Shespokeabruptly."You--yousaidonce thatyouwouldbewilling to lookovermydissertationwheneverIhadagoodstartonit."

"Yes,"Stonersaidandnodded."IbelieveIdid.Ofcourse."Then,forthefirsttime,henoticedthatsheclutchedafolderofpapersinherlap.

"Ofcourse,ifyou'rebusy,"shesaidtentatively."Not at all," Stoner said, trying to put some enthusiasm in his voice. "I'm

sorry.Ididn'tintendtosounddistracted."Shehesitantlyliftedthefoldertowardhim.Hetookit,heftedit,andsmiled

ather."Ithoughtyouwouldbefurtheralongthanthis,"hesaid."Iwas,"shesaid."ButIstartedover.I'mtakinganewtack,and--andI'llbe

gratefulifyou'lltellmewhatyouthink."Hesmiledatheragainandnodded;hedidnotknowwhattosay.Theysatin

awkwardsilenceforamoment.Finallyhesaid,"Whendoyouneedthisback?"Sheshookherhead."Anytime.Wheneveryoucangetaroundtoit.""Idon'twanttoholdyouup,"hesaid."HowaboutthiscomingFriday?That

shouldgivemeplentyoftime.Aboutthreeo'clock?"Sheroseasabruptly as she had sat down. "Thank you," she said. "I don't

wanttobeabother.Thankyou."Andsheturnedandwalked,slimanderect,outofhisoffice.

Heheldthefolderinhishandsforafewmoments,staringatit.Thenheputitonhisdeskandgotbacktohisfreshmanthemes.

That was on a Tuesday, and for the next two days the manuscript layuntouchedonhisdesk.Forreasonsthathedidnotfullyunderstand,hecouldnotbringhimselftoopenthefolder,tobeginthereadingwhichafewmonthsbeforewouldhavebeenadutyofpleasure.Hewatcheditwarily,asifitwereanenemythatwastryingtoenticehimagainintoawarthathehadrenounced.

And then it was Friday, and he still had not read it. He saw it lyingaccusinglyonhisdeskinthemorningwhenhegatheredhisbooksandpapersforhiseighto'clockclass;whenhereturnedatalittleafterninehenearlydecidedtoleave a note in Miss Driscoll's mailbox in the main office, begging off foranotherweek;buthe resolved to lookat it hurriedlybeforehis eleveno'clockclassandsayafewperfunctorywordstoherwhenshecamebythatafternoon.Buthecouldnotmakehimselfgettoit;andjustbeforehehadtoleavefortheclass,hislastoftheday,hegrabbedthefolderfromhisdesk,stuckitamonghisotherpapers,andhurriedacrosscampustohisclassroom.

After the classwas over at noon hewas delayed by several studentswhoneededtotalktohim,sothatitwasafteroneo'clockwhenhewasabletobreakaway. He headed, with a kind of grim determination, toward the library; heintendedtofindanemptycarrelandgivethemanuscriptahastyhour'sreadingbeforehisthreeo'clockappointmentwithMissDriscoll.

Buteveninthedim,familiarquietofthelibrary,inanemptycarrelthathefound hidden in the lower depths of the stacks, he had a hard time makinghimselflookatthepageshecarriedwithhim.Heopenedotherbooksandreadparagraphsat random;he sat still, inhaling themustyodor that came from theoldbooks.Finallyhesighed;unabletoputitofflonger,heopenedthefolderandglancedhastilyatthefirstpages.

Atfirstonlyanervousedgeofhismindtouchedwhatheread;butgraduallythe words forced themselves upon him. He frowned and readmore carefully.Andthenhewascaught;heturnedbacktowherehehadbegun,andhisattentionfloweduponthepage.Yes,hesaidtohimself,ofcourse.Muchofthematerialthat she had given in her seminar report was contained here, but rearranged,reorganized,pointingindirectionsthathehimselfhadonlydimlyglimpsed.MyGod, he said to himself in a kind of wonder; and his fingers trembled withexcitementasheturnedthepages.

When he came to the last sheet of typescript he leaned back in happyexhaustionandstaredat thegraycementwallbeforehim.Although it seemedonlyafewminuteshadelapsedsincehestartedreading,heglancedathiswatch.It was nearly four-thirty. He scrambled to his feet, gathered the manuscripthastily,andhurriedoutofthelibrary;andthoughheknewitwastoolateforittomakeanydifference,hehalfranacrossthecampustoJesseHall.

As he passed the open door of themain office on hisway to his own, heheard his name called. He halted and stuck his head in the doorway. Thesecretary--a new girl that Lomax had recently hired--said to him accusingly,almostinsolently,"MissDriscollwasheretoseeyouatthreeo'clock.Shewaitednearlyanhour."

Henodded, thankedher, andproceededmore slowly tohisoffice.He toldhimself that it didn't matter, that he could return the manuscript to her onMondayandmakehisapologies then.But theexcitementhehad feltwhenhefinished themanuscriptwould not subside, and he paced restlessly around hisoffice;everynowandthenhepausedandnoddedtohimself.Finallyhewenttohis bookcase, searched for a moment, and withdrew a slender pamphlet withsmearedblackletteringonthecover:FacultyandStaffDirectory,UniversityofMissouri.HefoundKatherineDriscoll'sname;shedidnothaveatelephone.Henotedheraddress,gatheredhermanuscript fromhisdesk,andwentoutofhisoffice.

About three blocks from the campus, toward town, a cluster of large oldhouseshad,someyearsbefore,beenconvertedintoapartments;thesewerefilledby older students, younger faculty, staff members of the University, and ascatteringoftownspeople.ThehouseinwhichKatherineDriscolllivedstoodinthemidst of these. It was a huge three-storied building of gray stone, with abewildering variety of entrances and exits, with turrets and baywindows andbalconies projecting outward and upward on all sides. Stoner finally foundKatherineDriscoll'snameonamailboxatthesideofthebuilding,whereashortflightofcementstepsleddowntoabasementdoor.Hehesitatedforamoment,thenknocked.

WhenKatherineDriscollopenedthedoorforhimWilliamStoneralmostdidnotrecognizeher;shehadsweptherhairupandcaughtitcarelesslyhighintheback,sothathersmallpink-whiteearswerebare;sheworedark-rimmedglasses,behindwhichherdarkeyeswerewideandstartled;shehadonamannishshirt,openattheneck;andshewaswearingdarkslacksthatmadeherappearslimmerandmoregracefulthanherememberedher.

"I'm--I'msorryImissedourappointment,"Stonersaidawkwardly.Hethrustthefoldertowardher."Ithoughtyoumightneedthisovertheweekend."

Forseveralmomentsshedidnotspeak.Shelookedathimexpressionlesslyandbitherlowerlip.Shemovedbackfromthedoor."Won'tyoucomein?"

He followed her through a very short, narrow hall into a tiny room, low-ceilingedanddim,withalowthree-quarterbedthatservedasacouch,a long,low table before it, a single upholstered chair, a small desk and chair, and abookcasefilledwithbooksononewall.Severalbookswere lyingopenon thefloorandonthecouch,andpaperswerescatteredonthedesk.

"It's very small," Katherine Driscoll said, stooping to pick up one of thebooksonthefloor,"butIdon'tneedmuchroom."

Hesat in theupholsteredchairacrossfromthecouch.Sheaskedhimifhewouldlikesomecoffee,andhesaidhewould.Shewentintothelittlekitchenoff

the living room, and he relaxed and gazed around him, listening to the quietsoundsofhermovingaroundinthekitchen.

She brought the coffee, in delicatewhite china cups, on a black lacqueredtray,which she set on the table before the couch. They sipped the coffee andtalked strainedly for a few moments. Then Stoner spoke of the part of themanuscript he had read, and the excitement he had felt earlier, in the library,cameoverhim;heleanedforward,speakingintensely.

For many minutes the two of them were able to talk togetherunselfconsciously, hiding themselves under the cover of their discourse.KatherineDriscoll saton theedgeof thecouch,hereyes flashing,her slenderfingersclaspingandunclaspingabove thecoffee table.WilliamStonerhitchedhis chair forward and leaned intently toward her; they were so close that hecouldhaveextendedhishandandtouchedher.

They spoke of the problems raised by the early chapters of her work, ofwheretheinquirymightlead,oftheimportanceofthesubject.

"Youmustn'tgive itup,"hesaid,andhisvoice tookonanurgencythathecouldnotunderstand."Nomatterhowharditwillseemsometimes,youmustn'tgiveitup.It'stoogoodforyoutogiveitup.Oh,it'sgood,there'snodoubtofit."

Shewassilent,andforamomenttheanimationleftherface.She leaned back, looked away from him, and said, as if absently, "The

seminar--someofthethingsyousaid--itwasveryhelpful."Hesmiledandshookhishead."Youdidn'tneedtheseminar.ButIamglad

youwereabletositinonit.Itwasagoodone,Ithink.""Oh,it'sshameful!"sheburstout."It'sshameful.Theseminar--youwere--I

had to start it over, after the seminar. It's shameful that they should--" Shepausedinbitter,furiousconfusion,gotupfromthecouch,andwalkedrestlesslytothedesk.

Stoner, taken abackbyher outburst, for amoment did not speak.Thenhesaid,"Youshouldn'tconcernyourself.Thesethingshappen.Itwillallworkoutintime.Itreallyisn'timportant."

Andsuddenly,afterhesaidthewords,itwasnotimportant.Foraninstanthefelt the truthofwhathesaid,andfor thefirst time inmonthshefelt liftawayfrom him the weight of a despair whose heaviness he had not fully realized.Nearlygiddy,almostlaughing,hesaidagain,"Itreallyisn'timportant."

Butanawkwardnesshadcomebetween them,and theycouldnotspeakasfreelyas theyhada fewmomentsbefore.SoonStonergotup, thankedher forthe coffee, and took his leave. She walked with him to the door and seemedalmostcurtwhenshetoldhimgoodnight.

Itwasdarkoutside, anda springchillwas in the eveningair.Hebreathed

deeplyandfelthisbodytingleinthecoolness.Beyondthejaggedoutlineoftheapartmenthousesthetownlightsgloweduponathinmistthathungintheair.Atthecornerastreetlightpushedfeeblyagainstthedarknessthatclosedaroundit;from the darkness beyond it the sound of laughter broke abruptly into thesilence,lingeredanddied.Thesmellofsmokefromtrashburninginbackyardswasheldby themist; andashewalkedslowly through theevening,breathingthefragranceandtastinguponhistonguethesharpnight-timeair, itseemedtohimthatthemomenthewalkedinwasenoughandthathemightnotneedagreatdealmore.

Andsohehadhisloveaffair.TheknowledgeofhisfeelingforKatherineDriscollcameuponhimslowly.

He found himself discovering pretexts for going to her apartment in theafternoons; the titleofabookorarticlewouldoccur tohim,hewouldnote it,anddeliberatelyavoidseeingherinthecorridorsofJesseHallsothathemightdropbyherplaceintheafternoontogiveherthetitle,haveacupofcoffee,andtalk. Once he spent half a day in the library pursuing a reference that mightreinforceapointthathethoughtdubiousinhersecondchapter;anothertimehelaboriouslytranscribedaportionofalittle-knownLatinmanuscriptofwhichthelibraryownedaphotostat,andwasthusabletospendseveralafternoonshelpingherwiththetranslation.

DuringtheafternoonstheyspenttogetherKatherineDriscollwascourteous,friendly, and reserved; she was quietly grateful for the time and interest heexpended uponherwork, and she hoped shewas not keeping him frommoreimportantthings.Itdidnotoccurtohimthatshemightthinkofhimotherthanas an interested professorwhom she admired andwhose aid, though friendly,waslittlebeyondthecallofhisduty.Hethoughtofhimselfasafaintlyludicrousfigure, one inwhomno one could take an interest other than impersonal; andafter he admitted to himself his feeling for Katherine Driscoll, he wasdesperatelycarefulthathenotshowthisfeelinginanywaythatcouldbeeasilydiscerned.

Formore than amonth he dropped by her apartment two or three times aweek,stayingnomorethantwohoursatanyonetime;hewasfearful thatshewould become annoyed at his continued reappearances, so he was careful tocome onlywhen hewas sure that he could be genuinely helpful to herwork.Withakindofgrimamusementherealizedthathewaspreparingforhisvisitstoherwiththesamediligencethathepreparedforlectures;andhetoldhimselfthatthiswouldbeenough,thathewouldbecontentedonlytoseeherandtalktoherforaslongasshemightendurehispresence.

But despite his care and effort the afternoons they spent together became

moreandmorestrained.Forlongmomentstheyfoundthemselveswithnothingto say; they sipped their coffee and looked away from each other, they said,"Well...,"intentativeandguardedvoices,andtheyfoundreasonsformovingrestlesslyaroundtheroom,awayfromeachother.Withasadnesstheintensityofwhichhehadnotexpected,Stonertoldhimselfthathisvisitswerebecomingaburdentoherandthathercourtesyforbadehertolethimbeawareofthat.Ashehadknownhewouldhave todo,he came tohisdecision;hewouldwithdrawfromher,gradually,sothatshewouldnotrealizehehadnoticedherrestlessness,asifhehadgivenherallthehelpthathecould.

He dropped by her apartment only once the nextweek, and the followingweekhedidnotvisitheratall.Hehadnotanticipatedthestrugglethathewouldhave with himself; in the afternoons, as he sat in his office, he had almostphysically to restrain himself from rising fromhis desk, hurryingoutside, andwalkingtoherapartment.Onceortwicehesawheratadistance,inthehalls,asshe was hurrying to or from class; he turned away and walked in anotherdirection,sothattheywouldnothavetomeet.

Afterawhileakindofnumbnesscameuponhim,andhetoldhimselfthatitwouldbeallright,thatinafewdayshewouldbeabletoseeherinthehalls,nodto her and smile, perhaps even detain her for amoment and ask her how herworkwasgoing.

Then,oneafternooninthemainoffice,ashewasremovingsomemailfromhis box, he overheard a young instructor mention to another that KatherineDriscollwas ill, that shehadn'tmetherclasses for thepast twodays.And thenumbness left him; he felt a sharp pain in his chest, and his resolve and thestrength of hiswillwent out of him.Hewalked jerkily to his ownoffice andlookedwithakindofdesperationathisbookcase,selectedabook,andwentout.BythetimehegottoKatherineDriscoll'sapartmenthewasoutofbreath,sothathehadtowaitseveralmomentsinfrontofherdoor.Heputasmileonhisfacethathehopedwascasual,fixeditthere,andknockedatherdoor.

She was even paler than usual, and there were dark smudges around hereyes; shewore aplaindarkbluedressinggown, andherhairwasdrawnbackseverelyfromherface.

Stonerwasawarethathespokenervouslyandfoolishly,yethewasunabletostop the flow of hiswords. "Hello," he said brightly, "I heard youwere ill, Ithought Iwould dropover to see howyouwere, I have a book thatmight behelpful to you, are you all right? I don'twant to--"He listened to the soundstumblefromhisstiffsmileandcouldnotkeephiseyesfromsearchingherface.

Whenat lasthewassilentshemovedbackfromthedoorandsaidquietly,"Comein."

Onceinsidethelittlesitting-bedroom,hisnervousinanitydroppedaway.Hesatinthechairoppositethebedandfeltthebeginningsofafamiliareasecomeover himwhenKatherineDriscoll sat across from him. For several momentsneitherofthemspoke.

Finallysheasked,"Doyouwantsomecoffee?""Youmustn'tbother,"Stonersaid."It'snobother."Hervoicewasbrusqueandhadthatundertoneofangerthat

hehadheardbefore."I'lljustheatitup."Shewent into thekitchen.Stoner,alonein the littleroom,staredglumlyat

thecoffeetableandtoldhimselfthatheshouldnothavecome.Hewonderedatthefoolishnessthatdrovementodothethingstheydid.

KatherineDriscollcamebackwiththecoffeepotandtwocups;shepouredtheircoffee,andtheysatwatchingthesteamrisefromtheblackliquid.Shetookacigarettefromacrumpledpackage,litit,andpuffednervouslyforamoment.Stoner became aware of the book he had carried with him and that he stillclutchedinhishands.Heputitonthecoffeetablebetweenthem.

"Perhapsyouaren'tfeelinguptoit,"hesaid,"butIranacrosssomethingthatmightbehelpfultoyou,andIthought--"

"Ihaven'tseenyouinnearlytwoweeks,"shesaidandstubbedhercigaretteout,twistingitfiercelyintheashtray.

Hewas taken aback; he said distractedly, "I've been rather busy--somanythings--"

"It doesn'tmatter," she said. "Really, it doesn't. I shouldn't have . . ." Sherubbedthepalmofherhandacrossherforehead.

Helookedatherwithconcern;he thoughtshemustbefeverish."I'msorryyou'reill.Ifthere'sanythingIcan--"

"Iamnotill,"shesaid.Andsheaddedinavoicethatwascalm,speculative,andalmostuninterested,"Iamdesperately,desperatelyunhappy."

Andstillhedidnotunderstand.Thebaresharputterancewentintohimlikeablade;heturnedalittleawayfromher;hesaidconfusedly,"I'msorry.Couldyoutellmeaboutit?Ifthere'sanythingIcando..."

She lifted her head. Her features were stiff, but her eyeswere brilliant inpoolsof tears."Ididn't intend toembarrassyou. I'msorry.Youmust thinkmeveryfoolish."

"No," he said. He looked at her for amomentmore, at the pale face thatseemedheldexpressionlessbyaneffortofwill.Thenhegazedathislargebonyhandsthatwereclaspedtogetherononeknee;thefingerswerebluntandheavy,andtheknuckleswerelikewhiteknobsuponthebrownflesh.

Hesaidatlast,heavilyandslowly,"InmanywaysIamanignorantman;itis

Iwhoamfoolish,notyou.IhavenotcometoseeyoubecauseIthought--IfeltthatIwasbecominganuisance.Maybethatwasnottrue."

"No,"shesaid."No,itwasn'ttrue."Still not looking at her, he continued, "And I didn'twant to cause you the

discomfort of having to deal with--with my feelings for you, which, I knew,soonerorlater,wouldbecomeobviousifIkeptseeingyou."

Shedidnotmove;twotearswelledoverherlashesandrandownhercheeks;shedidnotbrushthemaway.

"I was perhaps selfish. I felt that nothing could come of this exceptawkwardnessforyouandunhappinessforme.Youknowmy--circumstances.Itseemed tome impossible that you could--that you could feel forme anythingbut--"

"Shut up," she said softly, fiercely. "Oh,my dear, shut up and come overhere."

He found himself trembling; as awkwardly as a boy he went around thecoffee table and sat beside her. Tentatively, clumsily, their hands went out toeachother;theyclaspedeachotherinanawkward,strainedembrace;andforalongtimetheysattogetherwithoutmoving,asifanymovementmightletescapefromthemthestrangeandterriblethingthattheyheldbetweentheminasinglegrasp.

Her eyes, that he had thought to be a dark brown or black, were a deepviolet.Sometimestheycaughtthedimlightofalampintheroomandglitteredmoistly;hecould turnhisheadonewayandanother,and theeyesbeneathhisgazewouldchangecolor ashemoved, so that it seemed, even in repose, theywereneverstill.Herflesh, thathadatadistanceseemedsocoolandpale,hadbeneath it a warm ruddy undertone like light flowing beneath a milkytranslucence. And like the translucent flesh, the calm and poise and reservewhichhehadthoughtwereherself,maskedawarmthandplayfulnessandhumorwhoseintensitywasmadepossiblebytheappearancethatdisguisedthem.

In his forty-third yearWilliam Stoner learnedwhat others,much younger,hadlearnedbeforehim: that thepersononelovesatfirst isnot thepersononelovesatlast,andthatloveisnotanendbutaprocessthroughwhichonepersonattemptstoknowanother.

Theywerebothveryshy,andtheykneweachotherslowly,tentatively;theycame close and drew apart, they touched and withdrew, neither wishing toimposeupontheothermorethanmightbewelcomed.Daybydaythelayersofreserve that protected themdropped away, so that at last theywere likemanywhoareextraordinarily shy, eachopen to theother,unprotected,perfectlyandunselfconsciouslyatease.

Nearly every afternoon, when his classes were over, he came to herapartment.Theymadelove,andtalked,andmadeloveagain,likechildrenwhodidnotthinkoftiringattheirplay.Thespringdayslengthened,andtheylookedforwardtothesummer.

XIIIInhisextremeyouthStonerhadthoughtofloveasanabsolutestateofbeing

to which, if one were lucky, one might find access; in his maturity he haddecided itwas theheavenof a false religion, towardwhichoneought togazewith an amused disbelief, a gently familiar contempt, and an embarrassednostalgia.Nowinhismiddleagehebegantoknowthatitwasneitherastateofgracenoranillusion;hesawitasahumanactofbecoming,aconditionthatwasinventedandmodifiedmomentbymomentanddaybyday,bythewillandtheintelligenceandtheheart.

Thehoursthatheoncehadspentinhisofficegazingoutofthewindowuponalandscapethatshimmeredandemptiedbeforehisblankregard,henowspentwithKatherine.Everymorning,early,hewenttohisofficeandsatrestlesslyfortenorfifteenminutes;then,unabletoachieverepose,hewanderedoutofJesseHallandacrosscampustothelibrary,wherehebrowsedinthestacksfortenorfifteenminutesmore.Andatlast,asifitwereagameheplayedwithhimself,hedeliveredhimselffromhisself-imposedsuspense,slippedoutasidedoorofthelibrary,andmadehiswaytothehousewhereKatherinelived.

Sheoftenworked late into thenight,andsomemorningswhenhecame toherapartmenthefoundherjustawakened,warmandsensualwithsleep,nakedbeneath the dark blue robe she had thrown on to come to the door. On suchmornings theyoftenmade lovealmostbefore they spoke,going to thenarrowbedthatwasstillrumpledandhotfromKatherine'ssleeping.

Herbodywaslonganddelicateandsoftlyfierce;andwhenhetouchedithisawkwardhandseemedtocomealiveabovethatflesh.Sometimeshelookedatherbodyasifitwereasturdytreasureputinhiskeeping;helethisbluntfingersplay upon themoist, faintly pink skin of thigh and belly andmarveled at theintricatelysimpledelicacyofhersmall firmbreasts. Itoccurred tohimthathehadneverbeforeknownthebodyofanother;anditoccurredtohimfurtherthatthatwasthereasonhehadalwayssomehowseparatedtheselfofanotherfromthebody that carried that self around.And it occurred tohimat last,with thefinalityofknowledge, thathehadneverknownanotherhumanbeingwithanyintimacyortrustorwiththehumanwarmthofcommitment.

Like all lovers, they spoke much of themselves, as if they might therebyunderstandtheworldwhichmadethempossible.

"MyGod,howIusedtolustafteryou,"Katherinesaidonce."Iusedtoseeyoustanding there in frontof theclass, sobigand lovelyandawkward,and Iusedtolustafteryousomethingfierce.Youneverknew,didyou?"

"No,"Williamsaid."Ithoughtyouwereaveryproperyounglady."She laughed delightedly. "Proper, indeed!" She sobered a little and smiled

reminiscently. "I suppose I thought I was too. Oh, how proper we seem toourselveswhenwehavenoreasontobeimproper!Ittakesbeinginlovetoknowsomethingaboutyourself.Sometimes,withyou,Ifeelliketheslutoftheworld,theeager,faithfulslutoftheworld.Doesthatseempropertoyou?"

"No,"Williamsaid,smiling,andreachedoutforher."Comehere."Shehadhadonelover,Williamlearned;ithadbeenduringhersenioryearin

college,andithadendedbadly,withtearsandrecriminationsandbetrayals."Mostaffairsendbadly,"shesaid,andforamomentbothweresomber.Williamwasshockedtodiscoverhissurprisewhenhelearnedthatshehad

hadaloverbeforehim;herealizedthathehadstartedtothinkofthemselvesasneverreallyhavingexistedbeforetheycametogether.

"Hewassuchashyboy,"shesaid."Likeyou,Isuppose,insomeways;onlyhewasbitterandafraid,andIcouldneverlearnwhatabout.Heusedtowaitformeattheendofthedormwalk,underabigtree,becausehewastooshytocomeupwherethereweresomanypeople.Weusedtowalkmiles,outinthecountry,wheretherewasn'tachanceofourseeinganybody.Butwewereneverreally--together.Evenwhenwemadelove."

Stonercouldalmostseethisshadowyfigurewhohadnofaceandnoname;his shock turned to sadness, and he felt a generous pity for an unknown boywho, out of an obscure lost bitterness, had thrust away fromhimwhatStonernowpossessed.

Sometimes,inthesleepylazinessthatfollowedtheirlove-making,helayinwhatseemedtohimaslowandgentlefluxofsensationandunhurriedthought;and in that fluxhehardlyknewwhetherhespokealoudorwhetherhemerelyrecognizedthewordsthatsensationandthoughtfinallycameto.

He dreamed of perfections, of worlds in which they could always betogether, and half believed in the possibility ofwhat he dreamed. "What," hesaid, "would it be like if," andwent on to construct a possibility hardlymoreattractivethantheoneinwhichtheyexisted.Itwasanunspokenknowledgetheyboth had, that the possibilities they imagined and elaboratedwere gestures ofloveandacelebrationofthelifetheyhadtogethernow.

Thelifetheyhadtogetherwasonethatneitherofthemhadreallyimagined.They grew from passion to lust to a deep sensuality that renewed itself frommomenttomoment.

"Lustandlearning,"Katherineoncesaid."That'sreallyallthereis,isn'tit?"AnditseemedtoStonerthatthatwasexactlytrue,thatthatwasoneofthe

thingshehadlearned.For their life together that summerwasnotall love-makingand talk.They

learnedtobetogetherwithoutspeaking,andtheygotthehabitofrepose;Stoner

broughtbooks toKatherine'sapartmentand left them,until finally theyhad toinstallanextrabookcaseforthem.InthedaystheyspenttogetherStonerfoundhimself returning to the studies he had all but abandoned; and Katherinecontinuedtoworkonthebookthatwastobeherdissertation.Forhoursatatimeshewould sit at the tinydesk against thewall, her headbent down in intenseconcentrationoverbooksandpapers,herslenderpaleneckcurvingandflowingoutofthedarkbluerobeshehabituallywore;Stonersprawledinthechairorlayonthebedinlikeconcentration.

Sometimestheywouldlifttheireyesfromtheirstudies,smileateachother,andreturntotheirreading;sometimesStonerwouldlookupfromhisbookandlethisgazerestuponthegracefulcurveofKatherine'sbackandupontheslenderneckwherea tendrilofhairalways fell.Thenaslow,easydesirewouldcomeoverhimlikeacalm,andhewouldriseandstandbehindherand lethisarmsrest lightly on her shoulders. She would straighten and let her head go backagainsthischest,andhishandswouldgoforwardintothelooserobeandgentlytouchherbreasts.Thentheywouldmakelove,andliequietlyforawhile,andreturntotheirstudies,asiftheirloveandlearningwereoneprocess.

Thatwasoneof theodditiesofwhat theycalled "givenopinion" that theylearnedthatsummer.Theyhadbeenbroughtupinatraditionthattoldtheminone way or another that the life of the mind and the life of the senses wereseparate and, indeed, inimical; they had believed, without ever having reallythoughtaboutit,thatonehadtobechosenatsomeexpenseoftheother.Thattheone could intensify the other had never occurred to them; and since theembodimentcamebeforetherecognitionofthetruth,itseemedadiscoverythatbelongedtothemalone.Theybegantocollecttheseodditiesof"givenopinion,"andtheyhoardedthemasiftheyweretreasures;ithelpedtoisolatethemfromtheworldthatwouldgivethemtheseopinions,andithelpeddrawthemtogetherinasmallbutmovingway.

ButtherewasanotheroddityofwhichStonerbecameawareandofwhichhedid not speak toKatherine.Thatwas one that had to dowith his relationshipwithhiswifeanddaughter.

It was a relationship that, according to "given opinion," ought to haveworsenedsteadilyaswhatgivenopinionwoulddescribeashis"affair"wenton.But it did no such thing. On the contrary, it seemed steadily to improve. Hislengtheningabsencesawayfromwhathestillhadtocallhis"home"seemedtobringhimclosertobothEdithandGracethanhehadbeeninyears.HebegantohaveforEdithacuriousfriendliness thatwasclose toaffection,and theyeventalkedtogether,nowandthen,ofnothinginparticular.Duringthatsummersheeven cleaned the glassed-in sun porch, had repaired the damage done by the

weather,andputadaybedthere,sothathenolongerhadtosleepontheliving-roomcouch.

AndsometimesonweekendsshemadecallsuponneighborsandleftGracealonewithherfather.OccasionallyEdithwasawaylongenoughforhimtotakewalks in the country with his daughter. Away from the house Grace's hard,watchful reserve dropped away, and at times she smiledwith a quietness andcharmthatStonerhadalmostforgotten.Shehadgrownrapidlyin the lastyearandwasverythin.

OnlybyaneffortofthewillcouldheremindhimselfthathewasdeceivingEdith.Thetwopartsofhislifewereasseparateasthetwopartsofalifecanbe;andthoughheknewthathispowersofintrospectionwereweakandthathewascapableofself-deception,hecouldnotmakehimselfbelievethathewasdoingharmtoanyoneforwhomhefeltresponsibility.

Hehadnotalentfordissimulation,nordiditoccurtohimtodissemblehisaffairwithKatherineDriscoll;neitherdiditoccurtohimtodisplayitforanyonetosee.Itdidnotseempossibletohimthatanyoneontheoutsidemightbeawareoftheiraffair,orevenbeinterestedinit.

Itwas,therefore,adeepyetimpersonalshockwhenhediscovered,attheendofthesummer,thatEdithknewsomethingoftheaffairandthatshehadknownofitalmostfromthebeginning.

She spoke of it casually onemorningwhile he lingered over his breakfastcoffee, chatting with Grace. Edith spoke a little sharply, told Grace to stopdawdlingoverherbreakfast, that shehadanhourofpianopracticebeforeshecould waste any time.William watched the thin, erect figure of his daughterwalkoutofthediningroomandwaitedabsentlyuntilheheardthefirstresonanttonescomingfromtheoldpiano.

"Well," Edith saidwith some of the sharpness still in her voice, "you're alittlelatethismorning,aren'tyou?"

Williamturned toherquestioningly; theabsentexpressionremainedonhisface.

Edithsaid,"Won'tyourlittleco-edbeangryifyoukeepherwaiting?"Hefeltanumbnesscometohislips."What?"heasked."What'sthat?""Oh, Willy," Edith said and laughed indulgently. "Did you think I didn't

know about your--little flirtation? Why, I've known it all along. What's hername?Iheardit,butI'veforgottenwhatitis."

In its shock and confusion his mind grasped but one word; and when hespokehisvoicesoundedtohimpetulantlyannoyed."Youdon'tunderstand,"hesaid."There'sno--flirtation,asyoucallit.It's--"

"Oh,Willy,"shesaidandlaughedagain."Youlooksoflustered.Oh,Iknow

allabout these things.Amanyourageandall. It'snatural, I suppose.At leasttheysayitis."

Foramomenthewassilent.Thenreluctantlyhesaid,"Edith,ifyouwanttotalkaboutthis--"

"No!"shesaid; therewasanedgeof fear inhervoice. "There'snothing totalkabout.Nothingatall."

And they did not then or thereafter talk about it. Most of the time Edithmaintainedtheconventionthatitwashisworkthatkepthimawayfromhome;butoccasionally,andalmostabsently,shespoketheknowledgethatwasalwayssomewherewithin her. Sometimes she spoke playfully, with something like ateasing affection; sometimes she spokewithno feeling at all, as if itwere themost casual topic of conversation she could imagine; sometimes she spokepetulantly,asifsometrivialityhadannoyedher.

She said, "Oh, I know. Once a man gets in his forties. But really,Willy,you'reoldenoughtobeherfather,aren'tyou?"

Ithadnotoccurredtohimhowhemustappeartoanoutsider,totheworld.Foramomenthesawhimselfashemustthusappear;andwhatEdithsaidwaspartofwhathesaw.Hehadaglimpseofafigurethatflittedthroughsmoking-roomanecdotes,andthroughthepagesofcheapfiction--apitiablefellowgoinginto his middle age, misunderstood by his wife, seeking to renew his youth,taking up with a girl years younger than himself, awkwardly and apishlyreaching for the youth he could not have, a fatuous, garishly got-up clown atwhomtheworldlaughedoutofdiscomfort,pity,andcontempt.Helookedatthisfigure as closely as he could; but the longer he looked, the less familiar itbecame.Itwasnothimselfthathesaw,andheknewsuddenlythatitwasnoone.

Butheknewthattheworldwascreepinguponhim,uponKatherine,anduponthelittlenicheofitthattheyhadthoughtwastheirown;andhewatchedtheapproachwithasadnessofwhichhecouldnotspeak,eventoKatherine.

The fall semester began that September in an intensely colorful Indiansummer that came after an early frost. Stoner returned to his classes with aneagerness that he had not felt for a long time; even the prospect of facing ahundredfreshmanfacesdidnotdimtherenewalofhisenergy.

His lifewithKatherine continuedmuch as it had been before, except thatwith the return of the students and many of the faculty he began to find itnecessary to practice circumspection.During the summer theoldhousewhereKatherinelivedhadbeenalmostdeserted;theyhadbeenablethustobetogetherin almost complete isolation, with no fear that they might be noticed. NowWilliamhadtoexercisecautionwhenhecametoherplaceintheafternoon;hefoundhimself lookingupanddownthestreetbeforeheapproachedthehouse,

and going furtively down the stairs to the little well that opened into herapartment.

They thought of gestures and talked of rebellion; they told each other thattheyweretemptedtodosomethingoutrageous,tomakeadisplay.Buttheydidnot,andtheyhadnorealdesiretodoso.Theywantedonlytobeleftalone,tobethemselves;and,wantingthis,theyknewtheywouldnotbeleftaloneandtheysuspected that they could not be themselves. They imagined themselves to bediscreet, and it hardly occurred to them that their affair would be suspected.Theymadeapointofnotencounteringeachotherat theUniversity,andwhentheycouldnotavoidmeetingpublicly,theygreetedeachotherwithaformalitywhoseironytheydidnotbelievetobeevident.

But the affairwas known, and known very quickly after the fall semesterbegan.Itwaslikelythatthediscoverycameoutofthepeculiarclairvoyancethatpeoplehaveaboutsuchmatters;forneitherofthemhadgivenanoutwardsignoftheirprivatelives.Orperhapssomeonehadmadeanidlespeculationthathadaringoftruthtosomeoneelse,whichcausedacloserregardofthemboth,whichinturn...Theirspeculationswere,theyknew,tonoend;buttheycontinuedtomakethem.

There were signs by which both knew that they were discovered. Once,walking behind two male graduate students, Stoner heard one say, half inadmirationandhalfincontempt,"OldStoner.ByGod,whowouldhavebelievedit?"--andsawthemshaketheirheadsinmockeryandpuzzlementoverthehumancondition.Acquaintances ofKatherinemade oblique references to Stoner andofferedherconfidencesabouttheirownlove-livesthatshehadnotinvited.

Whatsurprisedthembothwasthatitdidnotseemtomatter.Noonerefusedtospeaktothem;noonegavethemblacklooks;theywerenotmadetosufferbytheworldtheyhadfeared.Theybegantobelievethattheycouldliveintheplacetheyhad thought tobe inimical to their love,and live therewithsomedignityandease.

OvertheChristmasholidayEdithdecidedtotakeGraceforavisitwithhermotherinSt.Louis;andfortheonlytimeduringtheirlifetogetherWilliamandKatherinewereabletobewitheachotherforanextendedperiod.

Separatelyandcasually,bothletitbeknownthattheywouldbeawayfromtheUniversityduringtheChristmasholiday;Katherinewas tovisit relatives intheEast,andWilliamwastoworkatthebibliographicalcenterandmuseuminKansasCity.Atdifferenthourstheytookseparatebuses,andmetatLakeOzark,aresortvillageintheoutlyingmountainsofthegreatOzarkrange.

Theyweretheonlyguestsoftheonlylodgeinthevillagethatremainedopentheyeararound;andtheyhadtendaystogether.

Therehadbeenaheavysnowthreedaysbeforetheirarrival,andduringtheirstayitsnowedagain,sothatthegentlyrollinghillsremainedwhiteallthetimetheywerethere.

Theyhadacabinwithabedroom,asittingroom,andasmallkitchen;itwassomewhatremovedfromtheothercabins,anditoverlookedalakethatremainedfrozenduringthewintermonths.Inthemorningtheyawoketofindthemselvestwined together, their bodies warm and luxuriant beneath the heavy blankets.Theypokedtheirheadsoutoftheblanketsandwatchedtheirbreathcondenseingreatcloudsinthecoldair;theylaughedlikechildrenandpulledthecoversbackovertheirheadsandpressedthemselvesmorecloselytogether.Sometimestheymadeloveandstayedinbedallmorningandtalked,untilthesuncamethroughaneastwindow;sometimesStonersprangoutofbedassoonastheywereawakeandpulledthecoversfromKatherine'snakedbodyandlaughedatherscreamsashekindledafireinthegreatfireplace.Thentheyhuddledtogetherbeforethefireplace, with only a blanket around them, and waited to be warmed by thegrowingfireandthenaturalwarmthoftheirownbodies.

Despite the cold, they walked nearly every day in the woods. The greatpines,greenish-blackagainstthesnow,rearedupmassivelytowardthepale-bluecloudlesssky;theoccasionalslitherandplopofamassofsnowfromoneofthebranchesintensifiedthesilencearoundthem,astheoccasionalchatterofalonebird intensified the isolation inwhich theywalked.Once they sawadeer thathad come down from the higher mountains in search of food. It was a doe,brilliantly yellow-tan against the starkness of dark pine andwhite snow.Nowfiftyyardsawayitfacedthem,oneforepawlifteddelicatelyabovethesnow,thesmallearspitchedforward,thebrowneyesperfectlyroundandincrediblysoft.Noonemoved.Thedoe's delicate face tilted, as if regarding themwithpoliteinquiry;then,unhurriedly,itturnedandwalkedawayfromthem,liftingitsfeetdaintily out of the snow and placing them precisely, with a tiny sound ofcrunching.

Intheafternoontheywenttothemainofficeofthelodge,whichalsoservedasthevillage'sgeneralstoreandrestaurant.Theyhadcoffeethereandtalkedtowhoeverhaddropped inandperhapspickedupa few things for their eveningmeal,whichtheyalwaystookintheircabin.

Intheeveningtheysometimeslightedtheoillampandread;butmoreoftentheysaton foldedblankets in frontof the fireplaceand talkedandwere silentandwatched the flamesplay intricatelyupon the logsandwatched theplayoffirelightuponeachother'sfaces.

One evening, near the end of the time they had together, Katherine saidquietly,almostabsently,"Bill,ifweneverhaveanythingelse,wewillhavehad

thisweek.Doesthatsoundlikeagirlishthingtosay?""Itdoesn'tmatterwhatitsoundslike,"Stonersaid.Henodded."It'strue.""ThenI'llsayit,"Katherinesaid."Wewillhavehadthisweek."On their lastmorningKatherine straightened the furniture and cleaned the

placewithslowcare.Shetookofftheweddingbandshehadwornandwedgeditinacrevicebetweenthewallandthefireplace.Shesmiledself-consciously."Iwanted,"shesaid,"toleavesomethingofourownhere;somethingIknewwouldstayhere,aslongasthisplacestays.Maybeit'ssilly."

Stoner could not answer her.He took her arm and theywalked out of thecabin and trudged through the snow to the lodge office,where the buswouldpickthemupandtakethembacktoColumbia.

OnanafternoonlateinFebruary,afewdaysafter thesecondsemesterhadbegun,Stoner receivedacall fromGordonFinch's secretary; she toldhim thatthe dean would like to talk with him and asked if he would drop by thatafternoonorthenextmorning.Stonertoldherthathewould--andsatforseveralminuteswithonehandonthephoneafterhavinghungup.ThenhesighedandnoddedtohimselfandwentdownstairstoFinch'soffice.

Gordon Finch was in his shirt sleeves, his tie was loosened, and he wasleaningbackinhisswivelchairwithhishandsclaspedbehindhishead.WhenStoner came into the room he nodded genially andwaved toward the leather-coveredeasychairsetatananglebesidehisdesk.

"Takealoadoff,Bill.Howhaveyoubeen?"Stonernodded."Allright.""Classeskeepingyoubusy?"Stonersaiddryly,"Reasonablyso.Ihaveafullschedule.""Iknow,"Finchsaidandshookhishead."Ican'tinterferethere,youknow.

Butit'sadamnedshame.""It'sallright,"Stonersaidabitimpatiently."Well."Finchstraightenedinhischairandclaspedhishandsonthedeskin

frontofhim."There'snothingofficialaboutthisvisit,Bill.Ijustwantedtochatwithyouforawhile."

Therewasalongsilence.Stonersaidgently,"Whatisit,Gordon?"Finchsighed,andthensaidabruptly,"Okay.I'mtalkingtoyourightnowasa

friend. There's been talk. It isn't anything that, as a dean, I have to pay anyattention toyet, but--well, sometime Imight have to pay attention to it, and IthoughtIoughttospeaktoyou--asafriend,mindyou--beforeanythingseriousdevelops."

Stonernodded."Whatkindoftalk?""Oh,hell,Bill.YouandtheDriscollgirl.Youknow."

"Yes,"Stonersaid."Iknow.Ijustwantedtoknowhowfarithasgone.""Notfaryet.Innuendos,remarks,thingslikethat.""Isee,"Stonersaid."Idon'tknowwhatIcandoaboutit."Finchcreasedasheetofpapercarefully."Isitserious,Bill?"Stonernoddedandlookedoutthewindow."It'sserious,I'mafraid.""Whatareyougoingtodo?""Idon'tknow."With sudden violence Finch crumpled the paper that he had so carefully

foldedandthrewitatawastebasket.Hesaid,"Intheory,yourlifeisyourowntolead.Intheory,yououghttobeabletoscrewanybodyyouwantto,doanythingyou want to, and it shouldn't matter so long as it doesn't interfere with yourteaching.Butdamnit,yourlifeisn'tyourowntolead.It's--oh,hell.YouknowwhatImean."

Stonersmiled."I'mafraidIdo.""It'sabadbusiness.WhataboutEdith?""Apparently," Stoner said, "she takes the whole thing a good deal less

seriouslythananyoneelse.Andit'safunnything,Gordon;Idon'tbelievewe'veevergotalonganybetterthanwehavethelastyear."

Finchlaughedshortly."Younevercantell,canyou?ButwhatImeantwas,willtherebeadivorce?Anythinglikethat?"

"Idon'tknow.Possibly.ButEdithwouldfightit.Itwouldbeamess.""WhataboutGrace?"A sudden pain caught at Stoner's throat, and he knew that his expression

showedwhathefelt."That's--somethingelse.Idon'tknow,Gordon."Finch said impersonally, as if they were discussing someone else, "You

might survive a divorce--if itweren't toomessy. Itwould be rough, but you'dprobablysurviveit.Andif this-- thingwith theDriscollgirlweren't serious, ifyou were just screwing around, well, that could be handled too. But you'restickingyourneckout,Bill;you'reaskingforit."

"IsupposeIam,"Stonersaid.There was a pause. "This is a hell of a job I have," Finch said heavily.

"SometimesIthinkI'mnotthemanforitatall."Stonersmiled."DaveMastersoncesaidyouweren'tabigenoughson-of-a-

bitchtobereallysuccessful.""Maybehewasright,"Finchsaid."ButIfeellikeoneoftenenough.""Don't worry about it, Gordon," Stoner said. "I understand your position.

AndifIcouldmakeiteasierforyouI--"Hepausedandshookhisheadsharply."ButIcan'tdoanythingrightnow.Itwillhavetowait.Somehow..."

Finchnodded anddid not look at Stoner; he stared at his desk top as if it

were a doom that approached himwith slow inevitability. Stonerwaited for afewmoments,andwhenFinchdidnotspeakhegotupquietlyandwentoutoftheoffice.

Because of his conversation with Gordon Finch, Stoner was late thatafternoon getting to Katherine's apartment. Without bothering to look up ordownthestreethewentdownthewalkandlethimselfin.Katherinewaswaitingfor him; she had not changed clothes, and shewaited almost formally, sittingerectandalertuponthecouch.

"You'relate,"shesaidflatly."Sorry,"hesaid."Igotheldup."Katherine litacigarette;herhandwas tremblingslightly.Shesurveyed the

matchforamoment,andblewitoutwithapuffofsmoke.Shesaid,"OneofmyfellowinstructorsmaderatherapointoftellingmethatDeanFinchcalledyouinthisafternoon."

"Yes,"Stonersaid."That'swhatheldmeup.""Wasitaboutus?"Stonernodded."Hehadheardafewthings.""I imagined that was it,"Katherine said. "My instructor friend seemed to

knowsomethingthatshedidn'twanttotell.Oh,Christ,Bill!""It's not like that at all," Stoner said. "Gordon is an old friend. I actually

believehewantstoprotectus.Ibelievehewillifhecan."Katherinedidnotspeakforseveralmoments.Shekickedoffhershoesand

laybackonthecouch,staringattheceiling.Shesaidcalmly,"Nowitbegins.Isupposeitwastoomuch,hopingthat theywouldleaveusalone.Isupposeweneverreallyseriouslythoughttheywould."

"Ifitgetstoobad,"Stonersaid,"wecangoaway.Wecandosomething.""Oh,Bill!"Katherinewaslaughingalittle,throatilyandsoftly.Shesatupon

thecouch."Youarethedearestlove,thedearest,dearestanyonecouldimagine.AndIwillnotletthembotherus.Iwillnot!"

Andforthenextseveralweekstheylivedmuchastheyhadbefore.Withastrategy that they would not have been able to manage a year earlier, with astrength they would not have known they had, they practiced evasions andwithdrawals,deployingtheirpowerslikeskillfulgeneralswhomustsurvivewithmeagerforces.Theybecamegenuinelycircumspectandcautious,andgotagrimpleasurefromtheirmaneuverings.Stonercametoherapartmentonlyafterdark,when no one could see him enter; in the daytime, between classes,Katherineallowedherselftobeseenatcoffeeshopswithyoungermaleinstructors;andthehourstheyspenttogetherwereintensifiedbytheircommondetermination.Theytold themselves and eachother that theywere closer than they ever hadbeen;

andtotheirsurprise,theyrealizedthatitwastrue,thatthewordstheyspoketocomfortthemselvesweremorethanconsolatory.Theymadeaclosenesspossibleandacommitmentinevitable.

Itwasaworldofhalf-lightinwhichtheylivedandtowhichtheybroughtthebetterpartsof themselves--so that,afterawhile, theouterworldwherepeoplewalkedandspoke,wheretherewaschangeandcontinualmovement,seemedtothemfalseandunreal.Theirlivesweresharplydividedbetweenthetwoworlds,anditseemedtothemnaturalthattheyshouldlivesodivided.

During the late winter and early spring months they found together aquietness they had not had before.As the outerworld closed upon them theybecamelessawareofitspresence;andtheirhappinesswassuchthattheyhadnoneedtospeakofittoeachother,oreventothinkofit.InKatherine'ssmall,dimapartment, hidden like a cave beneath themassive old house, they seemed tothemselves to move outside of time, in a timeless universe of their owndiscovery.

Then,onedayinlateApril,GordonFinchagaincalledStonerintohisoffice;andStonerwentdownwithanumbnessthatcamefromaknowledgehewouldnotadmit.

What had happened was classically simple, something that Stoner shouldhaveforeseenyethadnot.

"It'sLomax,"Finchsaid."Somehowtheson-of-a-bitchhasgotholdofitandhe'snotabouttoletgo."

Stonernodded."Ishouldhavethoughtofthat.Ishouldhaveexpectedit.DoyouthinkitwoulddoanygoodifItalkedtohim?"

Finchshookhishead,walkedacrosshisoffice,andstoodbeforethewindow.Earlyafternoonsunlightstreameduponhisface,whichgleamedwithsweat.Hesaid tiredly, "Youdon't understand,Bill.Lomax isn't playing it thatway.Yournamehasn'tevencomeup.He'sworkingthroughtheDriscollgirl."

"He'swhat?"Stoneraskedblankly."Youalmosthavetoadmirehim,"Finchsaid."Somehowheknewdamnwell

Iknewallaboutit.Sohecameinyesterday,off-hand,youknow,andtoldmehewasgoingtohavetofiretheDriscollgirlandwarnedmetheremightbeastink."

"No,"Stonersaid.Hishandsachedwhere theygripped the leatherarmsoftheeasychair.

Finch continued, "According to Lomax, there have been complaints, fromstudentsmostly,andafewtownspeople.Itseemsthatmenhavebeenseengoinginandoutofherapartmentatallhours--flagrantmisbehavior--thatsortofthing.Oh, he did it beautifully; he has no personal objection--he rather admires thegirl, as a matter of fact--but he has the reputation of the department and the

University to thinkof.Wecommiserateduponthenecessitiesofbowingto thedictatesofmiddle-classmorality,agreedthatthecommunityofscholarsoughttobe a haven for the rebel against the Protestant ethic, and concluded thatpracticallyspeakingwewerehelpless.Hesaidhehopedhecouldletitrideuntiltheendof thesemesterbutdoubtedifhecould.Andall the timetheson-of-a-bitchknewweunderstoodeachotherperfectly."

A tightness in his throat made it impossible for Stoner to speak. Heswallowedtwiceandtestedhisvoice;itwassteadyandflat."Whathewantsisperfectlyclear,ofcourse."

"I'mafraiditis,"Finchsaid."I knewhehatedme,"Stoner saiddistantly. "But I never realized--Inever

dreamedhewould--""NeitherdidI,"Finchsaid.Hewalkedbacktohisdeskandsatdownheavily.

"AndIcan'tdoa thing,Bill. I'mhelpless. IfLomaxwantscomplainers, they'llappear; if hewantswitnesses, theywill appear.Hehasquite a following, youknow.Andifwordevergetstothepresident--"Heshookhishead.

"WhatdoyouimaginewillhappenifIrefusetoresign?Ifwejustrefusetobescared?"

"He'll crucify the girl," Finch said flatly. "And as if by accident you'll bedraggedintoit.It'sveryneat."

"Then,"Stonersaid,"itappearsthereisnothingtobedone.""Bill,"Finchsaid,andthenwassilent.Herestedhisheadonhisclosedfists.

Hesaiddully,"Thereisachance.Thereisjustone.IthinkIcanholdhimoffifyou--iftheDriscollgirlwilljust--"

"No,"Stonersaid."Idon'tthinkIcandoit.Literally,Idon'tthinkIcandoit."

"Goddamnit!"Finch'svoicewasanguished."He'scountingonthat!Thinkforaminute.Whatwouldyoudo?It'sApril;almostMay;whatkindofjobcouldyougetthistimeofyear--ifyoucouldgetoneatall?"

"Idon'tknow,"Stonersaid."Something...""And what about Edith? Do you think she's going to give in, give you a

divorcewithoutafight?AndGrace?Whatwoulditdotoher,inthistown,ifyoujusttookoff?AndKatherine?Whatkindoflifewouldyouhave?Whatwoulditdotobothofyou?"

Stonerdidnot speak.Anemptinesswasbeginningsomewherewithinhim;hefeltawithering,afallingaway.Hesaidatlast,"Canyougivemeaweek?--I'vegottothink.Aweek?"

Finchnodded."Icanholdhimoffthatlongatleast.Butnotmuchlonger.I'msorry,Bill.Youknowthat."

"Yes."Hegotupfromthechairandstoodforamoment, testing theheavynumbnessofhislegs."I'llletyouknow.I'llletyouknowwhenIcan."

Hewentoutoftheofficeintothedarknessofthelongcorridorandwalkedheavilyintothesunlight,intotheopenworldthatwaslikeaprisonwhereverheturned.

Yearsafterward,atoddmoments,hewouldlookbackuponthosedaysthatfollowedhisconversationwithGordonFinchandwouldbeunabletorecallthemwithanyclarityatall.Itwasasifhewereadeadmananimatedbynothingmorethan a habit of stubborn will. Yet he was oddly aware of himself and of theplaces, persons, and eventswhichmoved past him in these few days; and heknew that he presented to the public regard an appearance which belied hiscondition. He taught his classes, he greeted his colleagues, he attended themeetings he had to attend--and no one of the people hemet from day to dayknewthatanythingwaswrong.

But from the moment he walked out of Gordon Finch's office, he knew,somewherewithinthenumbnessthatgrewfromasmallcenterofhisbeing,thata part of his lifewasover, that a part of himwas sonear death that he couldwatchtheapproachalmostwithcalm.Hewasvaguelyconsciousthathewalkedacross the campus in the bright crisp heat of an early spring afternoon; thedogwoodtreesalongthesidewalksandinthefrontyardswereinfullbloom,andthey trembled like soft clouds, translucent and tenuous, before his gaze; thesweetscentofdyinglilacblossomsdrenchedtheair.

Andwhenhegot toKatherine's apartmenthewas feverishly andcallouslygay.Hebrushedasideherquestionsabouthislatestencounterwiththedean;heforced her to laugh; and he watched with an immeasurable sadness their lasteffortofgaiety,whichwaslikeadancethatlifemakesuponthebodyofdeath.

Butfinallytheyhadtotalk,heknew;thoughthewordstheysaidwerelikeaperformanceofsomethingtheyhadrehearsedagainandagainintheprivaciesoftheir knowledge. They revealed that knowledge by grammatical usage: theyprogressedfromtheperfect--"Wehavebeenhappy,haven'twe?"--to thepast--"Wewerehappy--happierthananyone,Ithink"--andatlastcametothenecessityofdiscourse.

Several days after the conversationwith Finch, in amoment of quiet thatinterrupted the half-hysterical gaiety they had chosen as that conventionmostappropriate to see them through their last days together,Katherine said, "Wedon'thavemuchtime,dowe?"

"No,"Stonersaidquietly."Howmuchlonger?"Katherineasked."Afewdays,twoorthree."

Katherinenodded."Iused to think Iwouldn'tbeable toendure it.But I'mjustnumb.Idon'tfeelanything."

"Iknow,"Stoner said.Theywere silent for amoment. "Youknow if therewereanything--anythingIcoulddo,I'd--"

"Don't,"shesaid."OfcourseIknow."Heleanedbackonthecouchandlookedatthelow,dimceilingthathadbeen

theskyoftheirworld.Hesaidcalmly,"IfIthrewitallaway--ifIgaveitup,justwalkedout--youwouldgowithme,wouldn'tyou?"

"Yes,"shesaid."ButyouknowIwon'tdothat,don'tyou?""Yes,Iknow.""Because then," Stoner explained to himself, "none of it would mean

anything--nothing we have done, nothing we have been. I almost certainlywouldn'tbeabletoteach,andyou--youwouldbecomesomethingelse.Webothwouldbecomesomethingelse,somethingother thanourselves.Wewouldbe--nothing."

"Nothing,"shesaid."Andwehavecomeoutof this, at least,withourselves.Weknow thatwe

are--whatweare.""Yes,"Katherinesaid."Because in the longrun,"Stonersaid,"it isn'tEdithorevenGrace,or the

certaintyof losingGrace, thatkeepsmehere; it isn't thescandalor thehurt toyouorme;itisn'tthehardshipwewouldhavetogothrough,oreventhelossoflovewemighthavetoface.It'ssimplythedestructionofourselves,ofwhatwedo."

"Iknow,"Katherinesaid."Soweareoftheworld,afterall;weshouldhaveknownthat.Wedidknow

it,Ibelieve;butwehadtowithdrawalittle,pretendalittle,sothatwecould--""Iknow,"Katherine said. "I've known it all along, I guess. Evenwith the

pretending,I'veknownthatsometime,sometime,wewould...I'veknown."Shehaltedandlookedathimsteadily.Hereyesbecamesuddenlybrightwithtears."Butdamnitall,Bill!Damnitall!"

Theysaidnomore.Theyembracedsothatneithermightseetheother'sface,andmadelovesothat theywouldnotspeak.Theycoupledwiththeoldtendersensualityofknowingeachotherwellandwiththenewintensepassionofloss.Afterward, in theblacknightof the little room, they laystillunspeaking, theirbodiestouchinglightly.AfteralongwhileKatherine'sbreathcamesteadily,asifin sleep. Stoner got up quietly, dressed in the dark, andwent out of the roomwithoutawakeningher.Hewalkedthestill,emptystreetsofColumbiauntilthe

firstgraylightbeganintheeast;thenhemadehiswaytotheUniversitycampus.Hesaton thestonesteps infrontofJesseHallandwatched the light fromtheeastcreepuponthegreatstonecolumnsinthecenterofthequad.Hethoughtofthefirethat,beforehewasborn,hadguttedandruinedtheoldbuilding;andhewasdistantlysaddenedbytheviewofwhatremained.Whenitwaslighthelethimselfintothehallandwenttohisoffice,wherehewaiteduntilhisfirstclassbegan.

Hedidn'tseeKatherineDriscollagain.Afterhelefther,duringthenight,shegot up, packed all her belongings, cartoned her books, and leftwordwith themanager of the apartment housewhere to send them. Shemailed the Englishofficehergrades,herinstructionstodismissherclassesfortheweekandahalfthatremainedofthesemester,andherresignation.Andshewasonthetrain,onherwayoutofColumbia,bytwoo'clockthatafternoon.

Shemusthavebeenplanningherdeparture forsome time,Stoner realized;andhewasgratefulthathehadnotknownandthatshelefthimnofinalnotetosaywhatcouldnotbesaid.

XIVThatsummerhedidnotteach;andhehadthefirstillnessofhislife.Itwasa

fever of high intensity and obscure origin, which lasted only a week; but itdrainedhimofhisstrength,hebecameverygaunt,andsufferedinitsaftermathapartiallossofhearing.Fortheentiresummerhewassoweakandlistlessthathecouldwalkonlyafewstepswithoutbecomingexhausted;hespentnearlyallthattimeinthesmallenclosedporchatthebackofthehouse,lyingonthedaybedorsittingintheoldeasychairhehadhadbroughtupfromthebasement.Hestaredoutthewindowsorattheslattedceiling,andstirredhimselfnowandthentogointothekitchentogetabiteoffood.

HehadhardlytheenergytoconversewithEdithorevenwithGrace--thoughsometimesEdithcameintothebackroom,spoketohimdistractedlyforafewminutes,andthenlefthimaloneasabruptlyasshehadintrudeduponhim.

Once,inthemiddleofsummer,shespokeofKatherine."I justheard,adayorsoago,"shesaid."Soyour littlecoedhasgone,has

she?"Withanefforthebroughthisattentionawayfromthewindowandturnedto

Edith."Yes,"hesaidmildly."Whatwashername?"Edithasked."Inevercanrememberhername.""Katherine,"hesaid."KatherineDriscoll.""Oh,yes,"Edithsaid."KatherineDriscoll.Well,yousee?Itoldyou,didn'tI?

Itoldyouthesethingsweren'timportant."He nodded absently. Outside, in the old elm that crowded the back-yard

fence,alargeblack-and-whitebird--amagpie--hadstartedtochatter.Helistenedtothesoundofitscallingandwatchedwithremotefascinationtheopenbeakasitstrainedoutitslonelycry.

Heagedrapidlythatsummer,sothatwhenhewentbacktohisclassesinthefalltherewerefewwhodidnotrecognizehimwithastartofsurprise.Hisface,gonegauntandbony,wasdeeply lined;heavypatchesofgray ran throughhishair;andhewasheavilystooped,asifhecarriedaninvisibleburden.Hisvoicehadgrownalittlegratingandabrupt,andhehadatendencytostareatonewithhisheadlowered,sothathiscleargrayeyesweresharpandquerulousbeneathhis tangled eyebrows.He seldom spoke to anyone except his students, and herespondedtoquestionsandgreetingsalwaysimpatientlyandsometimesharshly.

He did his work with a doggedness and resolve that amused his oldercolleagues andenraged theyounger instructors,who, likehimself, taughtonlyfreshmancomposition;hespenthoursmarkingandcorrectingfreshmanthemes,hehadstudentconferenceseveryday,andheattendedfaithfullyalldepartmentalmeetings.Hedidnot speakoftenat thesemeetings,butwhenhedidhespoke

without tact or diplomacy, so that among his colleagues he developed areputation for crustiness and ill temper. But with his young students he wasgentle and patient, though he demanded of them more work than they werewillingtogive,withanimpersonalfirmnessthatwashardformanyofthemtounderstand.

Itwasacommonplaceamonghiscolleagues--especiallytheyoungerones--that he was a "dedicated" teacher, a term they used half in envy and half incontempt, onewhose dedication blinded him to anything thatwent on outsidethe classroom or, at themost, outside the halls of theUniversity. Thereweremild jokes: after a departmental meeting at which Stoner had spoken bluntlyabout some recent experiments in the teachingofgrammar, ayoung instructorremarkedthat"ToStoner,copulationisrestrictedtoverbs,"andwassurprisedatthe quality of laughter andmeaningful looks exchanged by some of the oldermen.Someone else once said, "OldStoner thinks thatWPA stands forWrongPronounAntecedent,"andwasgratifiedtolearnthathiswitticismgainedsomecurrency.

ButWilliam Stoner knew of the world in a way that few of his youngercolleagues could understand. Deep in him, beneath his memory, was theknowledgeofhardshipandhungerandenduranceandpain.Thoughheseldomthought of his early years on the Booneville farm, there was always near hisconsciousnessthebloodknowledgeofhisinheritance,givenhimbyforefatherswhoseliveswereobscureandhardandstoicalandwhosecommonethicwastopresent to an oppressive world faces that were expressionless and hard andbleak.

Andthoughhelookeduponthemwithapparentimpassivity,hewasawareofthetimesinwhichhelived.Duringthatdecadewhenmanymen'sfacesfoundapermanent hardness and bleakness, as if they looked upon an abyss,WilliamStoner,towhomthatexpressionwasasfamiliarastheairhewalkedin,sawthesignsofageneraldespairhehadknownsincehewasaboy.Hesawgoodmengodownintoaslowdeclineofhopelessness,brokenastheirvisionofadecentlife was broken; he saw them walking aimlessly upon the streets, their eyesemptylikeshardsofbrokenglass;hesawthemwalkuptobackdoors,withthebitterprideofmenwhogototheirexecutions,andbegforthebreadthatwouldallowthemtobegagain;andhesawmen,whohadoncewalkederect in theirownidentities,lookathimwithenvyandhatredforthepoorsecurityheenjoyedasatenuredemployeeofaninstitutionthatsomehowcouldnotfail.Hedidnotgivevoicetothisawareness;buttheknowledgeofcommonmiserytouchedhimand changed him inways thatwere hidden deep from the public view, and aquietsadnessfor thecommonplightwasneverfarbeneathanymomentofhis

living.Hewasaware,too,ofthestirringsinEuropelikeadistantnightmare;andin

July 1936, when Franco rebelled against the Spanish government and Hitlerfannedthatrebellionintoamajorwar,Stoner,likemanyothers,wassickenedbythevisionofthenightmarebreakingoutofthedreamintotheworld.Whenthefall semester began that year the younger instructors could talk of little else;several of them proclaimed their intention of joining a volunteer unit andfightingfortheloyalistsordrivingambulances.Bythecloseofthefirstsemestera few of them had actually taken the step and submitted hasty resignations.StonerthoughtofDaveMasters,andtheoldlosswasbroughtbacktohimwitharenewed intensity; he thought, too, of Archer Sloane and remembered, fromnearly twenty years before, the slow anguish that had grown upon that ironicface and the erosive despair that had dissipated that hard self--and he thoughtthatheknewnow,inasmallway,somethingofthesenseofwastethatSloanehadapprehended.Heforesawtheyearsthatstretchedahead,andknewthattheworstwastocome.

AsArcherSloanehaddone,herealizedthefutilityandwasteofcommittingone'sselfwhollytotheirrationalanddarkforcesthatimpelledtheworldtowardits unknown end; as Archer Sloane had not done, Stoner withdrew a littledistance to pity and love, so that he was not caught in the rushing that heobserved.Andasinothermomentsofcrisisanddespair,helookedagaintothecautious faith that was embodied in the institution of the University. He toldhimselfthatitwasnotmuch;butheknewthatitwasallhehad.

In the summer of 1937 he felt a renewal of the old passion for study andlearning;andwith thecuriousanddisembodiedvigorof thescholar that is thecondition of neither youth nor age, he returned to the only life that had notbetrayedhim.Hediscoveredthathehadnotgonefarfromthatlifeeveninhisdespair.

His schedule that fall was particularly bad. His four classes of freshmancompositionwerespacedatwidelyseparatedhourssixdaysaweek.Duringallhis years as chairman, Lomax had not once failed to give Stoner a teachingschedulethateventhenewestinstructorwouldhaveacceptedwithbadgrace.

Onthefirstclassdayofthatacademicyear,intheearlymorning,Stonersatinhisofficeandlookedagainathisneatlytypedschedule.Hehadbeenuplatethe night before reading a new study of the survival of themedieval traditionintotheRenaissance,andtheexcitementhehadfeltcarriedovertothemorning.Helookedathisschedule,andadullangerrosewithinhim.Hestaredatthewallinfrontofhimforseveralmoments,glancedathisscheduleagain,andnoddedtohimself.Hedroppedthescheduleandtheattachedsyllabusintoawastebasket

andwent to his filing cabinet in a comer of the room.He pulled out the topdrawer,lookedabsentlyatthebrownfoldersthere,andwithdrewone.Heflippedthroughthepapersinthefolder,whistlingsilentlyashedidso.Thenheclosedthedrawerandwiththefolderunderonearmwentoutofhisofficeandacrossthecampustohisfirstclass.

The building was an old one, with wooden floors, and it was used as aclassroomonlyinemergencies;theroomtowhichhehadbeenassignedwastoosmallforthenumberofstudentsenrolled,sothatseveraloftheboyshadtositonthewindow-sillsorstand.WhenStonercameintheylookedathimwiththediscomfort of uncertainty; he might be friend or foe, and they did not knowwhichwasworse.

Heapologizedtothestudentsfortheroom,madeasmalljokeattheexpenseoftheregistrar,andassuredthosewhowerestandingthattherewouldbechairsfor them tomorrow. Then he put his folder on the battered lectern that restedunevenlyonthedeskandsurveyedthefacesbeforehim.

Hehesitatedforamoment.Thenhesaid,"Thoseofyouwhohavepurchasedyourtextsforthiscoursemayreturnthemtothebookstoreandgetarefund.Weshall not be using the text described in the syllabus--which, I take it, you allreceived when you signed up for the course. Neither will we be using thesyllabus. I intend in this course to take a different approach to the subject, anapproachwhichwillnecessitateyourbuyingtwonewtexts."

Heturnedhisbacktothestudentsandpickedupapieceofchalkfromthetroughbeneath the scuffedblackboard;heheld thechalkpoised foramomentandlistenedtothemutedsighandrustleofthestudentsastheysettledat theirdesks,enduringtheroutinethatsuddenlybecamefamiliartothem.

Stonersaid,"Our textswillbe"--andheenunciated thewordsslowlyashewrote them down--"Medieval English Verse and Prose, edited by Loomis andWillard; and English Literary Criticism: The Medieval Phase, by J. W. H.Atkins."He turned to the class. "Youwill find that the bookstore has not yetreceivedthesebooks--itmaybeasmuchastwoweeksbeforetheyarein.Inthemeantime I will give you some background information upon the matter andpurposeofthiscourse,andIshallmakeafewlibraryassignmentstokeepyouoccupied."

He paused.Many of the students were bent over their desks, assiduouslynotingwhathesaid;afewwerelookingathimsteadily,withsmallsmilesthatwanted to be intelligent and understanding; and a fewwere staring at him inopenamazement.

"The primary matter of this course," Stoner said, "will be found in theLoomisandWillardanthology;weshallstudyexamplesofmedievalverseand

prose for three purposes--first, as literary works significant in themselves;second,asademonstrationofthebeginningsofliterarystyleandmethodintheEnglishtradition;andthird,asrhetoricalandgrammaticalsolutionstoproblemsofdiscoursethateventodaymaybeofsomepracticalvalueandapplication."

Bythistimenearlyallthestudentshadstoppedtakingnotesandhadraisedtheirheads;even the intelligentsmileshadbecomea triflestrained;anda fewhandswerewavingintheair.Stonerpointedtoonewhosehandremainedsteadyandhigh,atallyoungmanwithdarkhairandglasses.

"Sir,isthisGeneralEnglishOne,SectionFour?"Stonersmiledattheyoungman."Whatisyourname,please?"Theboyswallowed."Jessup,sir.FrankJessup."Stoner nodded. "Mr. Jessup.Yes,Mr. Jessup, this isGeneral EnglishOne,

Section Four; and my name is Stoner--facts which, no doubt, I should havementionedatthebeginningoftheperiod.Didyouhaveanotherquestion?"

Theboyswallowedagain."No,sir."Stonernoddedandlookedbenevolentlyaroundtheroom."Doesanyoneelse

haveaquestion?"Thefacesstaredbackathim;therewerenosmiles,andafewmouthshung

open."Verywell,"Stonersaid."Ishallcontinue.AsIsaidatthebeginningofthis

hour,onepurposeofthiscourseistostudycertainworksoftheperiodroughlybetween twelve and fifteen hundred.Certain accidents of historywill stand inourway; therewill be linguistic difficulties aswell as philosophical, social aswellasreligious,theoreticalaswellaspractical.Indeed,allofourpasteducationwill in some ways hinder us; for our habits of thinking about the nature ofexperiencehavedeterminedourownexpectations as radically as thehabits ofmedievalmandeterminedhis.As apreliminary, let us examine someof thosehabitsofmindunderwhichmedievalmanlivedandthoughtandwrote..."

Thatfirstmeetinghedidnotkeepthestudentsfortheentirehour.Afterlessthanhalf theperiodhebroughthispreliminarydiscussion toa closeandgavethemaweekendassignment.

"I should like for each of you to write a brief essay, no more than threepages, uponAristotle's conception of the topoi--or, in its rather crude Englishtranslation, topic. Youwill find an extended discussion of the 'topic' in BookTwo of The Rhetoric of Aristotle, and in Lane Cooper's edition there is anintroductory essay that youwill findmost helpful.The essaywill bedueon--Monday.Andthat,Ithink,willbeallfortoday."

Foramomentafterhedismissedtheclasshegazedatthestudents,whodidnotmove,withsomeconcern.Thenhenoddedbrieflytothemandwalkedoutof

theclassroom,thebrownfolderunderhisarm.On Monday fewer than half the students had finished their papers; he

dismissedthosewhohandedtheiressaysinandspent therestof thehourwiththe remaining students, rehearsing the subject he had assigned, going over itagainandagain,untilhewassuretheyhaditandcouldcompletetheassignedessaybyWednesday.

OnTuesdayhenoticedinthecorridorsofJesseHall,outsideLomax'soffice,a group of students; he recognized them asmembers of his first class. As hepassed,thestudentsturnedawayfromhimandlookedatthefloorortheceilingoratthedoorofLomax'soffice.Hesmiledtohimselfandwenttohisofficeandwaitedforthetelephonecallthatheknewwouldcome.

Itcameattwoo'clockthatafternoon.Hepickedupthephone,answered,andheard the voice of Lomax's secretary, icy and polite. "Professor Stoner?Professor Lomax would like you to see Professor Ehrhardt this afternoon, assoonaspossible.ProfessorEhrhardtwillbeexpectingyou."

"WillLomaxbethere?"Stonerasked.Therewas a shockedpause.Thevoice said uncertainly, "I --believenot--a

previousappointment.ButProfessorEhrhardtisempoweredto--""YoutellLomaxheoughttobethere.YoutellhimI'llbeinEhrhardtsoffice

intenminutes."Joel Ehrhardtwas a balding youngman in his early thirties.He had been

brought into the department three years before by Lomax; and when it wasdiscoveredthathewasapleasantandseriousyoungmanwithnospecialtalentand no gift for teaching, he had been put in charge of the freshman Englishprogram.Hisofficewasinasmallenclosureatthefarendofthelargecommonroomwhere twenty-odd young instructors had their desks, and Stoner had towalkthelengthoftheroomtogetthere.Ashemadehiswayamongthedesks,some of the instructors looked up at him, grinned openly, and watched hisprogressacross the room.Stoneropened thedoorwithoutknocking,went intotheoffice, andsatdown in thechairoppositeEhrhardt'sdesk.Lomaxwasnotthere.

"Youwantedtoseeme?"Stonerasked.Ehrhardt,whohadaveryfairskin,blushedslightly.Hefixedasmileonhis

face,saidenthusiastically,"It'sgoodofyoutodropby,Bill,"andfumbledforamomentwithamatch,tryingtolighthispipe.Itwouldn'tdrawproperly."Thisdamnedhumidity,"hesaidmorosely."Itkeepsthetobaccotoowet."

"Lomaxwon'tbehere,Itakeit,"Stonersaid."No,"Ehrhardtsaid,putting thepipeonhisdesk."Actually, though, itwas

Professor Lomax who asked me to talk to you, so in a way"--he laughed

nervously--"I'mreallysortofamessengerboy.""Whatmessagewereyouaskedtodeliver?"Stoneraskeddryly."Well, as I understand it, there have been a few complaints. Students--you

know."Heshookhisheadcommiseratingly."Someofthemseemtothink--well,theydon'treallyseemtounderstandwhat'sgoingoninyoureighto'clockclass.ProfessorLomaxthought--well,actually,Isupposehe'squestioningthewisdomofapproachingtheproblemsoffreshmancompositionthroughthe--thestudyof--"

"Medievallanguageandliterature,"Stonersaid."Yes,"Ehrhardtsaid."Actually,IthinkIunderstandwhatyou'retryingtodo-

-shock them a bit, shake them up, try a new approach, get them to thinking.Right?"

Stonernoddedgravely."Therehasbeenagreatdealoftalkinourfreshmancompmeetingslatelyaboutnewmethods,experimentation."

"Exactly," Ehrhardt said. "No one has more sympathy than I forexperimentation, for--butperhaps sometimes, outof theverybestmotives,wego too far."He laughedandshookhishead. "IcertainlyknowIdo; I'dbe thefirst to confess it. But I--or Professor Lomax--well, perhaps some sort ofcompromise,somepartialreturntothesyllabus,auseoftheassignedtexts--youunderstand."

Stoner pursed his lips and looked at the ceiling; resting his elbows on thearmsofthechair,heplacedthetipsofhisfingerstogetherandlethischinrestonhis thumb-tips. Finally, but decisively, he said, "No, I don't believe the--experiment--hashadafairchance.TellLomaxIintendtocarryitthroughtotheendofthesemester.Wouldyoudothatforme?"

Ehrhardts face was red. He said tightly, "I will. But I imagine--I'm sureProfessorLomaxwillbemost--disappointed.Mostdisappointedindeed."

Stonersaid,"Oh,atfirsthemaybe.Buthe'llgetoverit.I'msureProfessorLomax wouldn't want to interfere with the way a senior professor sees fit toteachoneofhisclasses.Hemaydisagreewith the judgmentof thatprofessor,butitwouldbemostunethicalforhimtoattempttoimposehisownjudgment--and,incidentally,alittledangerous.Don'tyouagree?"

Ehrhardt picked up his pipe, gripped its bowl tightly, and contemplated itfiercely."I'll--tellProfessorLomaxofyourdecision."

"I'dbegratefulifyouwould,"Stonersaid.Herosefromhischair,walkedtothedoor,pausedas if remindedof something,and turned toEhrhardt.Hesaidcasually, "Oh, another thing. I've been doing a little thinking about nextsemester.Ifmyexperimentworksout,nextsemesterImighttrysomethingelse.I've been considering the possibility of getting at some of the problems of

composition by examining the survival of the classical and medieval LatintraditioninsomeofShakespeare'splays.Itmaysoundalittlespecialized,butIthinkIcanbringitdowntoaworkablelevel.YoumightpassmylittleideaalongtoLomax--askhimtoturnitoverinhismind.Maybeinafewweeks,youandIcan--"

Ehrhardt slumped in his chair. He dropped his pipe on the table and saidwearily,"Allright,Bill.I'lltellhim.I'll--thanksfordroppingby."

Stonernodded.Heopenedthedoor,wentout,closeditcarefullybehindhim,andwalkedacrossthelongroom.Whenoneoftheyounginstructorslookedupathiminquiringly,hewinkedbroadly,nodded,and--finally--letthesmilecomeoverhisface.

He went to his office, sat at his desk, and waited, looking out the opendoorway.After a fewminutes he heard a door slam down the hall, heard theunevensoundof footsteps,andsawLomaxgopasthisofficeas swiftlyashislimpwouldcarryhim.

Stonerdidnotmovefromhiswatch.WithinhalfanhourheheardLomax'sslow,shufflingascentofthestairwayandsawhimgooncemorepasthisoffice.He waited until he heard the door down the hall close; then he nodded tohimself,gotup,andwenthome.

It was some weeks later that Stoner learned from Finch himself whathappened that afternoon when Lomax stormed into his office. Lomaxcomplained bitterly about Stoner's behavior, described how he was teachingwhatamountedtohisseniorcourseinMiddleEnglishtohisfreshmanclass,anddemandedthatFinchtakedisciplinarymeasures.Therewasamomentofsilence.Finchstartedtosaysomething,andthenheburstoutlaughing.Helaughedforalongtime,everynowandthentryingtosaysomethingthatwaspushedbackbylaughter. Finally he quieted, apologized to Lomax for his outburst, and said,"He'sgotyou,Holly;don'tyouseethat?He'snotabouttoletgo,andthere'snotadamnthingyoucando.Youwantmetodothejobforyou?Howdoyouthinkthatwould look--a deanmeddling in how a seniormember of the departmentteacheshisclasses,andmeddlingat theinstigationofthedepartmentchairmanhimself?No, sir.You take care of it yourself, the bestway you can. But youreallydon'thavemuchchoice,doyou?"

Twoweeks after that conversation Stoner received amemo fromLomax'sofficewhichinformedhimthathisscheduleforthenextsemesterwaschanged,that he would teach his old graduate seminar on the Latin Tradition andRenaissanceLiterature,aseniorandgraduatecourseinMiddleEnglishlanguageand literature, a sophomore literature survey, and one section of freshmancomposition.

Itwasa triumphinaway,butoneofwhichhealwaysremainedamusedlycontemptuous,asifitwereavictorywonbyboredomandindifference.

XVAnd thatwasoneof the legends that began to attach tohisname, legends

thatgrewmoredetailedandelaborateyearbyyear,progressinglikemythfrompersonalfacttoritualtruth.

Inhislateforties,helookedyearsolder.Hishair,thickandunrulyasithadbeeninhisyouth,wasalmostentirelywhite;hisfacewasdeeplylinedandhiseyesweresunkenintheirsockets;andthedeafnessthathadcomeuponhimthesummeraftertheendofhisaffairwithKatherineDriscollhadworsenedslightlyyearbyyear,sothatwhenhelistenedtosomeone,hisheadcockedtoonesideandhiseyesintent,heappearedtoberemotelycontemplatingapuzzlingspeciesthathecouldnotquiteidentify.

Thatdeafnesswasofacuriousnature.Thoughhesometimeshaddifficultyunderstanding onewho spoke directly to him, hewas often able to hearwithperfectclarityamurmuredconversationheldacrossanoisyroom.Itwasbythistrickofdeafnessthathegraduallybegantoknowthathewasconsidered,inthephrasecurrentinhisownyouth,a"campuscharacter."

Thus he overheard, again and again, the embellished tale of his teachingMiddle English to a group of new freshmen and of the capitulation ofHollisLomax."Andwhenthefreshmanclassofthirty-seventooktheirjuniorEnglishexams,youknowwhatclasshadthehighestscore?"areluctantyounginstructoroffreshmanEnglishasked."Sure.OldStoner'sMiddleEnglishbunch.Andwekeeponusingexercisesandhandbooks!"

Stoner had to admit that he had become, in the regard of the younginstructorsandtheolderstudents,whoseemedtocomeandgobeforehecouldfirmlyattachnamestotheirfaces,analmostmythicfigure,howevershiftingandvariousthefunctionofthatfigurewas.

Sometimeshewasvillain.InoneversionthatattemptedtoexplainthelongfeudbetweenhimselfandLomax,hehadseducedandthencastasideayounggraduate student for whom Lomax had had a pure and honorable passion.Sometimeshewas thefool: inanotherversionof thesamefeud,herefused tospeak to Lomax because once Lomax had been unwilling to write a letter ofrecommendation foroneofStoner'sgraduate students.And sometimeshewashero: in a final and not often accepted version he was hated by Lomax andfrozeninhisrankbecausehehadoncecaughtLomaxgivingtoafavoredstudentacopyofafinalexaminationinoneofStoner'scourses.

Thelegendwasdefined,however,byhismannerinclass.Overtheyearsithadgrownmoreandmoreabsentandyetmoreandmoreintense.Hebeganhislecturesanddiscussionsfumblinglyandawkwardly,yetveryquicklybecamesoimmersedinhissubject thatheseemedunawareofanythingoranyonearound

him. Once a meeting of several members of the board of trustees and thepresidentoftheUniversitywasscheduledintheconferenceroomwhereStonerheldhisseminarintheLatinTradition;hehadbeeninformedofthemeetingbuthadforgottenaboutitandheldhisseminarattheusualtimeandplace.Halfwaythrough the period a timid knock sounded at the door; Stoner, engrossed intranslatingextemporaneouslyapertinentLatinpassage,didnotnotice.After afewmomentsthedooropenedandasmallplumpmiddle-agedmanwithrimlessglassestiptoedinandlightlytappedStonerontheshoulder.Withoutlookingup,Stonerwavedhimaway.Themanretreated; therewasawhisperedconferencewithseveralothersoutsidetheopendoor.Stonercontinuedthetranslation.Thenfour men, led by the president of the University, a tall heavy man with animposingchestandfloridface,strodeinandhaltedlikeasquadbesideStoner'sdesk.Thepresidentfrownedandclearedhisthroatloudly.Withoutabreakorapause in his extemporaneous translation, Stoner looked up and spoke the nextline of the poemmildly to the president and his entourage: "'Begone, begone,youbloodywhoresonGauls!'"Andstillwithoutabreakreturnedhiseyestohisbookandcontinued to speak,while thegroupgaspedand stumbledbackward,turned,andfledfromtheroom.

Fed by such events, the legend grew until there were anecdotes to givesubstance to nearly all of Stoner's more typical activities, and grew until itreachedhis lifeoutsidetheUniversity.It finally includedevenEdith,whowasseenwithhimsorarelyatUniversityfunctionsthatshewasafaintlymysteriousfigure who flitted across the collective imagination like a ghost: she dranksecretly,outofsomeobscureanddistantsorrow;shewasdyingslowlyofarareandalwaysfataldisease;shewasabrilliantly talentedartistwhohadgivenuphercareertodevoteherselftoStoner.Atpublicfunctionshersmileflashedoutofhernarrowfacesoquicklyandnervously,hereyesglintedsobrightly,andshespokesoshrillyanddisconnectedlythateveryonewassurethatherappearancemaskedareality,thataselfhidbehindthefacadethatnoonecouldbelieve.

After his illness, and out of an indifference that became a way of living,WilliamStonerbegantospendmoreandmoreofhistimeinthehousethatheandEdithhadboughtmanyyearsago.AtfirstEdithwassodisconcertedbyhispresencethatshewassilent,asifpuzzledaboutsomething.Then,whenshewasconvinced that his presence, afternoon after afternoon, night after night,weekend after weekend, was to be a permanent condition, she waged an oldbattlewithnewintensity.Uponthemost trivialprovocationsheweptforlornlyand wandered through the rooms; Stoner looked at her impassively andmurmuredafewabsentwordsofsympathy.Shelockedherselfinherroomanddid not emerge for hours at a time; Stoner prepared themeals that shewould

otherwisehavepreparedanddidn'tseemtohavenoticedherabsencewhenshefinallyemergedfromherroom,paleandhollowofcheekandeye.Shederidedhimupontheslightestoccasion,andhehardlyseemedtohearher;shescreamedimprecations upon him, and he listened with polite interest. When he wasimmersedinabook,shechosethatmomenttogointothelivingroomandpoundwithfrenzyuponthepianothatsheseldomotherwiseplayed;andwhenhespokequietly tohisdaughter,Edithwouldburst intoangerateitherorbothof them.AndStoner lookedupon it all--the rage, thewoe, the screams, and thehatefulsilences--as if itwerehappeningto twootherpeople, inwhom,byaneffortofthewill,hecouldsummononlythemostperfunctoryinterest.

Andatlast--wearily,almostgratefully--Edithacceptedherdefeat.Theragesdecreased in intensity until they became as perfunctory as Stoner's interest inthem;andthelongsilencesbecamewithdrawalsintoaprivacyatwhichStonernolongerwondered,ratherthanoffensesuponanindifferentposition.

Inher fortiethyear,EdithStonerwasas thinasshehadbeenasagirl,butwithahardness,abrittleness,thatcamefromanunbendingcarriage,thatmadeevery movement seem reluctant and grudging. The bones of her face hadsharpened,andthethinpaleskinwasstretcheduponthemasuponaframework,sothatthelinesupontheskinweretautandsharp.Shewasverypale,andsheusedagreatdealofpowderandpaint insuchawaythat itappearedshedailycomposedherownfeaturesuponablankmask.Beneaththedryhardskin,herhandsseemedallbone;andtheymovedceaselessly, twistingandpluckingandclenchingeveninherquietestmoments.

Alwayswithdrawn,shegrewinthesemiddleyearsincreasinglyremoteandabsent.AfterthebriefperiodofherlastassaultuponStoner,whichflaredwithafinal,desperateintensity,shewanderedlikeaghostintotheprivacyofherself,aplacefromwhichsheneverfullyemerged.Shebegantospeaktoherself,withthekindofsoftreasonablenessthatoneuseswithachild;shedidsoopenlyandwithoutself-consciousness,asifitwerethemostnaturalthingshecoulddo.Ofthe scattered artistic endeavors with which she had occupied herselfintermittentlyduringhermarriage,shefinallysettleduponsculptureasthemost"satisfying."Shemodeledclaymostly,thoughsheoccasionallyworkedwiththesofter stones; busts and figures and compositions of all sorts were scatteredabout thehouse.Shewasverymodern: thebustsshemodeledwereminimallyfeaturedspheres,thefigureswereblobsofclaywithelongatedappendages,andthe compositionswere randomgeometric gatheringsof cubes and spheres androds. Sometimes, passing her studio--the room that had once been his study--Stonerwouldpauseandlistentoherwork.Shegaveherselfdirections,asiftoachild:"Now,youmustput thathere--not toomuch--here, rightbeside the little

gouge.Oh,look,it'sfallingoff.Itwasn'twetenough,wasit?Well,wecanfixthat,can'twe?Justalittlemorewater,and--there.Yousee?"

She got in the habit of talking to her husband and daughter in the thirdperson,asiftheyweresomeoneotherthanthosetowhomshespoke.ShewouldsaytoStoner:"Willyhadbetterfinishhiscoffee;it'salmostnineo'clock,andhewouldn't want to be late to class." Or shewould say to her daughter: "Gracereally isn't practicingher piano enough.Anhour a day at least, it ought tobetwo.What'sgoingtohappentothattalent?Ashame,ashame."

WhatthiswithdrawalmeanttoGrace,Stonerdidnotknow;forinherownwayshehadbecomeas remoteandwithdrawnashermother.Shehadgot thehabit of silence; and though she reserved a shy, soft smile for her father, shewouldnottalktohim.Duringthesummerofhisillnessshehad,whenshecoulddosounobserved,slippedintohislittleroomandsatbesidehimandlookedwithhimoutthewindow,apparentlycontentonlytobewithhim;buteventhenshehadbeensilentandhadbecomerestlesswhenheattempted todrawheroutofherself.

Thatsummerofhisillnessshewastwelveyearsold,atall, thingirlwithadelicate faceandhair thatwasmoreblond than red. In the fall,duringEdith'slast violent assault upon her husband, her marriage, herself, and what shethoughtshehadbecome,Gracehadbecomealmostmotionless,asifshefeltthatanymovementmightthrowherintoanabyssfromwhichshewouldnotbeabletoclamber.Inanaftermathoftheviolence,Edithdecided,withthekindofsurerecklessness ofwhich shewas capable, thatGracewas quiet because shewasunhappy and that she was unhappy because she was not popular with herschoolmates.ShetransferredthefadingviolenceofherassaultuponStonertoanassault upon what she called Grace's "social life." Once again she took an"interest"; she dressed her daughter brightly and fashionably in clotheswhosefrilliness intensified her thinness, she had parties and played the piano andinsistedbrightlythateveryonedance,shenaggedatGracetosmileateveryone,totalk,tomakejokes,tolaugh.

Thisassault lastedfor less thanamonth; thenEdithdroppedhercampaignand began the long slow journey to where she obscurely was going. But theeffectsoftheassaultuponGracewereoutofproportiontoitsduration.

After the assault, she spent nearly all her free time alone in her room,listeningtothesmallradioherfatherhadgivenheronhertwelfthbirthday.Shelaymotionlessonherunmadebed,orsatmotionlessatherdesk,andlistenedtothesoundsthatblaredthinlyfromthescrollworkofthesquat,uglyinstrumentonherbedside table, as if thevoices,music, and laughter sheheardwere all thatremainedofher identity andas if even thatwere fadingdistantly into silence,

beyondherrecall.Andshegrewfat.Betweenthatwinterandherthirteenthbirthdayshegained

nearlyfiftypounds;herfacegrewpuffyanddrylikerisingdough,andherlimbsbecamesoftandslowandclumsy.Sheatelittlemorethanshehadeatenbefore,thoughshebecameveryfondofsweetsandkeptaboxofcandyalwaysinherroom;itwasasifsomethinginsideherhadgonelooseandsoftandhopeless,asif at last a shapelessness within her had struggled and burst loose and nowpersuadedherfleshtospecifythatdarkandsecretexistence.

Stoner looked upon the transformation with a sadness that belied theindifferent face he presented to theworld. He did not allow himself the easyluxuryofguilt;givenhisownnatureandthecircumstanceofhislifewithEdith,therewasnothing thathecouldhavedone.Andthatknowledge intensifiedhissadness as no guilt could have, and made his love for his daughter moresearchingandmoredeep.

Shewas, he knew--and had knownvery early, he supposed --one of thoserareandalwayslovelyhumanswhosemoralnaturewassodelicatethatitmustbenourishedandcaredforthatitmightbefulfilled.Alientotheworld,ithadtolivewhereitcouldnotbeathome;avidfortendernessandquiet,ithadtofeedupon indifference and callousness and noise. Itwas a nature that, even in thestrangeandinimicalplacewhereithadtolive,hadnotthesavagerytofightoffthebrutalforcesthatopposeditandcouldonlywithdrawtoaquietnesswhereitwasforlornandsmallandgentlystill.

Whenshewasseventeenyearsold,duringthefirstpartofhersenioryearinhighschool,another transformationcameuponher. Itwasas ifhernaturehadfound itshidingplaceandshewasableat last topresentanappearance to theworld.Asrapidlyasshehadgainedit,shelosttheweightshehadputonthreeyears before; and to those who had known her she seemed one whosetransformationpartookofmagic,asifshehademergedfromachrysalisintoanairforwhichshehadbeendesigned.Shewasalmostbeautiful;herbody,whichhadbeenvery thinand thensuddenlyveryfat,wasdelicately limbedandsoft,anditwalkedwithalightgrace.Itwasapassivebeautythatshehad,almostaplacidone;her facewasnearlywithoutexpression, likeamask;her lightblueeyeslookeddirectlyatone,withoutcuriosityandwithoutanyapprehensionthatonemightseebeyondthem;hervoicewasverysoft,alittleflat,andshespokerarely.

Quitesuddenlyshebecame, inEdith'sword,"popular."Thetelephonerangfrequently for her, and she sat in the living room, nodding now and then,respondingsoftlyandbrieflytothevoice;carsdroveupintheduskyafternoonsand carried her away, anonymous in the shouting and laughter. Sometimes

Stonerstoodatthefrontwindowandwatchedtheautomobilesscreechawayincloudsofdust,andhefeltasmallconcernandalittleawe;hehadneverownedacarandhadneverlearnedtodriveone.

AndEdithwas pleased. "You see?" she said in absent triumph, as ifmorethan three years hadnot passed since her frenzied attackupon the problemofGrace's"popularity.""Yousee?Iwasright.Allsheneededwasalittlepush.AndWillydidn'tapprove.Oh,Icouldtell.Willyneverapproves."

Foranumberofyears,Stonerhad,everymonth,putasideafewdollarssothatGrace could, when the time came, go away fromColumbia to a college,perhaps an eastern one, some distance away.Edith had known of these plans,andshehadseemedtoapprove;butwhenthetimecame,shewouldnothearofit.

"Oh,no!"shesaid."Icouldn'tbearit!Mybaby!Andshehasdonesowellhere this last year. Sopopular, and so happy.Shewould have to adjust, and--baby,Gracie,baby"--she turnedtoherdaughter--"Graciedoesn'treallywant togoawayfromhermommy.Doesshe?Leaveherallalone?"

Gracelookedathermothersilentlyforamoment.Sheturnedverybrieflytoherfatherandshookherhead.Shesaidtohermother,"Ifyouwantmetostay,ofcourseIwill."

"Grace,"Stonersaid."Listentome.Ifyouwanttogo--please,ifyoureallywanttogo--"

Shewouldnotlookathimagain."Itdoesn'tmatter,"shesaid.BeforeStonercouldsayanythingelse,Edithbegantalkingabouthowthey

could spend themoneyher fatherhad savedonanewwardrobe, a reallyniceone,perhapsevena littlecarso thatsheandher friendscould . . .AndGracesmiledherslowsmallsmileandnoddedandeverynowandthensaidaword,asifitwereexpectedofher.

Itwas settled; andStonerneverknewwhatGrace felt,whether she stayedbecause shewanted to, or because hermotherwanted her to, or out of a vastindifference to her own fate. Shewould enter theUniversity ofMissouri as afreshmanthatfall,gothereforatleasttwoyears,afterwhich,ifshewanted,shewouldbeallowedtogoaway,outofthestate,tofinishhercollegework.Stonertoldhimselfthatitwasbetterthisway,betterforGracetoenduretheprisonshehardlyknewshewasinfortwomoreyears,thantobetornagainupontherackofEdith'shelplesswill.

Sonothingchanged.Gracegotherwardrobe,refusedhermother'sofferofalittle car, and entered the University of Missouri as a freshman student. Thetelephonecontinuedtoring,thesamefaces(oronesmuchlikethem)continuedto appear laughing and shouting at the front door, and the same automobiles

roaredawayinthedusk.Gracewasawayfromhomeevenmorefrequentlythanshehadbeeninhighschool,andEdithwaspleasedatwhatshethoughttobeherdaughter'sgrowingpopularity."She'slikehermother,"shesaid."Beforeshewasmarriedshewasverypopular.Alltheboys...Papausedtogetsomadatthem,buthewassecretlyveryproud,Icouldtell."

"Yes,Edith,"Stonersaidgently,andhefelthisheartcontract.ItwasadifficultsemesterforStoner;ithadcomehisturntoadministerthe

university-wide junior English examination, and he was at the same timeengaged in directing two particularly difficult doctoral dissertations, both ofwhichrequiredagreatdealofextrareadingonhispart.Sohewasawayfromhomemorefrequentlythanhadbeenhishabitforthelastfewyears.

Oneevening,neartheendofNovember,hecamehomeevenlaterthanusual.Thelightswereoffinthelivingroom,andthehousewasquiet;hesupposedthatGraceandEdithwereinbed.Hetooksomepapershehadbroughtwithhimtohis littleback room, intending to reada fewof themafterhegot intobed.Hewent into thekitchen toget a sandwichandaglassofmilk;hehad sliced thebreadandopenedtherefrigeratordoorwhensuddenlyheheard,sharpandcleanas a knife, a prolonged scream from somewhere downstairs. He ran into theliving room; the scream came again, now short and somehow angry in itsintensity, fromEdith's studio.Swiftlyhewentacross the roomandopened thedoor.

Edithwassittingsprawledon the floor,as if shehad fallen there;hereyeswerewild, and hermouthwas open, ready to emit another scream.Grace satacrosstheroomfromheronanupholsteredchair,herkneescrossed,andlookedalmost calmly at her mother. A single desk lamp, on Edith's work table, wasburning,sothattheroomwasfilledwithharshbrightnessanddeepshadows.

"Whatisit?"Stonerasked."What'shappened?"Edith'sheadswungaroundtofacehimasifitwereonaloosepivot;hereyes

were vacant. She said with a curious petulance, "Oh,Willy. Oh,Willy." Shecontinuedtolookathim,herheadshakingweakly.

HeturnedtoGrace,whoselookofcalmdidnotchange.Shesaidconversationally,"I'mpregnant,Father."And the scream came again, piercing and inexpressibly angry; they both

turned to Edith, who looked back and forth, from one to the other, the eyesabsent and cool above the screaming mouth. Stoner went across the room,stoopedbehindher,andliftedherupright;shewaslooseinhisarms,andhehadtosupportherweight.

"Edith!"hesaidsharply."Bequiet."She stiffened and pulled away from him. On trembling legs she stalked

acrosstheroomandstoodaboveGrace,whohadnotmoved."You!"shespat. "Oh,myGod.Oh,Gracie.Howcouldyou --oh,myGod.

Likeyourfather.Yourfather'sblood.Oh,yes.Filth.Filth--""Edith!" Stoner spokemore sharply and strode over to her. He placed his

hands firmly on her upper arms and turned her away fromGrace. "Go to thebathroomandthrowsomecoldwateronyourface.Thengouptoyourroomandliedown."

"Oh,Willy,"Edithsaidpleadingly."Myownlittlebaby.Myveryown.Howcouldthishappen?Howcouldshe--"

"Goon,"Stonersaid."I'llcallyouafterawhile."Shetotteredoutoftheroom.Stonerlookedafterherwithoutmovinguntilhe

heard the tap water start in the bathroom. Then he turned to Grace, whoremainedlookingupathimfromtheeasychair.Hesmiledatherbriefly,walkedacrosstoEdith'sworktable,gotastraightchair,broughtitback,andplaceditinfrontofGrace'schair,sothathecouldtalktoherwithoutlookingdownuponherupturnedface.

"Now,"hesaid,"whydon'tyoutellmeaboutit?"Shegavehimhersmallsoftsmile."Thereisn'tmuchtotell,"shesaid."I'm

pregnant.""Areyousure?"Shenodded."I'vebeentoadoctor.Ijustgotthereportthisafternoon.""Well," he said and awkwardly touched her hand. "You aren't to worry.

Everythingwillbeallright.""Yes,"shesaid.Heaskedgently,"Doyouwanttotellmewhothefatheris?""Astudent,"shesaid."AttheUniversity.""Hadyourathernottellme?""Oh, no," she said. "It doesn'tmake any difference.His name is Frye. Ed

Frye.He'sasophomore.Ibelievehewasinyourfreshmancompclasslastyear.""Idon'trememberhim,"Stonersaid."Idon'trememberhimatall.""I'msorry,Father,"Gracesaid."Itwasstupid.Hewasalittledrunk,andwe

didn'ttake--precautions."Stonerlookedawayfromher,atthefloor."I'msorry,Father.I'veshockedyou,haven'tI?""No," Stoner said. "Surprisedme, perhaps.We really haven't known each

otherverywelltheselastfewyears,havewe?"Shelookedawayandsaiduncomfortably,"Well--Isupposenot.""Doyou--lovethisboy,Grace?""Oh,no,"shesaid."Ireallydon'tknowhimverywell."

Henodded."Whatdoyouwanttodo?""Idon'tknow,"shesaid."Itreallydoesn'tmatter.Idon'twanttobeabother."They satwithout speaking for a long time.FinallyStoner said, "Well, you

aren'ttoworry.Itwillbeallright.Whateveryoudecide--whateveryouwanttodo,itwillbeallright."

"Yes," Grace said. She rose from the chair. Then she looked down at herfatherandsaid,"YouandI,wecantalknow."

"Yes,"Stonersaid."Wecantalk."Shewent out of the studio, andStonerwaited until he heard her bedroom

door close upstairs. Then, before he went to his own room, he went softlyupstairsandopenedthedoortoEdith'sbedroom.Edithwasfastasleep,sprawledfullyclothedonherbed,thebedsidelightharshuponherface.Stonerturnedthelightoutandwentdownstairs.

ThenextmorningatbreakfastEdithwasalmostcheerful;shegavenosignofher hysteria of the night before, and she spoke as if the future were ahypothetical problem to be solved.After she learned the nameof the boy shesaidbrightly,"Well,now.Doyouthinkweoughttogetintouchwiththeparentsorshouldwetalktotheboyfirst?Let'ssee--thisisthelastweekinNovember.Let'ssaytwoweeks.Wecanmakeallthearrangementsbythen,maybeevenasmallchinchwedding.Gracie,whatdoesyourfriend,what'shisname--?"

"Edith," Stoner said. "Wait. You're taking too much for granted. PerhapsGraceandthisyoungmandon'twanttogetmarried.WeneedtotalkitoutwithGrace."

"What'stheretotalkabout?Ofcoursethey'llwanttogetmarried.Afterall,they--they--Gracie,tellyourfather.Explaintohim."

Gracesaidtohim,"Itdoesn'tmatter,Father.Itdoesn'tmatteratall."And it didn'tmatter, Stoner realized;Grace's eyeswere fixed beyond him,

intoadistanceshecouldnotseeandwhichshecontemplatedwithoutcuriosity.Heremainedsilentandlethiswifeanddaughtermaketheirplans.

ItwasdecidedthatGrace's"youngman,"asEdithcalledhim,asifhisnameweresomehowforbidden,wouldbe invited to thehouseand thatheandEdithwould"talk."Shearrangedtheafternoonasifitwereasceneinadrama,withexits and entrances and even a line or two of dialogue. Stonerwas to excusehimself,Gracewastoremainforafewmomentsmoreandthenexcuseherself,leavingEdith and the youngman alone to talk. In half an hourStonerwas toreturn, then Grace was to return, by which time all arrangements were to becompleted.

AnditallworkedoutexactlyasEdithplanned.LaterStonerwondered,withamusement,whatyoungEdwardFryethoughtwhenheknockedtimidlyonthe

doorandwasadmittedtoaroomthatseemedfilledwithmortalenemies.Hewasatall,ratherheavyyoungman,withblurredandfaintlysullenfeatures;hewascaught in a numbing embarrassment and fear, and he would look at no one.WhenStonerlefttheroomhesawtheyoungmansittingslumpedinachair,hisforearms on his knees, staring at the floor;when, half an hour later, he cameback into the room, theyoungmanwas in the sameposition, as ifhehadnotmovedbeforethebarrageofEdith'sbirdlikecheerfulness.

Buteverythingwassettled.Inahigh,artificial,butgenuinelycheerfulvoiceEdithinformedhimthat"Grace'syoungman"camefromaverygoodSt.Louisfamily,hisfatherwasabrokerandhadprobablyatonetimehaddealingswithherownfather,oratleastherfather'sbank,thatthe"youngpeople"haddecidedonawedding,"assoonaspossible,veryinformal,"thatbothweredroppingoutofschool,atleastforayearortwo,thattheywouldliveinSt.Louis,"achangeofscenery,anewstart,"thatthoughtheywouldn'tbeabletofinishthesemestertheywouldgotoschooluntilthesemesterbreak,andtheywouldbemarriedontheafternoonofthatday,whichwasaFriday.Andwasn'titallsweet,really--nomatterwhat.

Theweddingtookplaceintheclutteredstudyofajusticeofthepeace.OnlyWilliam andEdithwitnessed the ceremony; the justice'swife, a rumpled graywomanwithapermanentfrown,workedinthekitchenwhiletheceremonywasperformedandcameoutwhenitwasoveronlytosignthepapersasawitness.Itwasacold,bleakafternoon;thedatewasDecember12,1941.

Five days before the marriage took place the Japanese had bombed PearlHarbor;andWilliamStonerwatchedtheceremonywithamixtureoffeelingthathehadnot hadbefore.Likemanyotherswhowent through that time, hewasgrippedbywhathecouldthinkofonlyasanumbness,thoughheknewitwasafeeling compounded of emotions so deep and intense that they could not beacknowledgedbecausetheycouldnotbelivedwith.Itwastheforceofapublictragedy he felt, a horror and awoe so all-pervasive that private tragedies andpersonal misfortunes were removed to another state of being, yet wereintensifiedbytheveryvastnessinwhichtheytookplace,asthepoignancyofalonegravemightbeintensifiedbyagreatdesertsurroundingit.Withapitythatwasalmost impersonalhewatchedthesadlittleritualof themarriageandwasoddlymovedbythepassive,indifferentbeautyofhisdaughter'sfaceandbythesullendesperationonthefaceoftheyoungman.

AftertheceremonythetwoyoungpeopleclimbedjoylesslyintoFrye'slittleroadsterandleftforSt.Louis,wheretheystillhadtofaceanothersetofparentsandwhere theywere to live.Stonerwatched themdriveawayfromthehouse,andhecould thinkofhisdaughteronlyasaverysmallgirlwhohadoncesat

besidehiminadistantroomandlookedathimwithsolemndelight,asalovelychildwholongagohaddied.

Twomonths after themarriage Edward Frye enlisted in theArmy; it wasGrace's decision to remain inSt.Louis until the birth of her child.Within sixmonthsFryewasdeaduponthebeachofasmallPacificisland,oneofanumberofrawrecruits thathadbeensentout inadesperateeffort tohalt theJapaneseadvance.InJuneof1942Grace'schildwasborn;itwasaboy,andshenameditafterthefatherithadneverseenandwouldnotlove.

ThoughEdith,when shewent toSt.Louis that June to "helpout," tried topersuadeherdaughtertoreturntoColumbia,Gracewouldnotdoso;shehadasmallapartment,asmallincomefromFrye'sinsurance,andhernewparents-in-law,andsheseemedhappy.

"Changedsomehow,"EdithsaiddistractedlytoStoner."NotourlittleGracieatall.She'sbeenthroughalot,andIguessshedoesn'twanttobereminded...Shesentyouherlove."

XVITheyearsof thewarblurred together,andStonerwent throughthemashe

might have gone through a driving and nearly unendurable storm, his headdown,his jaw locked, hismind fixedupon thenext step and thenext and thenext.Yetforallhisstoicalenduranceandhisstolidmovementthroughthedaysand weeks, he was an intensely divided man. One part of him recoiled ininstinctivehorroratthedailywaste,theinundationofdestructionanddeaththatinexorablyassaultedthemindandheart;onceagainhesawthefacultydepleted,he saw the classrooms emptied of their youngmen, he saw the haunted looksuponthosewhoremainedbehind,andsawinthoselookstheslowdeathoftheheart,thebitterattritionoffeelingandcare.

Yetanotherpartofhimwasdrawnintenselytowardthatveryholocaustfromwhichhe recoiled.He foundwithinhimself a capacity forviolencehedidnotknowhehad:heyearnedforinvolvement,hewishedforthetasteofdeath,thebitter joy of destruction, the feel of blood.He felt both shame and pride, andover itallabitterdisappointment, inhimselfandin the timeandcircumstancethatmadehimpossible.

Week byweek,month bymonth, the names of the dead rolled out beforehim.Sometimestheywereonlynamesthatherememberedasiffromadistantpast;sometimeshecouldevokeafacetogowithaname;sometimeshecouldrecallavoice,aword.

Throughitallhecontinuedtoteachandstudy,thoughhesometimesfeltthathe hunched his back futilely against the driving storm and cupped his handsuselesslyaroundthedimflickerofhislastpoormatch.

OccasionallyGrace returned toColumbia for a visitwith her parents. Thefirst time she brought her son, barely a year old; but his presence seemedobscurelytobotherEdith,sothereaftershelefthiminSt.Louiswithhispaternalgrandparents when she visited. Stoner would have liked to see more of hisgrandson,buthedidnotmentionthatwish;hehadcometorealizethatGrace'sremoval from Columbia--perhaps even her pregnancy--was in reality a flightfromaprisontowhichshenowreturnedoutofanineradicablekindnessandagentlegoodwill.

Though Edith did not suspect it orwould not admit it, Grace had, Stonerknew, begun to drink with a quiet seriousness. He first knew it during thesummeroftheyearafterthewarhadended.Gracehadcometovisitthemforafewdays;sheseemedparticularlyworn;hereyeswereshadowed,andherfacewastenseandpale.OneeveningafterdinnerEdithwenttobedearly,andGraceandStonersattogetherinthekitchen,drinkingcoffee.Stonertriedtotalktoher,butshewasrestlessanddistraught.Theysatinsilenceformanyminutes;finally

Gracelookedathimintently,shruggedhershoulders,andsighedabruptly."Look,"shesaid,"doyouhaveanyliquorinthehouse?""No," he said, "I'm afraid not. There may be a bottle of sherry in the

cupboard,but--""I've got most desperately to have a drink. Do you mind if I call the

drugstoreandhavethemsendabottleover?""Ofcoursenot,"Stonersaid."It'sjustthatyourmotherandIdon'tusually--"But she hadgot up andgone into the living room.She riffled through the

pagesofthephonebookanddialedsavagely.Whenshecamebacktothekitchenshepassedthetable,wenttothecupboard,andpulledoutthehalf-fullbottleofsherry.Shegotaglassfromthedrainboardandfilleditnearlytothebrimwiththe light brownwine. Still standing, she drained the glass andwiped her lips,shudderingalittle."It'sgonesour,"shesaid."AndIhatesherry."

Shebroughtthebottleandtheglassbacktothetable,satdown,andplacedthempreciselyinfrontofher.Shehalf-filledtheglassandlookedatherfatherwithanoddlittlesmile.

"I drink a little more than I ought to," she said. "Poor Father. You didn'tknowthat,didyou?"

"No,"hesaid."Every week I tell myself, next week I won't drink quite so much; but I

alwaysdrinkalittlemore.Idon'tknowwhy.""Areyouunhappy?"Stonerasked."No,"shesaid."IbelieveI'mhappy.Oralmosthappyanyway.It isn't that.

It's--"Shedidnotfinish.By the timeshehaddrunk the lastof the sherry thedeliveryboy from the

drugstore had comewith her whisky. She brought the bottle into the kitchen,openeditwithapracticedgesture,andpouredastiffportionofitintothesherryglass.

They sat up very late, until the first gray crept upon the windows. Gracedranksteadily,insmallsips;andasthenightworeon,thelinesinherfaceeased,shegrewcalmandyounger,andthetwoofthemtalkedastheyhadnotbeenabletotalkforyears.

"Isuppose,"shesaid,"IsupposeIgotpregnantdeliberately,thoughIdidn'tknowitatthetime;IsupposeIdidn'tevenknowhowbadlyIwanted,howbadlyIhadtogetawayfromhere.IknewenoughnottogetpregnantunlessIwantedto,Lordknows.Allthoseboysinhighschool,and"--shesmiledcrookedlyatherfather--"youandmamma,youdidn'tknow,didyou?"

"Isupposenot,"hesaid."Mamma wanted me to be popular, and--well, I was popular, all right. It

didn'tmeananything,notanythingatall.""I knew you were unhappy," Stoner said with difficulty. "But I never

realized--Ineverknew--""IsupposeIdidn'teither,"shesaid."Icouldn'thave.PoorEd.He'stheone

thatgottherottendeal.Iusedhim,youknow;oh,hewasthefatherallright--butIusedhim.Hewasaniceboy,andalwayssoashamed--hecouldn'tstandit.Hejoinedupsixmonthsbeforehehadto, just togetawayfromit. Ikilledhim,Isuppose; he was such a nice boy, and we couldn't even like each other verymuch."

Theytalkedlateintothenight,asiftheywereoldfriends.AndStonercametorealizethatshewas,asshehadsaid,almosthappywithherdespair;shewouldliveherdaysoutquietly,drinkinga littlemore,yearbyyear,numbingherselfagainstthenothingnessherlifehadbecome.Hewasgladshehadthat,atleast;hewasgratefulthatshecoulddrink.

TheyearsimmediatelyfollowingtheendoftheSecondWorldWarwerethebestyearsofhisteaching;andtheywereinsomewaysthehappiestyearsofhislife. Veterans of that war descended upon the campus and transformed it,bringingtoitaqualityoflifeithadnothadbefore,anintensityandturbulencethatamountedtoatransformation.Heworkedharderthanhehadeverworked;thestudents,strangeintheirmaturity,wereintenselyseriousandcontemptuousoftriviality.Innocentoffashionorcustom,theycametotheirstudiesasStonerhad dreamed that a student might--as if those studies were life itself and notspecificmeanstospecificends.Heknewthatnever,afterthesefewyears,wouldteaching be quite the same; and he committed himself to a happy state ofexhaustionwhichhehopedmightneverend.Heseldomthoughtof thepastorthefuture,orof thedisappointmentsandjoysofeither;heconcentratedall theenergiesofwhichhewascapableuponthemomentofhisworkandhopedthathewasatlastdefinedbywhathedid.

Rarely during these years was he removed from this dedication to themomentofhiswork.SometimeswhenhisdaughtercamebacktoColumbiaforavisit,asifwanderingaimlesslyfromoneroomtoanother,hehadasenseoflossthathecouldscarcelybear.Attheageoftwenty-fiveshelookedtenyearsolder;shedrankwiththesteadydiffidenceofoneutterlywithouthope;anditbecameclear that she was relinquishing more and more control of her child to thegrandparentsinSt.Louis.

Only once did he have news of KatherineDriscoll. In the early spring of1949 he received a circular from the press of a large eastern university; itannouncedthepublicationofKatherine'sbook,andgaveafewwordsabouttheauthor.ShewasteachingatagoodliberalartscollegeinMassachusetts;shewas

unmarried.Hegotacopyofthebookassoonashecould.Whenhehelditinhishandshisfingersseemedtocomealive;theytrembledsothathecouldscarcelyopenit.Heturnedthefirstfewpagesandsawthededication:"ToW.S."

Hiseyesblurred,andforalongtimehesatwithoutmoving.Thenheshookhis head, returned to the book, and did not put it down until he had read itthrough.

Itwasasgoodashehadthoughtitwouldbe.Theprosewasgraceful,anditspassionwasmaskedbyacoolnessandclarityof intelligence.Itwasherselfhesawinwhatheread,herealized;andhemarveledathowtrulyhecouldseehereven now. Suddenly it was as if shewere in the next room, and he had onlymomentsbeforelefther;hishandstingled,asiftheyhadtouchedher.Andthesense of his loss, that he had for so long dammed within him, flooded out,engulfedhim,andhe lethimselfbecarriedoutward,beyond thecontrolofhiswill;hedidnotwishtosavehimself.Thenhesmiledfondly,asifatamemory;itoccurredtohimthathewasnearlysixtyyearsoldandthatheoughttobebeyondtheforceofsuchpassion,ofsuchlove.

But he was not beyond it, he knew, and would never be. Beneath thenumbness,theindifference,theremoval,itwasthere,intenseandsteady;ithadalwaysbeen there. Inhisyouthhehadgiven it freely,without thought;hehadgivenittotheknowledgethathadbeenrevealedtohim--howmanyyearsago?--byArcherSloane;hehadgivenittoEdith,inthosefirstblindfoolishdaysofhiscourtshipandmarriage;andhehadgivenittoKatherine,asifithadneverbeengivenbefore.Hehad,inoddways,givenittoeverymomentofhislife,andhadperhapsgivenitmostfullywhenhewasunawareofhisgiving.Itwasapassionneither of themind nor of the flesh; rather, itwas a force that comprehendedthemboth, as if theywere but thematter of love, its specific substance. To awomanortoapoem,itsaidsimply:Look!Iamalive.

He couldnot thinkof himself as old.Sometimes, in themorningwhenheshaved,helookedathisimageintheglassandfeltnoidentitywiththefacethatstaredbackathiminsurprise,theeyesclearinagrotesquemask;itwasasifhewore,foranobscurereason,anoutrageousdisguise,asifhecould,ifhewished,strip away the bushy white eyebrows, the rumpled white hair, the flesh thatsaggedaroundthesharpbones,thedeeplinesthatpretendedage.

Yethisage,heknew,wasnotpretense.Hesawthesicknessoftheworldandof his own country during the years after the great war; he saw hatred andsuspicion become a kind of madness that swept across the land like a swiftplague; he saw young men go again to war, marching eagerly to a senselessdoom,asifintheechoofanightmare.Andthepityandsadnesshefeltweresoold,somuchapartofhisage,thatheseemedtohimselfnearlyuntouched.

The years went swiftly, and he was hardly aware of their passing. In thespringof1954hewassixty-threeyearsold;andhesuddenlyrealizedthathehadatthemostfouryearsofteachinglefttohim.Hetriedtoseebeyondthattime;hecouldnotsee,andhadnowishtodoso.

That fall he received a note fromGordon Finch's secretary, asking him todropby to see thedeanwhenever itwasconvenient.Hewasbusy, and itwasseveraldaysbeforehefoundafreeafternoon.

EverytimehesawGordonFinch,Stonerwasconsciousofasmallsurpriseathowlittlehehadaged.AyearyoungerthanStoner,helookednomorethanfifty.He was wholly bald, his face was heavy and unlined, and it glowed with analmost cherubic health; his step was springy, and in these later years he hadbeguntoaffectacasualnessofdress;heworecolorfulshirtsandoddjackets.

He seemed embarrassed that afternoon when Stoner came in to see him.Theytalkedcasuallyforafewmoments;FinchaskedhimaboutEdith'shealthandmentionedthathisownwife,Caroline,hadbeentalkingjust theotherdayabouthowtheyallought toget togetheragain.Thenhesaid,"Time.MyGod,howitflies!"

Stonernodded.Finch sighed abruptly. "Well," he said, "I guesswe've got to talk about it.

You'llbe--sixty-fivenextyear.Isupposeweoughttobemakingsomeplans."Stoner shook his head. "Not right away. I intend to take advantage of the

two-yearoption,ofcourse.""I figuredyouwould,"Finchsaidand leanedback inhischair. "Notme. I

have three years to go and I'm getting out. I think sometimes aboutwhat I'vemissed, theplaces Ihaven'tbeen to, and--hell,Bill, life's too short.Whydon'tyougetouttoo?Thinkofallthetime--"

"Iwouldn'tknowwhattodowithit,"Stonersaid."I'veneverlearned.""Well,hell,"Finchsaid."Thisdayandage,sixty-five'sprettyyoung.There's

timetolearnthingsthat--""It'sLomax,isn'tit?He'sputtingthesqueezeonyou."Finchgrinned."Sure.Whatdidyouexpect?"Stoner was silent for a moment. Then he said, "You tell Lomax that I

wouldn't talk to you about it. Tell him that I've become so cantankerous andorneryinmyoldagethatyoucan'tdoathingwithme.Thathe'sgoingtohavetodoithimself."

Finch laughed and shook his head. "ByGod, Iwill. After all these years,maybeyoutwooldbastardswillunbendalittle."

But the confrontation did not take place at once, and when it did--in themiddle of the second semester, inMarch--it did not take the form that Stoner

expected.Onceagainhewasrequestedtoappearatthedean'soffice;atimewasspecified,andurgencywashinted.

Stonercameinafewminuteslate.Lomaxwasalreadythere;hesatstifflyinfrontofFinch'sdesk;therewasanemptychairbesidehim.Stonerwalkedslowlyacrosstheroomandsatdown.HeturnedhisheadandlookedatLomax;Lomaxstaredimperturbablyinfrontofhim,oneeyebrowliftedinageneraldisdain.

Finchstaredatbothofthemforseveralmoments,alittlesmileofamusementonhisface.

"Well," he said, "we all know thematter before us. It is that of ProfessorStoner's retirement." He sketched the regulations --voluntary retirement waspossibleatsixty-five;underthisoption,Stonercouldifhewishedretireeitheratthe end of the current academic year, or at the end of either semester of thefollowing year. Or he could, if it were agreed upon by the chairman of thedepartment, the dean of the college, and the professor concerned, extend hisretirementagetosixty-seven,atwhichtimeretirementwasmandatory.Unless,of course, theperson concernedweregiven aDistinguishedProfessorship andawardedaChair,inwhichevent--

"Amostremotelikelihood,Ibelievewecanagree,"Lomaxsaiddryly.StonernoddedtoFinch."Mostremote.""Ifranklybelieve,"LomaxsaidtoFinch,"itwouldbeinthebestinterestsof

the department and college if Professor Stoner would take advantage of hisopportunity to retire.There are certain curricular andpersonnel changes that Ihavelongcontemplated,whichthisretirementwouldmakepossible."

Stoner said toFinch, "I have nowish to retire before I have to,merely toaccommodateawhimofProfessorLomax."

FinchturnedtoLomax.Lomaxsaid,"I'msurethatthereisagreatdealthatProfessorStonerhasnotconsidered.Hewouldhavetheleisuretodosomeofthewritingthathis"--hepauseddelicately--"hisdedicationtoteachinghaspreventedhimfromdoing.Surelytheacademiccommunitywouldbeedifiedifthefruitofhislongexperiencewere--"

Stonerinterrupted,"Ihavenodesiretobeginaliterarycareeratthisstageinmylife."

Lomax,withoutmoving fromhischair, seemed tobow toFinch. "I'msureour colleague is too modest. Within two years I myself will be forced byregulations to vacate the chairmanship of the department. I certainly intend toputmydecliningyearstogooduse;indeed,Ilookforwardtotheleisureofmyretirement."

Stonersaid,"Ihopetoremainamemberofthedepartment,atleastuntilthatauspiciousoccasion."

Lomaxwassilent foramoment.Thenhesaidcontemplatively toFinch, 'Ithas occurred to me several times during the past few years that ProfessorStoner's efforts on behalf of the University have perhaps not been fullyappreciated.Ithasoccurredtomethatapromotiontofullprofessormightbeafittingclimaxtohisretirementyear.Adinnerinhonoroftheoccasion--afittingceremony.Itshouldbemostgratifying.Thoughitislateintheyear,andthoughmostofthepromotionshavealreadybeendeclared,Iamsurethat,ifIinsisted,apromotionmightbearrangedfornextyear,incommemorationofanauspiciousretirement."

SuddenlythegamethathehadbeenplayingwithLomax--and,inacuriousway,enjoying--seemedtrivialandmean.Atirednesscameoverhim.HelookeddirectlyatLomaxandsaidwearily, "Holly,afterall theseyears, I thoughtyouknewme better than that. I've never cared a damn for what you thought youcould 'give' me, or what you thought you could 'do' to me, or whatever." Hepaused;hewas, indeed,more tired thanhehad thought.Hecontinuedwithaneffort, "That isn't the point; it has never been the point.You're a goodman, Isuppose; certainlyyou're agood teacher.But in somewaysyou're an ignorantson-of-a-bitch."Hepausedagain."Idon'tknowwhatyouhopedfor.ButIwon'tretire--notattheendofthisyear,northeendofthenext."Hegotupslowlyandstood foramoment,gatheringhis strength. "Ifyougentlemenwillexcuseme,I'malittletired.I'llleaveyoutodiscusswhateveritisyouhavetodiscuss."

Heknewthat itwouldnotendthere,buthedidnotcare.When,at thelastgeneral facultymeeting of the year, Lomax, in his departmental report to thefaculty, announced the retirement at the end of the next year of ProfessorWilliamStoner, Stoner got to his feet and informed the faculty that ProfessorLomaxwas inerror, that the retirementwouldnotbeeffectiveuntil twoyearsafterthetimethatLomaxhadannounced.AtthebeginningofthefallsemesterthenewpresidentoftheUniversityinvitedStonertohishomeforafternoonteaandspokeexpansivelyoftheyearsofhisservice,ofthewell-earnedrest,ofthegratitude they all felt; Stoner put on his most crochety manner, called thepresident"youngman,"andpretendednottohear,sothatatlasttheyoungmanendedbyshoutinginthemostplacatorytonehecouldmanage.

Buthisefforts,meagerastheywere,tiredhimmorethanhehadexpected,sothatbyChristmasvacationhewasnearlyexhausted.Hetoldhimselfthathewas,indeed,gettingold,andthathewouldhavetoletupifheweretodoagoodjobtherestoftheyear.DuringthetendaysofChristmasvacationherested,asifhemighthoardhisstrength;andwhenhereturnedforthelastweeksofthesemesterhe worked with a vigor and energy that surprised him. The issue of hisretirementseemedsettled,andhedidnotbothertothinkofitagain.

LateinFebruarythetirednesscameoverhimagain,andhecouldnotseemto shake it off;he spent agreatdealofhis timeathomeanddidmuchofhispaperworkproppedonthedaybedinhislittlebackroom.InMarchhebecameawareof adull generalpain inhis legs andarms;he toldhimself thathewastired,thathewouldbebetterwhenthewarmspringdayscame,thatheneededrest. By April the pain had become localized in the lower part of his body;occasionally hemissed a class, and he found that it tookmost of his strengthmerelytowalkfromclasstoclass.InearlyMaythepainbecameintense,andhecouldnolongerthinkofitasaminornuisance.HemadeanappointmentwithadoctorattheUniversityinfirmary.

Thereweretestsandexaminationsandquestions,theimportofwhichStoneronlyvaguelyunderstood.Hewasgivena specialdiet, somepills for thepain,andwas told tocomebackat thebeginningof thenextweekforconsultation,whentheresultsofthetestswouldbecompletedandputtogether.Hefeltbetter,thoughthetirednessremained.

HisdoctorwasayoungmannamedJamison,whohadexplained toStonerthat he was working for the University for a few years before he went intoprivatepractice.Hehadapink,roundface,worerimlessglasses,andhadakindofnervousawkwardnessofmannerthatStonertrusted.

Stonerwasafewminutesearlyforhisappointment,butthereceptionisttoldhim togo right in.Hewentdown the longnarrowhallof the infirmary to thelittlecubiclewhereJamisonhadhisoffice.

Jamisonwaswaiting for him, and itwas clear to Stoner that he had beenwaitingforsometime;foldersandX-raysandnoteswerelaidoutneatlyonhisdesk. Jamisonstoodup, smiledabruptlyandnervously,andextendedhishandtowardachairinfrontofhisdesk.

"ProfessorStoner,"hesaid."Sitdown,sitdown."Stonersat.Jamisonfrownedatthedisplayonhisdesk,smoothedasheetofpaper,and

lethimselfdownonhischair."Well,"hesaid,"there'ssomesortofobstructioninthelowerintestinaltract,that'sclear.NotmuchshowsupontheX-rays,butthatisn'tunusual.Oh,alittlecloudiness;butthatdoesn'tnecessarilymeananything."He turnedhis chair, set anX-ray in a frame, switchedon a light, andpointedvaguely.Stonerlooked,buthecouldseenothing.Jamisonswitchedoffthelightandturnedbacktohisdesk.Hebecameverybusinesslike."Yourbloodcount'sdown pretty low, but there doesn't seem to be any infection there; yoursedimentation is subnormal and your blood pressure's down. There is someinternalswellingthatdoesn'tseemquiteright,you'velostquiteabitofweight,and--well, with the symptoms you've shown and from what I can tell from

these"--hewavedathisdesk--"I'dsay there'sonlyone thing todo."Hesmiledfixedlyandsaidwithstrainedjocularity,"We'vejustgot togoin thereandseewhatwecanfindout."

Stonernodded."It'scancerthen.""Well,"Jamisonsaid,"that'saprettybigword. Itcanmeana lotof things.

I'm pretty sure there's a tumor there, but--well,we can't be absolutely sure ofanythinguntilwegointhereandlookaround."

"HowlonghaveIhadit?""Oh,there'snowayoftellingthat.Butitfeelslike--well,it'sprettylarge;it's

beentheresometime."Stoner was silent for a moment. Then he said, "How long would you

estimateIhave?"Jamisonsaiddistractedly,"Oh,now,look,Mr.Stoner."Heattemptedalaugh.

"Wemustn'tjumptoconclusions.Why,there'salwaysachance--there'sachanceit'sonlyatumor,non-malignant,youknow.Or--oritcouldbealotofthings.Wejustcan'tknowforsureuntilwe--"

"Yes,"Stonersaid."Whenwouldyouwanttooperate?""Assoonaspossible,"Jamisonsaidrelievedly."Withinthenexttwoorthree

days.""That soon," Stoner said, almost absently. Then he looked at Jamison

steadily."Letmeaskyouafewquestions,Doctor.ImusttellyouthatIwantyoutoanswerthemfrankly."

Jamisonnodded."If it isonlya tumor--non-malignant,asyousay--wouldacoupleofweeks

makeanygreatdifference?""Well," Jamison said reluctantly, "there would be the pain; and--no, not a

greatdealofdifference,Isuppose.""Good,"Stonersaid."Andifitisasbadasyouthinkitis--wouldacoupleof

weeksmakeagreatdifferencethen?"AfteralongwhileJamisonsaid,almostbitterly,"No,Isupposenot.""Then,"Stonersaidreasonably,"I'llwaitforacoupleofweeks.Therearea

fewthingsIneedtoclearup--someworkIneedtodo.""Idon'tadviseit,youunderstand,"Jamisonsaid."Idon'tadviseitatall.""Ofcourse,"Stoner said. "And,Doctor--youwon'tmention this toanyone,

willyou?""No," Jamison said and added with a little warmth, "of course not." He

suggestedafewrevisionsofthediethehadearliergivenhim,prescribedmorepills,andsetadateforhisentranceintothehospital.

Stonerfeltnothingatall;itwasasifwhatthedoctortoldhimwereaminor

annoyance,anobstaclehewouldhavesomehowtoworkaroundinordertogetdonewhathehadtodo.Itoccurredtohimthatitwasratherlateintheyearforthis to be happening; Lomax might have some difficulty in finding areplacement.Thepillhehadtakeninthedoctor'sofficemadehimalittlelight-headed, and he found the sensation oddly pleasurable. His sense of timewasdisplaced;hefoundhimselfstandinginthelongparquetedfirst-floorcorridorofJesseHall.A lowhum, like the distant thrummingof birds'wings,was in hisears; in the shadowed corridor a sourceless light seemed to glow and dim,pulsatinglikethebeatofhisheart;andhisflesh,intimatelyawareofeverymovehemade, tingled as he stepped forwardwith deliberate care into themingledlightanddark.

Hestoodatthestairsthatleduptothesecondfloor;thestepsweremarble,and in their precise centers were gentle troughs worn smooth by decades offootstepsgoingupanddown.Theyhadbeenalmostnewwhen--howmanyyearsago?--hehad first stoodhere and lookedup, as he lookednow, andwonderedwheretheywouldleadhim.Hethoughtoftimeandofitsgentleflowing.Heputonefootcarefullyinthefirstsmoothdepressionandliftedhimselfup.

ThenhewasinGordonFinch'souteroffice.Thegirlsaid,"DeanFinchwasabout to leave . . ."He nodded absently, smiled at her, andwent into Finch'soffice.

"Gordon," he said cordially, the smile still on his face. "I won't keep youlong."

Finch returned the smile reflexively; his eyes were tired. "Sure, Bill, sitdown."

"Iwon'tkeepyoulong,"hesaidagain;hefeltacuriouspowercomeintohisvoice. "The fact is, I'vechangedmymind --about retiring, Imean. Iknow it'sawkward; sorry to be so late letting you know, but--well, I think it's best allaround.I'mquittingattheendofthissemester."

Finch'sfacefloatedbeforehim,roundinitsamazement."Whatthehell,"hesaid."Hasanyonebeenputtingthescrewsonyou?"

"Nothing like that," Stoner said. "It's my own decision. It's just that--I'vediscoveredtherearesomethingsI'dliketodo."Headdedreasonably,"AndIdoneedalittlerest."

Finchwasannoyed,andStonerknewthathehadcausetobe.Hethoughtheheardhimselfmurmuranotherapology;hefeltthesmileremainfoolishlyonhisface.

"Well,"Finch said, "I guess it's not too late. I can start thepapers throughtomorrow.Isupposeyouknowallyouneedtoknowaboutyourannuityincome,insurance,andthingslikethat?"

"Oh,yes,"Stonersaid."I'vethoughtofallthat.It'sallright."Finchlookedathiswatch."I'mkindoflate,Bill.Dropbyinadayorsoand

we'll clear up the details. In the meantime-- well, I suppose Lomax ought toknow.I'llcallhimtonight."Hegrinned."I'mafraidyou'vesucceededinpleasinghim."

"Yes,"Stonersaid."I'mafraidIhave."Therewasmuchtodointhetwoweeksthatremainedbeforehewastogo

intothehospital,buthedecidedthathewouldbeabletodoit.Hecanceledhisclasses for the next twodays and called into conference all those students forwhom he had the responsibility of directing independent research, theses, anddissertations. He wrote detailed instructions that would guide them to thecompletion of the work they had begun and left carbon copies of theseinstructionsinLomax'smailbox.Hesoothedthosewhowerethrownintoapanicbywhat they considered his desertion of them and reassured thosewhowerefearfulofcommittingthemselvestoanewadviser.Hefoundthatthepillshehadbeentakingreducedtheclarityofhisintelligenceastheyrelievedthepain;sointhedaytime,whenhe talked tostudents,and in theevening,whenhe read thedeluge of half-completed papers, theses, and dissertations, he took them onlywhenthepainbecamesointensethatitforcedhisattentionawayfromhiswork.

Two days after his declaration of retirement, in the middle of a busyafternoon,hegotatelephonecallfromGordonFinch.

"Bill?Gordon.Look--there'sasmallproblemI thinkIought to talk toyouabout."

"Yes?"hesaidimpatiently."It'sLomax.Hecan'tgetitthroughhisheadthatyouaren'tdoingthisonhis

account.""Itdoesn'tmatter,"Stonersaid."Lethimthinkwhathewants.""Wait--that isn't all. He's making plans to go throughwith the dinner and

everything.Hesayshegavehisword.""Look, Gordon, I'm very busy just now. Can't you just put a stop to it

somehow?""I triedto,buthe'sdoingit throughthedepartment. Ifyouwantmetocall

himinIwill;butyou'llhave tobehere too.Whenhe's like this Ican't talk tohim."

"Allright.Whenisthisfoolishnesssupposedtocomeoff?"Therewasapause."AweekfromFriday.Thelastdayofclasses,justbefore

examweek.""Allright,"Stonersaidwearily."Ishouldhavethingsclearedupbythen,and

it'llbeeasierthanarguingitnow.Justletitride."

"Youought toknow this too;hewantsme to announceyour retirement asprofessoremeritus,thoughitcan'tbereallyofficialuntilnextyear."

Stonerfeltalaughcomeupinhisthroat."Whatthehell,"hesaid."That'sallrighttoo."

Allthatweekheworkedwithoutconsciousnessoftime.HeworkedstraightthroughFriday,fromeighto'clockinthemorninguntiltenthatnight.Hereadalastpageandmadealastnote,andleanedbackinhischair;thelightonhisdeskfilled his eyes, and for amoment he did not knowwhere hewas. He lookedaround him and saw that hewas in his office. The bookshelveswere bulgingwithbookshaphazardlyplaced;therewerestacksofpapersinthecorners;andhisfilingcabinetswereopenanddisarranged.Ioughttostraightenthingsup,hethought;Ioughttogetmythingsinorder.

"Nextweek,"hesaidtohimself."Nextweek."Hewondered ifhecouldmake ithome. It seemedaneffort tobreathe.He

narrowedhismind,forcedituponhisarmsandlegs,madethemrespond.Hegotto his feet, andwould not let himself sway. He turned the desk light off andstooduntilhiseyescouldseebythemoonlightthatcamethroughhiswindows.Thenheputonefootbeforetheotherandwalkedthroughthedarkhallstotheout-of-doorsandthroughthequietstreetstohishome.

The lightswereon;Edithwas stillup.Hegathered the lastofhis strengthandmadeitupthefrontstepsandintothelivingroom.Thenheknewhecouldgonofarther;hewasabletoreachthecouchandtositdown.Afteramomenthefoundthestrengthtoreachintohisvestpocketandtakeouthistubeofpills.Heputoneinhismouthandswalloweditwithoutwater;thenhetookanother.Theywerebitter,butthebitternessseemedalmostpleasant.

Hebecameaware thatEdithhadbeenwalkingabout theroom,goingfromoneplacetoanother;hehopedthatshehadnotspokentohim.Asthepaineasedandassomeofhisstrengthreturned,herealizedthatshehadnot;herfacewasset,hernostrilsandmouthpinched,andshewalkedstiffly,angrily.Hestartedtospeak to her, but he decided that he could not trust his voice. He let himselfwonderwhyshewasangry;shehadnotbeenangryforalongtime.

Finally shestoppedmovingaboutand facedhim;herhandswere fistsandtheyhungathersides."Well?Aren'tyougoingtosayanything?"

Heclearedhisthroatandmadehiseyesfocus."I'msorry,Edith."Heheardhisvoicequietbutsteady."I'malittletired,Iguess."

"Youweren'tgoingtosayanythingatall,wereyou?Thoughtless.Didn'tyouthinkIhadarighttoknow?"

Foramomenthewaspuzzled.Thenhenodded.Ifhehadhadmorestrengthhewouldhavebeenangry."Howdidyoufindout?"

"Never mind that. I suppose everyone knows except me. Oh, Willy,honestly."

"I'msorry,Edith,really,Iam.Ididn'twanttoworryyou.Iwasgoingtotellyounextweek,justbeforeIwentin.It'snothing;youaren'ttotroubleyourself."

"Nothing!" She laughed bitterly. "They say it might be cancer. Don't youknowwhatthatmeans?"

He felt suddenly weightless, and he had to force himself not to clutch atsomething. "Edith," he said in a distant voice, 'let's talk about it tomorrow.Please.I'mtirednow."

She looked at him for a moment. "Do you want me to help you to yourroom?"sheaskedcrossly."Youdon'tlooklikeyou'llmakeitbyyourself."

"I'mallright,"hesaid.Butbeforehegot tohis roomhewishedhehad let her helphim--andnot

onlybecausehefoundhimselfweakerthanhehadexpected.HerestedSaturdayandSunday,andMondayhewasabletomeethisclasses.

He went home early, and he was lying on the living-room couch gazinginterestedlyattheceilingwhenthedoorbellrang.Hesatuprightandstartedtorise,butthedooropened.ItwasGordonFinch.Hisfacewaspale,andhishandswereunsteady.

"Comein,Gordon,"Stonersaid."MyGod,Bill,"Finchsaid."Whydidn'tyoutellme?"Stoner laughed shortly. "I might as well have advertised it in the

newspapers,"hesaid."IthoughtIcoulddoitquietly,withoutupsettinganyone.""Iknow,but--Jesus,ifIhadknown.""There'snothingtogetupsetabout.There'snothingdefiniteyet--it'sjustan

operation.Exploratory,Ibelievetheycallit.Howdidyoufindoutanyway?""Jamison," Finch said. "He's my doctor too. He said he knew it wasn't

ethical,butthatIoughttoknow.Hewasright,Bill.""Iknow,"Stonersaid."Itdoesn'tmatter.Hasthewordgotaround?"Finchshookhishead."Notyet.""Thenkeepyourmouthshutaboutit.Please.""Sure, Bill," Finch said. "Now about this dinner party Friday --you don't

havetogothroughwithit,youknow.""ButIwill,"Stonersaid.Hegrinned."IfigureIoweLomaxsomething."The ghost of a smile came upon Finch's face. "You have turned into an

orneryoldson-of-a-bitch,haven'tyou?""IguessIhave,"Stonersaid.Thedinnerwasheld inasmallbanquetroomof theStudentUnion.At the

lastminuteEdithdecidedthatshewouldn'tbeabletositthroughit,sohewent

alone. He went early and walked slowly across the campus, as if amblingcasuallyona springafternoon.Ashehadanticipated, therewasnoone in theroom;hegotawaitertoremovehiswife'snamecardandtoresetthemaintable,sothattherewouldnotbeanemptyspace.Thenhesatdownandwaitedforthegueststoarrive.

Hewas seated betweenGordonFinch and the president of theUniversity;Lomax, who was to act as themaster of ceremonies, was seated three chairsaway.Lomaxwassmilingandchattingwiththosesittingaroundhim;hedidnotlookatStoner.

The room filled quickly; members of the department who had not reallyspoken to him for yearswaved across the room to him;Stoner nodded.Finchsaid little, though he watched Stoner carefully; the youngish new president,whosenameStonercouldneverremember,spoketohimwithaneasydeference.

The foodwas served by young students inwhite coats; Stoner recognizedseveralofthem;henoddedandspoketothem.Theguestslookedsadlyattheirfood and began to eat. A relaxed hum of conversation, broken by the cheeryclatterofsilverwareandchina,throbbedintheroom;Stonerknewthathisownpresencewasalmost forgotten, sohewasable topokeathis food, takea fewritualbites,andlookaroundhim.Ifhenarrowedhiseyeshecouldnotsee thefaces; he saw colors and vague shapes moving before him, as in a frame,constructing moment by moment new patterns of contained flux. It was apleasantsight,andifheheldhisattentionuponitinaparticularway,hewasnotawareofthepain.

Suddenlytherewassilence;heshookhishead,asifcomingoutofadream.NeartheendofthenarrowtableLomaxwasstanding,tappingonawaterglasswithhisknife.Ahandsome face,Stoner thoughtabsently; stillhandsome.Theyearshadmadethelongthinfaceeventhinner,andthelinesseemedmarksofanincreasedsensitivityratherthanofage.Thesmilewasstillintimatelysardonic,andthevoiceasresonantandsteadyasithadeverbeen.

Hewasspeaking;thewordscametoStonerinsnatches,asifthevoicethatmadethemboomedfromthesilenceandthendiminishedintoitssource."...thelong years of dedicated service . . . richly deserved rest from the pressures ...esteemedbyhiscolleagues...."Heheardtheironyandknewthat,inhisownway,afteralltheseyears,Lomaxwasspeakingtohim.

Ashortdeterminedburstofapplausestartledhisreverie.Besidehim,GordonFinchwas standing, speaking. Though he looked up and strained his ears, hecouldnothearwhatFinchsaid;Gordon'slipsmoved,helookedfixedlyinfrontofhim,therewasapplause,hesatdown.Ontheothersideofhim,thepresidentgot tohis feet and spoke inavoice that scurried fromcajolery to threat, from

humortosadness,fromregrettojoy.HesaidthathehopedStoner'sretirementwouldbeabeginningnotanending;heknewthattheUniversitywouldbethepoorer forhisabsence; therewas the importanceof tradition, thenecessity forchange; and the gratitude, for years to come, in the hearts of all his students.Stonercouldnotmakesenseofwhathesaid;butwhen thepresident finished,the room burst into loud applause and the faces smiled. As the applausedwindledsomeoneintheaudienceshoutedinathinvoice:"Speech!"Someoneelsetookupthecall,andthewordwasmurmuredhereandthere.

Finchwhisperedinhisear,"Doyouwantmetogetyououtofit?""No,"Stonersaid."It'sallright."Hegottohisfeet,andrealizedthathehadnothingtosay.Hewassilent fora long timeashe lookedfromface to face.Heheardhis

voiceissueflatly."Ihavetaught..."hesaid.Hebeganagain."IhavetaughtatthisUniversityfornearlyfortyyears.IdonotknowwhatIwouldhavedoneifIhad not been a teacher. If I had not taught, I might have--" He paused, as ifdistracted.Thenhesaid,withafinality,"Iwanttothankyouallforlettingmeteach."

Hesatdown.Therewasapplause,friendlylaughter.Theroombrokeupandpeoplemilled about. Stoner felt his hand being shaken; hewas aware that hesmiledand thathenoddedatwhateverwassaid tohim.Thepresidentpressedhis hand, smiled heartily, told him that he must drop around, any afternoon,lookedathiswristwatch,andhurriedout.Theroombegantoempty,andStonerstoodalonewherehehadrisenandgatheredhisstrengthforthewalkacrosstheroom.Hewaiteduntilhefeltsomethinghardeninsidehim,andthenhewalkedaroundthetableandoutoftheroom,passinglittleknotsofpeoplewhoglancedat him curiously, as if he were already a stranger. Lomax was in one of thegroups, but he did not turn as Stoner passed; and Stoner found that he wasgratefulthattheyhadnothadtospeaktoeachother,afterallthistime.

ThenextdayheenteredthehospitalandresteduntilMondaymorning,whenthe operation was to be performed. He slept much of that time and had noparticularinterestinwhatwastohappentohim.OnMondaymorningsomeonestuck a needle in his arm;hewasonlyhalf consciousof being rolled throughhallstoastrangeroomthatseemedtobeallceilingandlight.Hesawsomethingdescendtowardhisfaceandheclosedhiseyes.

He awoke to nausea; his head ached; there was a new sharp pain, notunpleasant,inhislowerbody.Heretched,andfeltbetter.Helethishandmoveover the heavy bandages that covered the middle part of his body. He slept,wakened during the night and took a glass of water, and slept again untilmorning.

Whenheawoke,Jamisonwasstandingbesidehisbed,hisfingersonhisleftwrist.

"Well,"Jamisonsaid,"howarewefeelingthismorning?""Allright,Ithink."Histhroatwasdry;hereachedout,andJamisonhanded

himtheglassofwater.HedrankandlookedatJamison,waiting."Well,"Jamisonsaidatlast,uncomfortably,"wegotthetumor.Bigfeller.In

adayortwoyou'llbefeelingmuchbetter.""I'llbeabletoleavehere?"Stonerasked."You'llbeupandaroundintwoorthreedays,"Jamisonsaid."Theonlything

is,itmightbemoreconvenientifyoudidstayaroundforawhile.Wecouldn'tget--all of it.We'll be using X-ray treatment, things like that. Of course, youcouldgobackandforth,but--"

"No,"Stonersaidandlethisheadfallbackonthepillow.Hewastiredagain."Assoonaspossible,"hesaid,"IthinkIwanttogohome."

XVII"Oh,Willy,"shesaid."You'realleatenupinside."Hewas lying on the day bed in the little back room, gazing out the open

window;itwaslateafternoon,andthesun,dippingbeneaththehorizon,sentaredglowupontheundersideofalongripplingcloudthathunginthewestabovethe tree-topsand thehouses.A flybuzzedagainst thewindowscreen; and thepungentaromaoftrashburningintheneighbors'yardswascaughtinthestillair.

"What?"Stonersaidabsentlyandturnedtohiswife."Inside,"Edithsaid."Thedoctorsaidithasspreadallover.Oh,Willy,poor

Willy.""Yes," Stoner said. He could not make himself become very interested.

"Well,youaren'ttoworry.It'sbestnottothinkaboutit."Shedidnotanswer,andheturnedagaintotheopenwindowandwatchedthe

sky darken, until there was only a dull purplish streak upon the cloud in thedistance.

HehadbeenhomeforalittlemorethanaweekandhadjustthatafternoonreturnedfromavisittothehospitalwherehehadundergonewhatJamison,withhis strained smile, called a "treatment." Jamison had admired the speed withwhich his incision had healed, had said something about his having theconstitutionof amanof forty, and thenhad abruptlygrown silent.Stoner hadallowedhimselftobepokedandprodded,hadletthemstraphimonatable,andhad remained still while a huge machine hovered silently about him. It wasfoolishness,heknew,buthedidnotprotest;itwouldhavebeenunkindtodoso.Itwaslittleenoughtoundergo,ifitwoulddistractthemallfromtheknowledgetheycouldnotevade.

Gradually, he knew, this little roomwhere he now lay and looked out thewindow would become his world; already he could feel the first vaguebeginnings of the pain that returned like the distant call of an old friend. Hedoubted that he would be asked to return to the hospital; he had heard inJamisonsvoicethisafternoonafinality,andJamisonhadgivenhimsomepillstotakeintheeventthattherewas"discomfort."

"You might write Grace," he heard himself saying to Edith. "She hasn'tvisitedusinalongtime."

Andhe turned to seeEdithnoddingabsently;her eyeshadbeen,withhis,gazingtranquillyuponthegrowingdarknessoutsidethewindow.

Duringthenexttwoweekshefelthimselfweaken,atfirstgraduallyandthenrapidly.Thepainreturned,withanintensitythathehadnotexpected;hetookhispillsandfeltthepainrecedeintoadarkness,asifitwereacautiousanimal.

Gracecame;andhefoundthat,afterall,hehadlittletosaytoher.Shehad

been away fromSt.Louis and had returned to findEdith's letter only the daybefore.Shewaswornandtenseandthereweredarkshadowsunderhereyes;hewishedthathecoulddosomethingtoeaseherpainandknewthathecouldnot.

'Youlookjustfine,Daddy,"shesaid."Justfine.You'regoingtobeallright.""Ofcourse,"hesaidandsmiledather. "How isyoungEd?Andhowhave

youbeen?"ShesaidthatshehadbeenfineandthatyoungEdwasfine,thathewouldbe

entering junior high school the coming fall. He looked at her with somebewilderment."Juniorhigh?"heasked.Thenherealizedthatitmustbetrue."Ofcourse,"hesaid."Iforgothowbighemustbebynow."

"Hestayswithhis--withMr.andMrs.Fryealotofthetime,"shesaid."It'sbest for him that way." She said something else, but his attention wandered.Moreandmore frequentlyhe found itdifficult tokeephismind focuseduponanyonething;itwanderedwherehecouldnotpredict,andhesometimesfoundhimselfspeakingwordswhosesourcehedidnotunderstand.

"Poor Daddy," he heard Grace say, and he brought his attention back towherehewas."PoorDaddy,thingshaven'tbeeneasyforyou,havethey?"

Hethoughtforamomentandthenhesaid,"No.ButIsupposeIdidn'twantthemtobe."

"MammaandI--we'vebothbeendisappointmentstoyou,haven'twe?"Hemovedhishandupward,asiftotouchher."Oh,no,"hesaidwithadim

passion."Youmustn't..."Hewantedtosaymore,toexplain;buthecouldnotgoon.Heclosedhiseyesandfelthismindloosen.Imagescrowdedthere,andchanged, as if upona screen.He sawEdith as shehadbeen that first eveningtheyhadmet at oldClaremont's house--the blue gown and the slender fingersand the fair, delicate face that smiled softly, the pale eyes that looked eagerlyuponeachmomentasifitwereasweetsurprise."Yourmother..."hesaid."Shewasnotalways. . ."Shewasnotalwaysasshehadbeen;andhethoughtnowthathecouldperceivebeneaththewomanshehadbecomethegirlthatshehadbeen;hethoughtthathehadalwaysperceivedit.

"Youwereabeautifulchild,"heheardhimselfsaying,andforamomenthedidnotknowtowhomhespoke.Lightswambeforehiseyes,foundshape,andbecamethefaceofhisdaughter,linedandsomberandwornwithcare.Heclosedhis eyes again. "In the study. Remember? You used to sit with me when Iworked.Youweresostill,andthelight...thelight..."Thelightofthedesklamp (he could see it now)hadbeen absorbedbyher studious small face thatbent in childish absorption over a book or a picture, so that the smooth fleshglowedagainsttheshadowsoftheroom.Heheardthesmalllaughterechointhedistance."Ofcourse,"hesaidandlookeduponthepresentfaceofthatchild."Of

course,"hesaidagain,"youwerealwaysthere.""Hush,"shesaidsoftly,"youmustrest."Andthatwastheirfarewell.Thenextdayshecamedowntohimandsaidshe

hadtogetbacktoSt.Louisforafewdaysandsaidsomethingelsehedidnothearinaflat,controlledvoice;herfacewasdrawn,andhereyeswereredandmoist. Their gazes locked; she looked at him for a long moment, almost indisbelief;thensheturnedaway.Heknewthathewouldnotseeheragain.

Hehadnowish todie;but thereweremoments, afterGrace left,whenhelookedforwardimpatiently,asonemightlooktothemomentofajourneythatonedoesnotparticularlywish to take.And likeany traveler,he felt that thereweremanythingshehadtodobeforeheleft;yethecouldnotthinkwhattheywere.

Hehadbecomesoweakthathecouldnotwalk;hespenthisdaysandnightsin the tiny back room. Edith brought him the books he wanted and arrangedthemonatablebesidehisnarrowbed,sothathewouldnothavetoexerthimselftoreachthem.

Buthereadlittle, thoughthepresenceofhisbookscomfortedhim.HehadEdith open the curtains on all thewindows andwould not let her close them,evenwhentheafternoonsun,intenselyhot,slantedintotheroom.

SometimesEdithcameintotheroomandsatonthebedbesidehimandtheytalked. They talked of trivial things--of people they knew casually, of a newbuildinggoingupon thecampus,ofanoldone torndown;butwhat theysaiddid not seem tomatter. A new tranquillity had come between them. It was aquietness that was like the beginning of love; and almost without thinking,Stonerknewwhyithadcome.Theyhadforgiventhemselvesfortheharmtheyhaddoneeachother,and theywere rapt ina regardofwhat their life togethermighthavebeen.

Almostwithoutregrethelookedathernow;inthesoftlightoflateafternoonherfaceseemedyoungandunlined.IfIhadbeenstronger,hethought;ifIhadknownmore;ifIcouldhaveunderstood.Andfinally,mercilessly,hethought:ifIhadlovedhermore.Asifitwerealongdistanceithadtogo,hishandmovedacrossthesheetthatcoveredhimandtouchedherhand.Shedidnotmove;andafterawhilehedriftedintoakindofsleep.

Despite the sedatives he took, hismind, it seemed to him, remained clear;andhewasgratefulfor that.Butitwasasifsomewillotherthanhisownhadtakenpossessionofthatmind,movingitindirectionshecouldnotunderstand;timepassed,andhedidnotseeitspassing.

Gordon Finch visited him nearly every day, but he could not keep thesequence of these visits clear in hismemory; sometimes he spoke to Gordon

when he was not there, and was surprised at his voice in the empty room;sometimesinthemiddleofaconversationwithhimhepausedandblinked,asifsuddenlyawareofGordon'spresence.Once,whenGordontiptoedintotheroom,heturnedtohimwithakindofsurpriseandasked,"Where'sDave?"AndwhenhesawtheshockoffearcomeoverGordon'sfaceheshookhisheadweaklyandsaid, "I'm sorry, Gordon. I was nearly asleep; I'd been thinking about DaveMastersand--sometimesIsaythingsI'mthinkingwithoutknowingit.It'sthesepillsIhavetotake."

Gordon smiled and nodded andmade a joke; but Stoner knew that in thatinstantGordonFinchhadwithdrawnfromhiminsuchawaythathecouldneverreturn.HefeltakeenregretthathehadspokensoofDaveMasters,thedefiantboy they both had loved, whose ghost had held them, all these years, in afriendshipwhosedepththeyhadneverquiterealized.

Gordon told him of the regards that his colleagues sent him and spokedisconnectedly ofUniversity affairs thatmight interest him; but his eyeswererestless,andthenervoussmileflickeredonhisface.

Edithcameintotheroom,andGordonFinchlumberedtohisfeet,effusiveandcordialinhisreliefatbeinginterrupted.

"Edith,"hesaid,"yousitdownhere."EdithshookherheadandblinkedatStoner."OldBill's lookingbetter,"Finchsaid."ByGod, I thinkhe's lookingmuch

betterthanhedidlastweek."Edithturnedtohimasifnoticinghispresenceforthefirsttime."Oh,Gordon," shesaid. "He looksawful.PoorWilly.Hewon'tbewithus

muchlonger."Gordonpaledandtookastepbackward,asifhehadbeenstruck."MyGod,

Edith!""Notmuchlonger,"Edithsaidagain,lookingbroodinglyatherhusband,who

wassmilinga little. "WhatamIgoing todo,Gordon?Whatwill Idowithouthim?"

He closed his eyes and they disappeared; he heard Gordon whispersomethingandheardtheirfootstepsastheydrewawayfromhim.

What was so remarkable was that it was so easy. He had wanted to tellGordonhoweasyitwas,hehadwantedtotellhimthatitdidnotbotherhimtotalkaboutitortothinkaboutit;buthehadbeenunabletodoso.Nowitdidnotseem really tomatter; he heard their voices in the kitchen,Gordon's low andurgent,Edith'sgrudgingandclipped.Whatweretheytalkingabout?

...Thepaincameuponhimwithasuddennessandanurgencythattookhimunprepared, so that he almost cried out. He made his hands loosen upon the

bedclothesandwilledthemtomovesteadilytothenighttable.Hetookseveralofthepillsandputtheminhismouthandswallowedsomewater.Acoldsweatbrokeuponhisforeheadandhelayverystilluntilthepainlessened.

He heard the voices again; he did not open his eyes.Was it Gordon?Hishearing seemed to go outside his body and hover like a cloud above him,transmitting to him every delicacy of sound. But his mind could not exactlydistinguishthewords.

The voice--was it Gordon's?--was saying something about his life. Andthoughhecouldnotmakeoutthewords,couldnotevenbesurethattheywerebeing said, his ownmind, with the fierceness of a wounded animal, pounceduponthatquestion.Mercilesslyhesawhislifeasitmustappeartoanother.

Dispassionately, reasonably, he contemplated the failure that his life mustappear to be. He had wanted friendship and the closeness of friendship thatmightholdhim in the raceofmankind;hehadhad two friends,oneofwhomhad died senselessly before he was known, the other of whom had nowwithdrawnsodistantly into theranksof the living that . . .Hehadwanted thesinglenessandthestillconnectivepassionofmarriage;hehadhadthat,too,andhehadnotknownwhattodowithit,andithaddied.Hehadwantedlove;andhehadhadlove,andhadrelinquishedit,hadletitgointothechaosofpotentiality.Katherine,hethought."Katherine."

Andhehadwantedtobeateacher,andhehadbecomeone;yetheknew,hehadalwaysknown,thatformostofhislifehehadbeenanindifferentone.Hehaddreamedof akindof integrity,of akindofpurity thatwasentire;hehadfoundcompromise and the assaultingdiversionof triviality.Hehadconceivedwisdom, and at the end of the long years he had found ignorance. Andwhatelse?hethought.Whatelse?

Whatdidyouexpect?heaskedhimself.Heopenedhiseyes.Itwasdark.Thenhesawtheskyoutside,thedeepblue-

blackofspace,andthethinglowofmoonlightthroughacloud.Itmustbeverylate,hethought;itseemedonlyaninstantagothatGordonandEdithhadstoodbesidehim,inthebrightafternoon.Orwasitlongago?Hecouldnottell.

Hehadknown that hismindmustweaken as his bodywasted, but hehadbeen unprepared for the suddenness. The flesh is strong, he thought; strongerthanweimagine.Itwantsalwaystogoon.

Heheardvoicesandsawlightsandfelt thepaincomeandgo.Edith's facehovered abovehim;he felt his face smile.Sometimesheheardhis ownvoicespeak,andhe thought that itspokerationally, thoughhecouldnotbesure.HefeltEdith'shandsonhim,movinghim,bathinghim.Shehasherchildagain,hethought;atlastshehasherchildthatshecancarefor.Hewishedthathecould

speaktoher;hefeltthathehadsomethingtosay.Whatdidyouexpect?hethought.Somethingheavywas pressinguponhis eyelids.He felt them tremble and

thenhemanagedtogetthemopen.Itwaslightthathefelt,thebrightsunlightofan afternoon. He blinked and considered impassively the blue sky and thebrilliantedgeofthesunthathecouldseethroughhiswindow.Hedecidedthatthey were real. He moved a hand, and with the movement he felt a curiousstrength flowwithinhim,as if from theair.Hebreatheddeeply; therewasnopain.

Witheachbreathhe took, it seemed tohim thathis strength increased;hisfleshtingled,andhecouldfeel thedelicateweightof lightandshadeuponhisface.He raised himself up from the bed, so that hewas half sitting, his backsupportedbythewallagainstwhichthebedrested.Nowhecouldseetheout-of-doors.

Hefeltthathehadawakenedfromalongsleepandwasrefreshed.Itwaslatespring or early summer--more likely early summer, from the look of things.Therewas a richness and a sheenupon the leaves of the huge elm tree in hisbackyard;andtheshadeitcasthadadeepcoolnessthathehadknownbefore.Athicknesswasintheair,aheavinessthatcrowdedthesweetodorsofgrassandleaf and flower, mingling and holding them suspended. He breathed again,deeply;heheardtheraspingofhisbreathandfeltthesweetnessofthesummergatherinhislungs.

Andhefeltalso,withthatbreathhetook,ashiftingsomewheredeepinsidehim, a shifting that stopped somethingand fixedhishead so that itwouldnotmove.Thenitpassed,andhethought,Sothisiswhatitislike.

It occurred to him that he ought to call Edith; and then he knew that hewouldnotcallher.Thedyingareselfish,hethought;theywanttheirmomentstothemselves,likechildren.

Hewasbreathingagain,buttherewasadifferencewithinhimthathecouldnotname.Hefeltthathewaswaitingforsomething,forsomeknowledge;butitseemedtohimthathehadallthetimeintheworld.

He heard the distant sound of laughter, and he turned his head toward itssource. A group of students had cut across his back-yard lawn; they werehurryingsomewhere.Hesawthemdistinctly;therewerethreecouples.Thegirlswerelong-limbedandgracefulintheirlightsummerdresses,andtheboyswerelookingat themwithajoyousandbemusedwonder.Theywalkedlightlyuponthe grass, hardly touching it, leaving no trace of where they had been. Hewatched themas theywentoutofhis sight,wherehecouldnot see;and foralong timeafter theyhadvanished thesoundof their laughtercame tohim, far

andunknowinginthequietofthesummerafternoon.Whatdidyouexpect?hethoughtagain.Akindofjoycameuponhim,asifborneinonasummerbreeze.Hedimly

recalledthathehadbeenthinkingoffailure--asifitmattered.Itseemedtohimnow that such thoughtsweremean, unworthy ofwhat his life had been.Dimpresencesgatheredattheedgeofhisconsciousness;hecouldnotseethem,butheknewthattheywerethere,gatheringtheirforcestowardakindofpalpabilityhecouldnotseeorhear.Hewasapproachingthem,heknew;buttherewasnoneedtohurry.Hecouldignorethemifhewished;hehadallthetimetherewas.

There was a softness around him, and a languor crept upon his limbs. Asenseof his own identity cameuponhimwith a sudden force, andhe felt thepowerofit.Hewashimself,andheknewwhathehadbeen.

His head turned. His bedside table was piled with books that he had nottouched for a long time. He let his hand play over them for a moment; hemarveledatthethinnessofthefingers,attheintricatearticulationofthejointsasheflexedthem.Hefeltthestrengthwithinthem,andletthempullabookfromthe jumbleon the tabletop. Itwashisownbook that he sought, andwhen thehandheld it he smiled at the familiar red cover that had for a long timebeenfadedandscuffed.

Ithardlymattered tohim that thebookwas forgottenand that it servednouse;andthequestionofitsworthatanytimeseemedalmosttrivial.Hedidnothavetheillusionthathewouldfindhimselfthere,inthatfadingprint;andyet,he knew, a small part of him that he could not denywas there, andwouldbethere.

Heopenedthebook;andashedidsoitbecamenothisown.Helethisfingersrifflethroughthepagesandfeltatingling,asifthosepages

werealive.Thetinglingcamethroughhisfingersandcoursedthroughhisfleshandbone;hewasminutelyawareofit,andhewaiteduntilitcontainedhim,untilthe old excitement that was like terror fixed himwhere he lay. The sunlight,passinghiswindow,shoneuponthepage,andhecouldnotseewhatwaswrittenthere.

The fingers loosened, and the book they had heldmoved slowly and thenswiftlyacrossthestillbodyandfellintothesilenceoftheroom.