Dead Poets Society (11 page)

“Your reprimand made quite an impression, I’m sure,” Keating said.

Nolan’s eyebrows raised for an instant. He let the comment pass. “What was going on in the courtyard the other day?” he asked.

“Courtyard?” Keating repeated.

“Boys marching. Clapping in unison …”

“Oh that. That was an exercise to prove a point. About the evils of conformity. I …”

“John, the curriculum here is set. It’s proven. It works. If
you
question it, what’s to prevent them from doing the same?”

“I always thought education was learning to think for yourself,” Keating said.

Nolan laughed. “At these boys’ ages? Not on your life! Tradition, John! Discipline.” He patted Keating on the shoulder patronizingly. “Prepare them for college, and the rest will take care of itself.”

Mr. Nolan smiled and left. Keating stood silent, staring out the window. After a moment, McAllister stuck his head in the door. He had obviously been listening.

“I wouldn’t worry about the boys being too conformist if I were you, John,” he said.

“Why is that?”

“Well, you yourself graduated from these hallowed halls, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“So, if you want to raise a confirmed atheist,” McAllister observed, “give him a rigid religious upbringing. Works every time.”

Keating stared at McAllister, then suddenly let out a laugh. McAllister smiled, turned, and disappeared down the hall.

Later that night, Keating walked over to the junior-class dorm. The boys were just hurrying out to club meetings and activities. He approached Charlie, who was walking out the door with a group of friends.

“Mr. Keating!” Charlie said, looking surprised.

“That was a ridiculous stunt, Mr. Dalton,” Keating said harshly.

“You’re siding with Mr. Nolan?” Charlie said in disbelief. “What about Carpe Diem and sucking all the marrow out of life and all that?”

“Sucking out the marrow doesn’t mean getting the bone stuck in your throat, Charles. There is a place for daring and a place for caution, and a wise man understands which is called for.” Keating said.

“But I thought …” Charlie stammered.

“Getting expelled from this school is not an act of wisdom or daring. It’s far from perfect but there are still opportunities to be had here.”

“Yeah?” Charlie answered angrily. “Like what?”

“Like, if nothing else, the opportunity to attend
my
classes, understand?”

Charlie smiled. “Yes, sir.”

Keating turned toward the other Dead Poets pledges, who stood nearby waiting for Charlie. “So keep your heads about you—the lot of you!” he ordered.

“Yes, sir,” they said. Keating smiled slightly and left.

The next day the boys sat in Keating’s classroom and watched their teacher walk to the board and scrawl the word “COLLEGE” in big bold letters.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “today we will consider a skill which is indispensable for getting the most out of college—analyzing books you haven’t read.” He paused and looked around as the boys laughed.

“College will probably destroy your love for poetry. Hours of boring analysis, dissection, and criticism will see to that. College will also expose you to all manner of literature—much of it transcendent works of magic that you must devour; some of it utter dreck that you must avoid like the plague.”

He paced in front of the class as he spoke. “Suppose you are taking a course entitled, ‘Modern Novels.’ All semester you have been reading masterpieces such as the touching
Père Goriot
by Balzac and the moving
Fathers and Sons
by Turgenev, but when you receive your assignment for your final paper, you discover that you are to write an essay on the theme of parental love in
The Doubtful Debutante,
a novel—and I use that term generously here—by none other than the professor himself.”

Keating looked at the boys with a raised eyebrow and then continued. “After reading the first three pages of the book, you realize that you would rather volunteer for combat than waste your precious earthly time infecting your mind with this sewage, but do you despair? Take an F? Absolutely not. Because you are prepared.”

The boys watched and listened intently. Keating continued to pace. “Open
The Doubtful Deb
and learn from the jacket that the book is about Frank, a farm equipment salesman who sacrifices everything to provide his social-climbing daughter, Christine, with the debut she so desperately desires. Begin your essay by disclaiming the need to restate the plot while at the same time regurgitating enough of it to convince the professor that you’ve read the book.

“Next, shift to something pretentious and familiar. For instance, you might write, ‘What is remarkable to note are the similarities between the author’s dire picture of parental love and modern Freudian theory. Christine
is
Electra, her father
is
a fallen Oedipus.

“Finally, skip to the obscure and elaborate like this …” Keating paused, then read, “‘What is most remarkable is the novel’s uncanny connection with Hindu Indian philosopher Avesh Rahesh Non. Rahesh Non discussed in painful detail the discarding of parents by children for the three-headed monster of ambition, money, and social success.’ Go on to discuss Rahesh Non’s theories about what feeds the monster, how to behead it, et cetera, et cetera. End by praising the professor’s brilliant writing and consummate courage in introducing
The Doubtful Deb
to you.”

Meeks raised his hand. “Captain … what if you don’t know anything about someone like Rahesh Non?”

“Rahesh Non never existed, Mr. Meeks. You make him, or someone like him, up. No self-important college professor would dare admit ignorance of such an obviously important figure, and you will probably receive a comment like the one I received.”

Keating picked up a paper on his desk and read from it to the class: “‘Your allusions to Rahesh Non were insightful and well presented. Glad to see that someone besides myself appreciates this great but forgotten Eastern master. A-plus.’”

He dropped the paper back on his desk. “Gentlemen, analyzing dreadful books you haven’t read will be on your final exam, so I suggest you practice on your own. Now for some traps of college exams. Take out a blue book and a pencil, boys. This is a pop quiz.”

The boys obeyed. Keating passed out tests. He set up a screen in the front of the room, then went to the back of the room and set up a slide projector.

“Big universities are Sodoms and Gomorrahs filled with those delectable beasts we see so little of here: women,” he said and smiled. “The level of distraction is dangerously high, but this quiz is designed to prepare you. Let me warn you, this test will count. Begin.”

The boys began their tests. Keating lit up the slide projector and put a slide into the machine. He focused on the screen a slide of a beautiful, college-aged girl, leaning over to pick up a pencil. The girl had a remarkable figure, and, bending over as she did, her panties were exposed. The boys glanced up at the screen from their tests. Almost all of them did double takes.

“Concentrate on your tests, boys. You have twenty minutes,” Keating said, as he advanced the projector. This time he focused a slide of a beautiful woman in scanty lingerie from a magazine ad. The boys glanced up at the screen, struggling to concentrate. Keating watched their obvious difficulty, amused, as he continued the slide show of beautiful women in revealing and provocative poses, tight blowups of naked female Greek statues—women in a seemingly endless, tantalizing stream. The boys’ heads bobbed up and down from the screen to their blue books. On his paper Knox had written “Chris, Chris, Chris,” over and over again as he stared numbly at the screen.

The brisk Vermont winter engulfed the campus at Welton. The once colorful foliage of the fall now blanketed the landscape, and fierce winds blew the brittle leaves in torrents.

Todd and Neil, bundled in hooded down jackets and scarves, walked along a path that wound between buildings, the wind howling as Neil rehearsed his lines for A
Midsummer Night’s Dream.

“‘Here, villain, drawn and ready. Where art thou?’” Neil called dramatically from memory.

“‘I will be with thee straight,’” Todd read from the script.

“‘Follow me, then, to plainer ground!’” Neil boomed, over the winds. “God I love this!”

“The play?” Todd asked.

“Yes, and acting!” Neil bubbled. “It’s got to be one of the most wonderful things in the world. Most people, if they’re lucky, live about half an exciting life. If I could get the parts, I could live dozens of
great
lives!”

He ran and, with a theatrical flourish, leapt onto a stone wall. “‘To be or not to be, that is the question!’ God, for the first time in my whole life, I feel completely alive! You have to try it,” he said to Todd. He jumped down from the wall. “You should come to rehearsals. I know they need people to work the lights and stuff.”

“No thanks.”

“Lots of girls,” Neil pointed out impishly. “The girl who plays Hermia is incredible.”

“I’ll come to the performance,” Todd promised.

“Bluck, bluck, bluck … chicken!” Neil teased. “Now where were we?”

“‘Yea, art thou there?’” Todd read.

“Put more into it!” Neil urged.

“‘YEA, ART THOU THERE?’” Todd bellowed.

“That’s it! ‘Follow my voice; we’ll try no manhood here.’” He bowed and waved to Todd. “Thanks, buddy. See you at dinner,” he called, running into the dorm. Todd stood outside watching him, then shook his head and walked off toward the library.

Neil leapt and danced down the hallway, jestering his way past other students who eyed him curiously. He pushed open his door with a flourish and jumped into the room, fencing the air with the jester’s stick.

Abruptly, he stopped. Sitting at his desk was his father! Neil’s face turned white with shock.

“Father!”

“Neil, you are going to quit this ridiculous play immediately,” Mr. Perry barked.

“Father, I …”

Mr. Perry jumped to his feet and pounded his hand on the desk. “Don’t you
dare
talk back to me!” he shouted. “It’s bad enough that you’ve wasted your time with this absurd acting business. But you deliberately deceived me!” He paced back and forth furiously as Neil stood shaking in his shoes. “How did you expect to get away with this? Answer me!” he yelled. “Who put you up to this? That Mr. Keating?”

“Nobody …” Neil stammered. “I thought I’d surprise you. I’ve gotten all A’s and …”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out? ‘My niece is in a play with your son,’ Mrs. Marks says. ‘You must be mistaken,’ I say. ‘My son isn’t in a play.’ You made a liar out of me, Neil. Now you will go to rehearsal tomorrow and tell them you are quitting.”

“Father, I have one of the main parts,” Neil explained. “The performance is tomorrow night. Father, please …”

Mr. Perry’s face was white with rage. He moved toward Neil, pointing his finger. “I don’t care if the world is coming to an
end
tomorrow night, you are through with that play! Is that clear? IS THAT CLEAR?”

“Yes, sir.” It was all Neil could force himself to say.

Mr. Perry stopped. He stared long and hard at his son. “I’ve made great sacrifices to get you here, Neil. You will not let me down.”

Mr. Perry turned and stalked out. Neil stood still for a long time, then, walking to his desk, he started pounding on it, harder and harder until his fists went numb and tears began rolling down his cheeks.

Later that evening, all of the society pledges sat together in the Welton dining hall, except Neil, who said he had a headache. They appeared to be having difficulty eating, and old Dr. Hager approached their table, eyeing the boys suspiciously.

“Mr. Dalton, what is wrong, son?” he asked. “Are you having trouble with your meal?”

“No, sir,” Charlie replied.

Hager watched the boys. “Misters Meeks and Overstreet and Anderson, are you normally left-handed?” Hager asked after a moment.

“No, sir.”

“Then why are you eating with your left hands?”

The boys looked at each other. Knox spoke for the group. “We thought it would be good to break old habits, sir,” he explained.

“What is wrong with old habits, Mr. Overstreet?”

“They perpetuate mechanical living, sir,” Knox maintained. “They limit your mind.”

“Mr. Overstreet, I suggest you worry less about breaking old habits and more about developing good study habits. Do you understand?” he said firmly.

“Yes, sir.”

“That goes for all of you,” Hager said, looking at the table of boys. “Now eat with your correct hands.”

The boys obeyed. But once he moved away, Charlie switched hands and began eating with his left hand again. One by one, the others followed.

Finally Neil came to the dining room and walked over to their table. He looked solemn and upset. “You okay?” Charlie asked.

“Visit from my father,” Neil said.

“Do you have to quit the play?” Todd asked.

“I don’t know,” Neil said.