The History Man (21 page)

The student's name is George Carmody; he has the reputation of being appalling. The group stare at him, question whether they can contain him; their tolerance is not easily strained, but something in Carmody strains it. They have been meeting together weekly, now, for two whole years; they have shared many experiences, been through dark purgatories of insight, together; they have acquired a cohesion, a closeness. They have changed together, passing through those utter transformations of personality which at Watermouth are an ongoing spiritual necessity: students here will suddenly acquire new modes of being, so that not only does dress, hairstyle, appearance alter utterly, but somehow the entire physiology and physicality. A neat, respectful public schoolboy has become irritable, proletarian Michael Bennard; a frail, bright teenager has become dark-eyed Felicity Phee. But to these transactions of spirit and belief Carmody has remained a stranger; he has changed most, and changed by not changing at all. Here he sits, in his chair, looking beamingly around; as he does so, he shines forth unreality. He is a glimpse from another era; a kind of historical offence. In the era of hair, his face is perfectly clean-shaven, so shaven that the fuzz of peach-hair on his upper features looks gross against the raw epidermis on his cheeks and chin, where the razor has been. The razor has also been round the back of his neck, to give him a close, neat haircut. From some mysterious source, unknown and in any case alien to all other students, he has managed to acquire a university blazer, with a badge, and a university tie; these he wears with a white shirt, and a pair of pressed grey flannels. His shoes are brightly polished; so, as if to match, is his briefcase. He is an item, preserved in some extraordinary historical pickle, from the nineteen-fifties or before; he comes out of some strange fold in time. He has always been like this, and at first his style was a credit; wasn't it just a mock-style to go with all the other mock-styles in the social parody? But this is the third year; he has been out of sight for months, and here he is again, and he has renewed the commitment; the terrible truth seems clear. It is no joke; Carmody wants to be what he says he is.

Now he looks at Howard, with bright eyes; he says, ‘You asked me to look at theories about the workings of social change in the works of Mill, Marx and Weber. I hope this is a justifiable interpretation.' Howard looks at the intolerable figure; he says, ‘I hope it is.' Carmody now dips his head, and draws the fat document from its folder; he begins to read the first sentence from the handwritten page. ‘Wait a minute,' says Howard, ‘are you proposing to read all that?' ‘Yes, sir,' says Carmody. ‘I'm not “sir”,' says Howard, ‘I don't want your deference. Now, what did I ask you to do?' ‘You asked me to look at Mill, Marx and Weber, and make a report,' says Carmody. ‘I asked you to go away and read their works, over the vacation,' says Howard, ‘and then to make a spontaneous verbal statement to this class, summing up your impressions. I didn't ask you to produce a written paper, and then sit here with your head hanging over it, presenting formalized and finished thoughts. What kind of group experience is that?' ‘You did say that, sir,' says Carmody, ‘but I thought I could do something more developed. I've put in so much time on this.' ‘I don't want it developed,' says Howard, ‘I want development to occur in discussion.' ‘I'm sorry, Dr Kirk,' says Carmody, ‘but I felt this was better. I mean, I felt I could sum this stuff up and get it out of the way so we didn't need to spend a lot of time going over and over it.' ‘I want us to go over it,' said Howard, ‘it's called discussion. Now put that script away, take it outside, and then tell us what impressions you've got from the reading I asked you to do.' ‘You think I haven't done the reading, sir?' asks Carmody. ‘I don't think that at all,' says Howard, ‘I think you've made a heavy, anal job of this, because you're a heavy, anal type, and I want you to risk your mind in the insecurity of discussion.' ‘Well, I'm sorry, sir, but I can't,' says Carmody. ‘Of course you can,' says Howard. ‘No,' says Carmody, ‘I just don't think like that, work like that. I am an anal type, you're right. It's not all easy. If you like, I'll go over to Counselling Service and get them to write me a note to that effect. They know I can't think like that. They know I have a linear mind, Dr Kirk, I'm afraid.' ‘A linear mind,' says Howard, ‘is that what they told you?' ‘Yes, sir,' says Carmody, ‘it's a mental condition.'

‘I'm sure it is,' says Howard, ‘I'm trying to cure it.' ‘Oh, they wouldn't like that, Dr Kirk,' says Carmody, ‘I'm under treatment for it. Please let me read my paper.' ‘Well,' says Howard, ‘it's up to the rest of the class. I'm not going to accept anything like this from them. But it's a democratic class. We'll vote on it, and you'll have to accept their decision. Right, Mr Carmody wants to submit a written paper; those who are prepared to hear it?' ‘How long is the paper?' asks Merion Scoule. ‘No discussion, just vote,' says Howard. ‘In favour?' Three hands go up. ‘Against?' Two go up, one of them Howard's. ‘Well,' says Howard, ‘you've got the consent of these tolerant people. Go ahead and read your formal paper.' Carmody casts a fast, uneasy glance at Howard, as if mystified by his good luck. Then he coughs, ducks his head down, and begins to read again, in the same careful voice. It is dull, dogged stuff, an old scheme of words, a weak little plot, a culling of obvious quotations surrounded by obvious comments, untouched with sympathy or that note of radical fire that, in Howard's eyes, has so much to do with true intellectual awareness. Occasionally Carmody picks up the books from beside his chair, and reads from them; occasionally he tries a rhetorical flourish; occasionally he glances, uneasily, up and around. The clock, on the wall above the green-board, ticks and turns; the circle of people is bored; Michael Bennard, that irritable Marxist, draws large black crosses on a notepad, and Merion Scoule is blank-eyed, withdrawn into thoughts that take her elsewhere. Felicity is looking expectantly at Howard, awaiting his anger, his interruption. But Howard does not interrupt. The paper is like an overripe plum, collapsing and softening from its own inner entropy, ready to fall. It is the epitome of false consciousness; its ideas are fictions or pretences, self-serving, without active awareness; it moves towards its inevitable fate. Now the class follows Carmody's eyes as he tracks through his writing, moves towards the bottom of a page. He knows this; he fumbles the turnover, lifting two pages instead of one. He sees this, pauses, turns back one sheet. Merion Scoule says, ‘Can I ask a question?'

Carmody looks up, his neat cropped head staring at her. He says, in a precise, judicious manner: ‘If it's a point of detail. I'd prefer general issues to wait to the end, when the argument is clear.' ‘It is a general issue,' says Merion. Howard says, impersonally: ‘I think a little discussion would clear the air.' ‘Well,' says Merion, leaning forward, ‘I just want George to explain the methodology of this paper. So that I can understand it.' Carmody says, ‘Isn't it evident? It's an objective summary of my findings.' ‘But it doesn't have any ideology, does it?' asks Merion. ‘It's filled with it,' says Michael Bennard, ‘The ideology of bourgeois self-justification.' ‘I meant ideological self-awareness,' says Merion. ‘Oh, I realize it doesn't agree with your politics,' says Carmody, ‘but I think someone ought to stand back and look critically at these critics of society for a change.' ‘It doesn't even agree with life,' says Michael Bennard. ‘You're seeing a society as a consensus which bad people from outside set out to upset, by wanting change. But people desire and need change; it's their only hope, not some paranoid little deviance.' ‘That's pure politics,' says Carmody, ‘may I get on with my paper?' ‘It won't do, George,' says Howard, intervening, ‘I'm afraid this is an anal, repressed paper in every way. Your model of society is static, as Michael says. It's an entity with no internal momentum and no internal conflict. In short, it's not sociologically valid.' A redness comes up Carmody's neck, and reaches his lower face. He says, insistently, ‘I think it's a possible point of view, sir.' ‘It may be in conservative circles,' says Howard, ‘it isn't in sociological ones.' Carmody stares at Howard; some of the polite finish begins to come off him. ‘Isn't that debatable, Dr Kirk?' he asks, ‘I mean, are you sociology?' ‘Yes,' says Howard, ‘for the present purpose, I am.' There is discomfort in the room; Merion Scoule, humanely trying to soften the atmosphere, says, ‘I think you're just a little hung up, George. I mean, you're too much involved; you're not standing outside society and looking at it.' Carmody ignores her; he looks at Howard; he says, ‘Nothing I say could ever please you, could it?' ‘You'd certainly have to try harder than you do,' says Howard. ‘I see,' says Carmody, ‘Do I have to agree with you, Dr Kirk, do I have to vote the way you do, and march down the street with you, and sign your petitions, and hit policemen on your demos, before I can pass your course?'

There is a pause in the class, a tiny, uneasy movement of furniture. Then Howard says: ‘It's not required, George. But it might help you see some of the problems inside this society you keep sentimentalizing about.' ‘I think, George,' says Merion, ‘the trouble is that you don't have a conflict model of society.' ‘Don't let him off the hook,' says Howard, punitive. ‘There's a lot more missing than that. All of sociology and all of humanity as well.' Carmody's entire face is red now; his eyes glare. He pushes his paper savagely back into his shiny briefcase, and says, ‘Of course you all
do
have a conflict model. Everyone's interest conflicts with everyone else's. But better not conflict with Dr Kirk. Oh, no, it's not a consensus model for his classes all right. I mean, we're democratic, and we vote, but no dirty old conservative standpoints here. Sociology's revolutionary, and we'd better agree.' ‘I'm going to have to cool this down,' says Howard, ‘I don't think you're in a state to understand anything that's being said to you. We'll forget the paper, and start in on this Mill, Marx, Weber topic from the beginning.' ‘Do what you like,' says Carmody, ‘I've had enough.' He gets off his chair and kneels on the floor, picking up his pile of books. His hurt, angry face looks up at Howard as he does this. Then he stands, captures his briefcase with his fingers, and walks out of the circle, towards the door. The door is difficult to open, with his burden of books, but he manages it; he hooks a foot round it to bring it slamming to as he leaves. The circle of people stare after him; but to these habitués of the seminar as an event, this is a fairly modest outrage, a simple pettish hysteria, not at all as fancy as many of the intense psychodramas that develop in class. The door bangs, and they turn inward again, and resume their eye-to-eye ecological huddle. Howard leads them through a discussion of the issues that, in Carmody's gloss of nineteenth-century thought and society, had not existed: the compelling machine of industrialism, the fetish of commodity, the protestant ethic, the repression of the worker, the revolutionary energies. Carmody wanders somewhere else, forgotten; the class generates its rightful work and then its excitement, for Howard is a busy, compelling teacher, a man of passion. The faces wake, the hour turns in no time at all.

And then the stable clock chimes; the class gets up, and carries the tables back from the corridor into the room again. It is Howard's custom to take his class for coffee afterwards, and now he leads them, a little group, down in the lift, across the foyer, through the Piazza. They go into the coffee bar in the Students' Union, overlooking the lake. The noise level is high; in a corner a pin-table pings on different notes, in serial composition; people sit at table arguing, or reading. They find a booth by the wall, littered with cups and cigarette packets, and sit down, squeezing into the circular bench; Merion and Michael go off to join the queue at the counter to bring back coffee. ‘Wow,' says Felicity, pushing in next to Howard, and resting her knee against his leg, and looking up into his face, ‘I hope you never decide to destroy me like that.' ‘Like what?' asks Howard. ‘The way you did George,' says Felicity, ‘If he wasn't such a reactionary, I'd feel sorry for him.' ‘It mystifies me,' says Howard. ‘It's as if he invites it, as if he's set himself up as masochist to my sadist.' ‘But you don't give him a chance,' says Felicity. ‘No chances for people like that,' says Hashmi, ‘he's an imperialist fascist.' ‘But you are a sadist,' says Felicity. ‘The trouble with George,' says Howard, ‘is that he's the perfect teaching aid. The enemy personified. He almost seems to have chosen the role. I don't even know whether he's serious.' ‘He is,' says Felicity. The others join them, with the coffee. ‘Coffee, coffee, what they here call coffee,' says Hashmi. ‘Oh, Hashmi,' says Howard, ‘Roger Fundy tells me Mangel's coming here to lecture. The man who did that work on race.' ‘But you can't have him,' says Hashmi, ‘I shall tell this to the Afro-Asian Society. This is worse than Carmody.' ‘It is,' says Howard. He drinks his coffee, quickly, and gets up to go. As he leaves the table, squeezing over Felicity, she says, ‘What time shall I come tonight, Howard?' ‘Where?' asks Howard. ‘I'm babysitting for you,' says Felicity. ‘Oh,' says Howard, ‘can you get there just before seven-fifteen?' ‘Fine,' says Felicity, ‘I'll come straight there. You won't even have to pick me up.' ‘Good,' says Howard.

He goes back to the Social Science Building; getting out of the lift, at the fifth floor, he can distantly see a figure waiting outside the door of his study. From this standpoint, Carmody looks like a creature at the end of a long historical corridor, back in dark time; Howard stands, in the brightness of the emancipating present, at the other. Carmody has shed his books; he carries only his shiny briefcase; he has a dejected, saddened look. As Howard gets nearer, he glances up, and sees him; his demeanour stiffens. ‘I think I ought to have a talk with you, sir,' he says to Howard, ‘can you give me some time?' ‘A minute or two,' says Howard, unlocking his door. ‘Come in.' Carmody follows Howard through the doorway and then, just inside the room, he stops, his big body ungainly, holding his briefcase. ‘Sit down, George,' says Howard, placing himself in the red desk chair, ‘What's this about?' ‘I want to discuss my work,' says Carmody, not moving from his position, ‘I mean, a really frank discussion.' ‘All right,' says Howard. ‘I think I'm in trouble,' says Carmody, ‘and I think you've got me into it.' ‘What does that mean?' asks Howard. ‘Well, this is my third year in your course,' says Carmody. ‘I've written about twenty essays for you. They're here, in my bag. I wonder if you'd go over them with me.' ‘We've been over them,' says Howard. ‘I wonder if we could look at the marks,' says Carmody, ‘it's a question of the marks.' ‘What about them?' asks Howard. ‘Well, sir, they're not very good marks,' says Carmody. ‘No,' says Howard. ‘They're mostly fails,' says Carmody. ‘Yes,' says Howard. ‘I mean, I could fail this course,' says Carmody. ‘It rather looks as though you might,' says Howard. ‘And that's all right with you?' ‘It's the inevitable consequence of doing bad work.' ‘And if I fail your course I fail my degree,' says Carmody, ‘because if you don't pass in your subsidiary subject you can't get a degree.' ‘That's right,' says Howard. ‘You think that could happen?' asks Carmody. ‘I do.' ‘Well, in that case,' says Carmody, ‘I have to ask you to look at these marks again, and see if you think they're fair.'