The End of Innocence (13 page)

Harvard College

ANNOUNCEMENT FOR A READING

by
Professor
Charles
T. Copeland, class of 1882

Selections from
Candide
by Voltaire

Candide Is a Man Without a Plan and Serves as a Morality Tale for All,
Especially Seniors Without Plans Post-College

Monday, 6:00 p.m. Upstairs in Sever Hall 11

The clock chimed five thirty. Professor Copeland walked to a pile of jackets draped on a chair in his study and pulled on his overcoat. He was putting on his bowler hat when a knock came at the door.

“Come in,” he called. The door opened, and he looked up to see Arnold Archer towering over him.

This was a young man he wished was at war already. Brick walls had more finesse.

“Yes?” asked Copeland in a flat tone.

“Sorry to bother you, Professor. I just need a moment. May I sit?”

“Now?”

“Please, sir.”

Copeland sighed and ushered him in.

“Professor, my father told me that I should talk to you about that first class assignment. He said if I did, you could make it right.”

Copeland furrowed his brow as he removed his jacket. “That depends. Did you actually turn in your assignment?”

Archer shook his head. “I haven't had much time, with all that's been going on. I've been helping my father run for Congress.”

“I've heard.”

“He thought you would understand and make things all right on that front. I can't pass if you give me a zero. I need this class to graduate in the spring.” He gave a crooked smile. “My father wants me to work in Washington with him if he gets elected.”

“Have you done the reading?”

“President Lowell told my father you'd understand.”

“What am I to understand?”

“That I've got a lot going on right now,” said Archer. He gave an agitated snort.

“Let's make this clear. I am Copeland. President Lowell is not, and your father is not. I have no need of their assistance in my classroom. That assignment was given to you last spring and you were entirely capable of doing it. Your work for the past three years, while it tends to the purple and is often poorly spelled, shows some signs of moderate promise. And if you want a political career, as you seem to, I suggest you learn the mechanics of the English language.”

Archer scowled. Copeland pursed his lips.
Let him marinate for a few more seconds
, he thought.

Archer stood up.

“I haven't dismissed you, Mr. Archer. You came here without an appointment demanding my time and I trust you'll not wish to cause me further
agita
. Here is what I'll give you. Come to the reading tonight and write about what you hear. Fifteen pages, minimum. I'll mark what you turn in as twenty-five percent of your grade and the rest you'll have to prove on your final examination.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes, and if you are going to lead your rally tonight as the flyers you've posted suggest, then I suggest you take care of your grade first. You'll be lucky to pull a passing grade, but it can be done.”

After he spoke, the young man stalked out.

* * *

There was a time he would have been harder on the young man—actually make the boy complete the assignment. It wasn't hard. It only required a minimal amount of effort.

But there were bigger problems now. Let someone else sort out the Arnold Archers. He didn't need to be the one to administer that lesson when the world would do it for him. He took a deep breath, picked up his book, and put on his overcoat again.

The rain had stopped by the time Copeland walked on the path through the Yard, stepping carefully around the puddles that had grown by the sidewalk. He felt a few drops fall onto the back of his neck, and looked up. A squirrel chastised him from the tree's branches. The professor shivered, turned up his collar, and picked up his step, passing the gray blocks of University Hall and into the shadow of Appleton Chapel. He saw a crowd gathering at the foot of Sever Hall, there for his reading.

He stopped to take it in. It pleased him that they came, and even more so that they came to Sever. It was the appropriate theater for his reading. He knew it and they knew it too.
In part because I told the dullards
, he thought.

Sever was not like those lesser buildings around it, trimmed in ephemera and dancing for attention. This was a Mesopotamian potentate brooding in shadow, dark and foreboding. Not one speck of white paint offset its blood-red bricks, and precious little cream sandstone lightened its look. More than one alumnus had complained of the hall's recessed archway, its semiturrets, and the unusual fenestration. The massive hall, for many, was not what an educational building in Harvard Yard should look like.

They, of course, were wrong. As Copeland told his students time and time again, Sever Hall spoke more of people than of brick. Brickwork leaves and vines, flowers and sprigs, curled along the side of the hall and up its walls, filling inlaid brick flower boxes. The bricks were cut into sixty different variations, from which emanated an irrepressible life.

This building needed no ivy. Its life burst from the city's own clay and from the students within its classrooms and hallways. And he filled it time and time again with his readings. He entertained students, he investigated their quarrels on behalf of the college, and he listened to their troubles. And what could be more important now than bringing them together, at a time when boys were running off to war?

Or were having war forced upon them. He caught a glimpse of Wils Brandl walking across the Yard to the hall.

His face fell as he thought of that. Wils was a wonderful student and would have gone far as a writer. But he'd be absolutely useless as a soldier, probably dead at the first volley. He wasn't made of the same tough stuff as Jackson Vaughn or Philip Breckenridge.

Thank God the Brandl lawyer had the good sense to drag out his time in Boston. The boy's only hope was that the war should end quickly. Wils could never shell a cathedral. Professor Kuno Francke said the Germans were fair, but after this past month's reports Copeland believed his colleagues and a few students were exceptions, rather than the rule. And, in fairness, they were also exceptional.

A few loose raindrops fell from the cut-brick flower boxes above, some glancing off his coat as he waded through the throng. Yes, let the other buildings cry out from painted doorways and columned porticos, clamoring to be noticed. Sever Hall knew that students, like so many variations on red brick, were the college's ever-present life, unique and abundant, and deserved the real attention. They looked the same only if one stood too far back or was too caught up in the flash of columns to notice.

Sever Hall

The rain had tapered to a mist as Helen walked to Sever Hall that evening. It ushered in a cold that chilled her despite her dark shawl and brown woolen dress.

She found the wide hallway filled to capacity and students flowing up the central staircase. She spied an opening near the left entrance and climbed the few steps to the first hall level, then wriggled her way through the students into the center of the main hallway. It was warmer there.

A man called from the upstairs hall: “The doors will open in five minutes. No pushing on the steps!” The crowd lurched forward anyway, jostling Helen.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said with a sharp look. The young man who had pushed her had a red face and stout shoulders. On his arm was tied a black ribbon.

“Are you lost?” he asked, beads of sweat on his upper lip. “This is a Harvard event. Men only.”

“I have an invitation from Copeland himself.”

The lumbering giant laughed in her face, his breath sour. She pulled out her perfumed handkerchief, held it to her nose, and tried to think of Milton.

“Bill, do you see any other women at this reading?”

A man called back from down the crowd, “No, Kurt. Did one escape from Radcliffe?”

“My God, yes.”

Helen turned her back to Kurt and crossed her arms in front of her. As she looked around to find Wils, it seemed that Kurt was right. She seemed to be the sole woman in attendance.

The crowd surged again suddenly, causing Kurt to stumble against her and step on the hem of her skirt. A card dropped out of his pocket.

“Sir, my skirt,” she said indignantly.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” he said in a loud voice. “If you can't handle walking up a few steps, it is not my concern.” She heard snickers among bystanders.

When he picked up the card she saw that it announced a rally that evening at the College Pump in support of the British, French, and Belgians. “Wear black armbands,” it said.

As the queue moved forward, a tall young man stopped suddenly in front of her and pushed back. Helen stepped back to regain her balance. It had become a game.

“Did the lady have too much tea today?” asked Kurt. A burst of laughter came from the crowd. She felt her chest tighten. They were doing this on purpose. She saw more with black armbands.

“Miss Brooks!” called a voice from above.

Wils Brandl waved at her from the upper stair banister, a wide smile on his face. “Professor Copeland will be glad to see you as well. He's right here—would you like me to have him escort you?”

She smiled and waved up to him. “It's the German,” she heard one behind her whisper.

“I'll be all right,” she called.
Now I will be
, she thought with renewed confidence. She gave Kurt a look of moral opprobrium as the line began to move again.

Wils met her at the top of the steps and offered his arm. “Is Copeland really waiting for me?” she asked.

“He should have been, and that's the point. He knew better than to send an unescorted woman in among these types.”

They entered the crowded auditorium and sat by the closed bank of windows against the far wall. The wooden seats were well worn and tightly packed. Wils's long legs didn't quite fit, and he winced as his knees hit the back of the chair in front of him. He moved them over to make room for her skirt, but in doing so, found himself even closer to her.

“I'm sorry about this,” he said, shifting.

“It's all right.” She laughed. “I'm not certain who they expected to fit.”

“Then I give up,” he said as his knees pressed against her skirt.

“Wils!” called Dane Iselin from two rows behind.

“Yes?” he said, looking back.

“—he'll be dead just like von Steiger,” came a whisper.

“Brandl's next—”

Helen's blood went cold. Her ears pricked up. Brandl? It was hard to hear over the noise of Wils calling back an assignment note to Dane.

“—doesn't matter. The more dead here, the less over there—”

“—going to die anyway—”

“—a lot more Germans than Brandl to be had, Arnold,” said a whisper.

“Shut up, Kurt!” a voice hissed.

“It's now time to begin,” called Professor Copeland as she looked over to see Kurt out of the corner of her eye. Sitting with him was Arnold Archer. Her face drained of color. They'd been watching her.

She felt a rivulet of perspiration begin to trickle down her back. “Archer,” she whispered, sitting up.

Wils shrugged. “Forget him.”

“But he's—”

“And he'll always try,” he said, leaning closer. His breath tickled her ear. “Let him.”

“Open the windows!” called Copeland, and she turned, hearing laughter from the front rows. She craned her head to see a young man's face appear at the large window by the lectern.

“Mr. Cabot,” said Copeland, “resting on a ladder outside cannot possibly be comfortable. I intend to read this book for a very long time.”

“And I intend to escape shortly,” said the young man.

“Very well,” said Copeland in a dry tone, turning to face the class. “But I selected the passage about beating a young man for you in hopes that it may set a good example.”

“A completely hopeless exercise, Professor,” said Cabot with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. He refused to budge.

Copeland gave a dramatic shrug, then began to speak. “As some of the less befuddled of you know, there is a war going on in Europe and some current nastiness here in Boston. My friend Owen Wister, class of 1882, and my colleague Kuno Francke share my sentiments on the matter and have been quite vocal about where things have taken a bad turn for Germany.

“Gentlemen, I bid you a most humble and hearty welcome tonight, and I beseech your patience as we listen to an old tale. There is something in young men that causes them to lose themselves growing up. And there's something more basic that helps them recover their way. For some it's the teachings of the great Creator. For others it's a strong sense of right and wrong. For some it's dumb luck. But many regain their path, and for this we are unfeignedly thankful.” Copeland paused.

Helen looked sideways at Wils, a young man intent on the speaker.
He's such a good sort
, she thought. He caught her looking and gave her a grin.

“Let us return to the Germany of old—before Nietzsche and before Marx,” said Copeland. “What Professor Francke calls ‘the true German.'
Candide
is a story about a young man expelled from Germany—the castle of the most noble baron of Thunder-ten-tronckh—and how he found his way.”

And with that Copeland began to read. Silence came over the audience as the tale began, laughter erupting at various points, the pages turning slowly.

She found herself forgetting Archer, and Kurt, and just falling into the rhythms of Copeland's voice. It felt right to be there, she thought, with Wils, listening to a reading. This was the theater she loved.

If she could have stopped time, she later thought, it would have been then.

* * *

After an hour of reading, when the audience had seen Candide through numerous tribulations, Copeland announced that he was finished and that they could find the book in the library. He dimmed the light at his table and walked out with a dramatic flourish.

The students stood up and began to shuffle out of the auditorium through tall oak doors. As Wils and Helen neared, Marvin Elken clapped Wils on the shoulder and launched into talk of crew practice, oblivious to whether Wils was interested. Marvin was a wiry young man, whose bright blond hair radiated from his small head as he energetically told of the strategy to beat Princeton that he'd just thought of while Copeland read. Helen stood at Wils's shoulder while the two men talked.

Helen felt a jostling as the students filed out. “Tonight we'll have a German expulsion,” came a whisper in her ear. She turned to see Arnold Archer. Wils was suddenly pushed. He ignored it and continued to talk with Marvin.

“Coming to the rally, Brandl?” asked Kurt as he lumbered by. Arnold looked coldly at Helen as the crowd pressed in on them.

“Leave him alone,” said Arnold, walking past them. “He's German trash.”

“Who let that young man out of jail?” asked Helen to no one in particular. The room suddenly quieted as students began filing out more swiftly.

“I took your mother's lead on the incarceration bit,” snapped Arnold.

“Helen,” interrupted Wils, “he is not worth your time,” as the gang left.

Wils offered her his arm as they turned to descend the steps.

“Wils, does this happen often?”

“More often than I'd like. But it is nice to have an ally in the room. Now, do you have someone to walk you home?”

She nodded. “Peter is meeting me at Appleton Chapel around the corner.”

“Well, I am going the other way. I'll see you tomorrow in class?”

She nodded.

It was painful to watch her walk away. He walked out onto the moonlit path that would take him back to Beck Hall. The air was chilled from the rain but the sky clear. He didn't wish to walk it. He had no idea what he'd do with himself back at home. Instead, he found himself wishing to be at Radcliffe, looking up at her window, softly calling her name, and speaking up to her in quiet whispers.

Could it be?

He closed his eyes. Who was this woman who had suddenly enchanted him? He longed to pull her to him. To have her. He wished to run to Radcliffe yard and touch—no, kiss—every stone on which she had stepped. It felt a glimpse—even the barest glimpse—of heaven.

He was still musing on that thought—or perhaps it was the blush of her cheek—when he felt a blow from behind. He fell silently onto the broad sidewalk along Harvard Yard, fading quickly into darkness.