“Gant,” said Eugene.
“Ah, yes — Mr. Gant,” he smiled his contrition. “Now — about your outside reading?” he began.
But what, thought Eugene, about my inside reading?
Did he like to read? Ah — that was good. He was so glad to hear it. The true university in these days, said Carlyle (he did hope Eugene liked rugged old Thomas), was a collection of books.
“Yes, sir,” said Eugene.
That, it seemed to him, was the Oxford Plan. Oh, yes — he had been there, three years, in fact. His mild eye kindled. To loaf along the High on a warm Spring day, stopping to examine in the bookseller’s windows the treasures that might be had for so little. Then to Buol’s or to a friend’s room for tea, or for a walk in the meadows or Magdalen gardens, or to look down into the quad, at the gay pageant of youth below. Ah — Ah! A great place? Well — he’d hardly say that. It all depended what one meant by a great place. Half the looseness in thought — unfortunately, he fancied, more prevalent among American than among English youth — came from an indefinite exuberance of ill-defined speech.
“Yes, sir,” said Eugene.
A great place? Well, he’d scarcely say that. The expression was typically American. Butter-lipped, he turned on the boy a smile of soft unfriendliness:
“It kills,” he observed, “a man’s useless enthusiasms.”
Eugene whitened a little.
“That’s fine,” he said.
Now — let him see. Did he like plays — the modern drama? Excellent. They were doing some very interesting things in the modern drama. Barrie — oh, a charming fellow! What was that? Shaw!
“Yes, sir,” said Eugene. “I’ve read all the others. There’s a new book out.”
“Oh, but really! My dear boy!” said Mr. Torrington with gentle amazement. He shrugged his shoulders and became politely indifferent. Very well, if he liked. Of course, he thought it rather a pity to waste one’s time so when they were really doing some first-rate things. That was JUST the trouble, however. The appeal of a man like that was mainly to the unformed taste, the uncritical judgment. He had a flashy attraction for the immature. Oh, yes! Undoubtedly an amusing fellow. Clever — yes, but hardly significant. And — didn’t he think — a trifle noisy? Or had he noticed that? Yes — there was to be sure an amusing Celtic strain, not without charm, but unsound. He was not in line with the best modern thought.
“I’ll take the Barrie,” said Eugene.
Yes, he rather thought that would be better.
“Well, good day. Mr. — Mr. —? —?” he smiled, fumbling again with his cards.
“Gant.”
Oh yes, to be sure — Gant. He held out his plump limp hand. He did hope Mr. Gant would call on him. Perhaps he’d be able to advise him on some of the little problems that, he knew, were constantly cropping up during the first year. Above all, he mustn’t get discouraged.
“Yes, sir,” said Eugene, backing feverishly to the door. When he felt the open space behind him, he fell through it, and vanished.
Anyway, he thought grimly, I’ve read all the damned Barries. I’ll write the damned report for him, and damned well read what I damn well please.
God save our King and Queen!
He had courses besides in Chemistry, Mathematics, Greek, and Latin.
He worked hard and with interest at his Latin. His instructor was a tall shaven man, with a yellow saturnine face. He parted his scant hair cleverly in such a way as to suggest horns. His lips were always twisted in a satanic smile, his eyes gleamed sideward with heavy malicious humor. Eugene had great hopes of him. When the boy arrived, panting and breakfastless, a moment after the class had settled to order, the satanic professor would greet him with elaborate irony: “Ah there, Brother Gant! Just in time for church again. Have you slept well?”
The class roared its appreciation of these subtleties. And later, in an expectant pause, he would deepen his arched brows portentously, stare up mockingly under his bushy eyebrows at his expectant audience, and say, in a deep sardonic voice:
“And now, I am going to request Brother Gant to favor us with one of his polished and scholarly translations.”
These heavy jibes were hard to bear because, of all the class, two dozen or more, Brother Gant was the only one to prepare his work without the aid of a printed translation. He worked hard on Livy and Tacitus, going over the lesson several times until he had dug out a smooth and competent reading of his own. This he was stupid enough to deliver in downright fashion, without hesitation, or a skilfully affected doubt here and there. For his pains and honesty he was handsomely rewarded by the Amateur Diabolist. The lean smile would deepen as the boy read, the man would lift his eyes significantly to the grinning class, and when it was over, he would say:
“Bravo, Brother Gant! Excellent! Splendid! You are riding a good pony — but a little too smoothly, my boy. You ride a little too well.”
The class sniggered heavily.
When he could stand it no longer, he sought the man out one day after the class.
“See here, sir! See here!” he began in a voice choking with fury and exasperation. “Sir — I assure you —” he thought of all the grinning apes in the class, palming off profitably their stolen translations, and he could not go on.
The Devil’s Disciple was not a bad man; he was only, like most men who pride themselves on their astuteness, a foolish one.
“Nonsense, Mr. Gant,” said he kindly. “You don’t think you can fool me on a translation, do you? It’s all right with me, you know,” he continued, grinning. “If you’d rather ride a pony than do your own work, I’ll give you a passing grade — so long as you do it well.”
“But —” Eugene began explosively.
“But I think it’s a pity, Mr. Gant,” said the professor, gravely, “that you’re willing to slide along this way. See here, my boy, you’re capable of doing first-rate work. I can see that. Why don’t you make an effort? Why don’t you buckle down and really study, after this?”
Eugene stared at the man, with tears of anger in his eyes. He sputtered but could not speak. But suddenly, as he looked down into the knowing leer, the perfect and preposterous injustice of the thing — like a caricature — overcame him: he burst into an explosive laugh of rage and amusement which the teacher, no doubt, accepted as confession.
“Well, what do you say?” he asked. “Will you try?”
“All right! Yes!” the boy yelled. “I’ll try it.”
He bought at once a copy of the translation used by the class. Thereafter, when he read, faltering prettily here and there over a phrase, until his instructor should come to his aid, the satanic professor listened gravely and attentively, nodding his head in approval from time to time, and saying, with great satisfaction, when he had finished: “Good, Mr. Gant. Very good. That shows what a little real work will do.”
And privately, he would say: “You see the difference, don’t you? I knew at once when you stopped using that pony. Your translation is not so smooth, but it’s your own now. You’re doing good work, my boy, and you’re getting something out of it. It’s worth it, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Eugene gratefully, “it certainly is —”
By far the most distinguished of his teachers this first year was Mr. Edward Pettigrew (“Buck”) Benson, the Greek professor. Buck Benson was a little man in the middle-forties, a bachelor, somewhat dandified, but old-fashioned, in his dress. He wore wing collars, large plump cravats, and suede-topped shoes. His hair was thick, heavily grayed, beautifully kept. His