Some Came Running (79 page)

God! she hoped not!

Despite the really potential greatness of Bob’s new work and her excitement with it, her own little book was coming along quite well—almost too well, in fact. The closer she got to finishing it, the more she began to wonder whether she would ever be able to publish it. It was not as if they had all lived two hundred years ago and you were free to drag their private lives into it when you needed to. Three of the main ones—Dave and his sister, Francine, and George Blanca—were still alive, and might not relish such a thing. And yet the further she got into it, the more she was unable to see how she could leave the private lives out of it, as she had once planned. Their private lives were what had made them what they were, and controlled them, and in the end had broken them. And their private lives, like everybody else’s, were largely their love affairs.

What she was trying to prove—if possible, conclusively—that the self-destructiveness of talent had to do with Love—or the lack of it. Even that point wasn’t new. But what was new—she thought—was this almost mathematical clinical progression from the beginning sense of un-love up through the height (according to the individual) of talent to the Love climax—in which the individual either got, or did not get, his Love object—thence almost immediately into the decline and inevitable destruction of talent, or the individual, one. And of course in the event of the destruction of the individual, that meant both. In some—apparently, the more highly sensitized (and therefore more talented)—decline and destruction was instantaneous, or nearly so. Like Kenny’s suicide, and Dave’s just suddenly
giving up
writing. In others, like Blanca, it was a longer period of gradually dwindling talent.

And that was the main point of her whole thesis: that the Love itself—or the illusion of it—was in every case
more important
than the talent, or the work that might come from it! It was a horrifying thought for Gwen to even contemplate; but it must be faced—it seemed to fit the facts. The talent was really only a
by-product!
A by-product of the neurotic—near-psychotic was better—love-hunger of the individual.

Even Stendhal (than whom no human ever loved writing more) in his epitaph “I lived, I loved, I wrote” put the “I loved” before the “I wrote”!

There were some who, by some quirk of fate or other, managed to produce a fairly large volume of the best work before they got themselves destroyed, and these were the ones we called great. And then there were others—possessed of a stronger instinct of self-preservation than most, or what was called “cowardice”—who were able to live to a fairly ripe old age by simply refusing the problem in their minds, and who were therefore able to turn out a large volume of work themselves but the work was never much good because they were pompous, and who consequently had really succeeded in destroying themselves also and even earlier.

But for each of both these types, God how many Kenny McKeeans were there, God how many?

And how many Dave Hirshes?

Well, she had it anyway, she thought angrily, laying aside the first magazine and taking up the second in the stack. She had the material, and the facts, and the proofs, and the thesis, and when she was done marshaling it all there would be damned few loopholes.

But there were times when it was almost too painful for her to work on it at all. Sometimes she could hardly stand to look at it. And that was when the anger came.

That they could have it all like that, the quality, the talent, the emotion; and then spend their whole lives trying to throw it away—for, in effect, that was what they were trying to do. The very thing that she would have given her life to have!

She pushed the second periodical away from her and swung the chair to look out the window. Outside, spring had definitely come. In the brighter sunlight, the grass was eye-shockingly green, and down through the limbs of new leaves she could see students moving along the walks and carrying books, the girls chic and attractive, the boys awkward and already carrying the air of apology around females that they would probably carry the rest of their lives.

There was a lot of truth in Bob’s thesis of the powerful queen and weak king. And you could see facets of it everywhere. It wasn’t that the girls were smarter or different, it was just that they were by nature more realistic. They
thought
they believed in Love but they didn’t really; whereas the men really
did
believe in it, and were in fact suckers for it. Which was why they were so consistently unfaithful.

She sat looking out at the beauty of the scene. Life was so very painful, and so very sweet.

Well, she would work on their damned novels for them, but she would be goddamned if she would handle their sex lives for them, too. And she wouldn’t be working on their novels with them very damned long, she promised herself.

It was about three days after this that a young student knocked on the door of her study and told Gwen that Dr Pirtle wanted to see her in his office. She stared at the boy’s crew-cut head, feeling irritable because after her eight o’clock class in American Lit she had her mornings free till eleven and that was when she worked and Dr Pirtle knew it, and then said all right, she’d come. It was probably an invitation to some damned cocktail party, and she would only have to refuse it anyway.

Dr Clarence Brock Pirtle was the college president who had been imported when Bob French had refused to take it and retired. He had been hired mainly to keep the
Parkman Review
Bob French had founded going, and to keep up the college’s renaissance in English and History, and he was just the man for it and was doing a good job of it. He was a dyed-in-the-wool academic, and looked the part. Everything about him was some tint of brown, his clothes, his hair, his eyes, his skin, his shoes, and his pipes. If there was any emotion in him at all, he never seemed to show it, but Gwen knew better because there was a certain fierceness lurking behind his eyes which never showed itself except in argument, and whenever he got into a real political battle for the school. He did not hold it against Bob that Bob had been given first choice for the presidency over him, and when she found that out to her own satisfaction was when Gwen first began to like him. He was sitting behind his big brown desk blotter smoking one of his pipes when she came in.

“Miss French,” he said in his crisp cold way. “Do sit down, Miss French.”

“Thank you, Dr Pirtle,” Gwen said, and did.

“Miss French,” he said, “I will be brief. I’m sure you have work to do;” a hint of a smile touched his face. “It has been decided by the trustees to found a Parkman College Literary Fellowship for the novel, in conjunction with several generous-spirited local people and civic organizations, among which is the Parkman Tuesday Literary Club represented by Mrs Agnes Hirsh, whom you know. The benefits of this fellowship will amount to one thousand dollars a year for one or two years. The only stipulation accompanying it are that the recipient be needful of it, that he or she be a student or graduate student of Parkman College, and that the work he or she is engaged upon be one of talent and consistent with—and an attempt at furthering—the Christian principles upon which Parkman College is founded and which are the foundations of American society.” He took a small pull at his pipe, and stared at her fiercely without cracking a smile.

Gwen’s mind had already started leaping around even before he had finished: How would she do it? There had been rumors of such a fellowship being in process, but she had not put much stock in it. “Yes, sir?” she said.

Dr Pirtle took another puff at his pipe, his face impassive, except for that always-near-ferocity that was always in those bulging brown eyes. “I myself have been working with the committee to form a small foundation which will finance the fellowship.” Another short pull at the pipe. “I have been delegated the authority of awarding the fellowship. But at my suggestion the committee had authorized you, Miss French, as the person to choose the recipient. You teach both of our creative writing courses, as I pointed out to them, and are therefore the logical person to make the choice. The committee agreed with me in this, and authorized me to tell you of their decision.” Dr Pirtle continued to stare at her.

“Yes?” Gwen said. Her mind had begun to leap hopefully. If she could only get it for him, for Wally! “When is the award to be made, Dr Pirtle?”

“At any time henceforth,” the president said.

“And will you thank the committee for me?” she added.

“I will,” Dr Pirtle said. He took another puff at his pipe and continued to stare at her.

“Well,” Gwen said, and tried hard not to sound triumphant, “is there any special way I am to go about making my choice?”

“You are to be the sole judge,” Dr Pirtle said. “You may go about it in any way you like. After one year, myself or a single member of the committee will discuss with you the progress that has been made, if the novel remains unfinished, to see if it warrants a continuation for the second year, and will read the manuscript to see if the work is in keeping with the principles laid down by the fellowship. In the event the novel is published with the fellowship committee’s approval, it will be requested that the title ‘Parkman College Literary Fellowship’ be included on the title page in some form or other.” A puff on the pipe. “But beyond that, Miss French, everything else is up to you. It would seem to me to be foolish to keep a month-by-month progress report. And an outline would hardly be worth bothering with, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I do,” Gwen said. Well, at least she could get it for him for a year, anyway. They might raise a big stink after that, but there wouldn’t be much they could do about it. She had a distant impulse to laugh, thinking of Wally’s girdle factory; and also of the very potent teenager love scenes he was writing in it. They were certainly not very much in keeping with the Daly Sisters teenage charm books on innocent dating, or with the Youth Center theory of teenagers. “Yes, I think you’re absolutely right on that point, Dr Pirtle,” she said.

“Then I believe that covers it, Miss French,” the president said. “I expect you will want some time to think it over before you choose someone.” He took another puff on his pipe and continued to stare at her.

“There’s no need to think it over,” Gwen said, staring back at him. “I already have the party chosen. Wallace Dennis.”

“Ah, yes,” Dr Pirtle said, and leaned over to knock his pipe against his ashtray. “Young Dennis. Very well, Miss French. I know young Dennis, but only slightly.”

“He’s the most outstanding creative writing student we have here at the college,” Gwen said. “Or have ever had. And furthermore I feel he qualifies on all the points. He is certainly in need of the money. And while he is an unclassified student, he is nevertheless a student—in both of my creative writing courses, and in two literature courses. And as to whether his novel is an attempt to further Christian principles, I think I can in all sincerity say that it is,” she said.

“Quite so. Miss French, quite so. Very well. As a matter of fact, I rather anticipated that you might pick young Dennis. I understand you have been working with him on a novel for some time now. I need not remind you,” Dr Pirtle said and looked up from his pipe which he was ferociously tamping down, “I need not remind you, Miss French, that these generous people are endowing this fellowship largely for the purpose of furthering those Christian principles, as the fellowship itself says; and that it is your duty as well as my own in this matter to see that the spirit of their bequest is complied with.”

“No,” Gwen said, staring back at him; “you do not need to remind me of that, Dr Pirtle.”

“Very well, Miss French,” he said. “Your choice will be communicated to the fellowship committee. A check in the amount of one thousand dollars will be forwarded to Mr Dennis as soon as the details can be arranged. I think you may inform the lucky young man, should you so desire.”

“It may be, Dr Pirtle,” Gwen said, “that some discussion of my choice will come up. Wallace Dennis is distantly related to me, and someone may choose to make mention of that fact.”

“Miss French!” Dr Pirtle said ferociously, his bulging brown eyes glaring. “I am quite sure that no one will question your integrity, or mine, in this or any other matter having to do with Parkman College!”

“Im sure they won’t, Dr Pirtle. But I felt I should mention it to you,” Gwen said. “Naturally, no such considerations have anything to do with my choice.”

“Naturally,” Dr Pirtle said, looking ready to fight. “Now, if you will excuse me, Miss French. I have work to do, as I’m sure you have. I would not have disturbed you this morning had I not felt the matter at hand important enough to warrant such intrusion.”

Gwen could not help but grin a little. “I’m certainly glad you did, Dr Pirtle. And thank you.”

When she got to the door, he stopped her. “Ah, Miss French. My wife and I are having a small cocktail party this coming Saturday night. We should like either you or your father or both of you to stop by and join us should you be free to do so.”

“I’m afraid we won’t either one be able to, Dr Pirtle. I’ve a tremendous lot of work to get done, and Dad’s started working on a new poem lately.”

The president nodded. “Ah, quite so . . .”

“But perhaps I might be able to get over for a little while,” Gwen said, unable not to relent.

“If you can,” Dr Pirtle murmured, looking for his lighter. “I would never impose, Miss French.”

“I think I might,” Gwen smiled.

Once more he stopped her, as she put her hand on the knob. “Miss French,” he said. “Of course, I shouldn’t like your father to know I did this, but I thought I might tell you. It was my suggestion at the last committee meeting that the fellowship be named the Robert Ball French Memorial Fellowship. But, alas, it was voted down by one vote, I believe because they preferred that the name of the college, and hence of the town, be in the title somewhere.”

Again Gwen smiled. “I honestly don’t think he would even have known it if it had been voted. You know how he is when he gets to working on a new poem.”