“Modern Languages Association. That’s where we scholars show each other how brilliant we are!”
“Ah! I see. Teaching literary types how to appreciate literature.”
“In a manner of speaking. To rigorously appreciate it. Anyway, as I said, we had just started, but he was looking for a way to bridge the gap.”
“Gap?”
“Between fact and value, investigation and appreciation, in a sense, to resolve the contradictions you spotted.”
“How?”
“By moving from the particular to the general. By examining closely each word, each sentence, each image. First the parts, then the whole. He wanted students to see, as he said, ‘beauty in the making.’ After that’s accomplished, and only after that, would he put the book back in history. He wanted the words to enlighten the context rather than the other way around.”
“Interesting.”
“And he used modern writers as his examples, too. Modern American writers.”
“Why emphasize American?”
“Well, there’s this idea that anything written after the Greeks isn’t worthy. Old is good, new bad. And therefore literature by Americans is really bad. De Tocqueville said we were a bunch of boors a half a century ago, and we took it to heart. Perhaps he was right. But since the War, you know, with patriotism on the rise, there’s been growing acceptance, an interest in homegrown writers. Nick planned to use Mark Twain for his paper, and he hoped I would do something by Edith Wharton. He even had a working title, ‘The History of Aesthetics, the Aesthetics of History in Two Modern American Writers.’ “
“Very clever. If I don’t think about it too much, I even might understand it. And he asked you to help him?”
“Uh huh. Basically. Seemed to have no problem with my being a woman . . . or a Jew” Lena said, winking at Sarah.
“It really sounds like such a great loss, Lena.”
“I know. And he was so loved by his students, became a real father figure to many of them. Even more than that. They hung on his every word. Worshipped him, I’d say.”
“So what now?”
“Well, I’ll try to finish the paper as best I can. Try to fulfill his goal of reading at the MLA. I, uh, thought that, um, maybe between our outings you could even help a little, if you don’t mind. He was a prolific writer, and it’s going to take me a long time to go through all of his notes.”
“I’d be glad to do whatever I can. You know Lena, it doesn’t sound as if his students were the only ones who were smitten with him. There wasn’t anything . . . more going on between you two, was there?”
“What? No! No, Sarah. I admired him, but not in that way.”
Just then Whaley appeared at the table, balancing two plates overflowing with griddlecakes browned to perfection, thick-cut ham, buttered toast and a fresh pot of coffee.
“Here you go. And there’s plenty more where this came from,” he said.
“Thank you, sir. We may take you up on that.”
Lena started immediately, picking up a piece of each item on her fork and devouring them all together. After a prolonged glance at her plate, Sarah started with the ham, cutting off a small piece and slowly raising her fork. With a silent apology to her parents who sooner would have been tortured than let any pork pass through their lips, she bit into the piece of dark, honey-basted meat, enjoying the perfect blend of sweetness and salt. Then a bite of bread. And a slice of griddlecake. For several minutes she and Lena ate contentedly, each employing her own gustatory method. In the end, though, they were cousins, demonstrating their kinship by fulfilling the family mandate to “clean your plate.”
5
The tightness in Sarah’s calves was pleasantly uncomfortable. It felt good to have used those muscles. Still, if she didn’t move her legs soon she was liable to become petrified in her crouched position, so she grabbed a thick folder from the bottom drawer, stood up and limped over to the table.
For her taste, the college was a bit too much like the courthouse, designed to announce the importance of the activity for which it was built. Dark wood, marble floors, high domed ceilings framed with intricate molding. Imposing, sober, enlightened, the exact kind of environment she had taken a vacation to escape. Not to mention that the tiny file room to which she had been relegated was smaller and even narrower than her office. With no window, it felt both claustrophobic and stiflingly hot. But she was happy to help Lena. It was just for the afternoon, anyway. Tomorrow they were returning to the Smokies—she just hoped her legs would be ready to carry her.
“History teaches us what men are; literature teaches us what they should be.” The name “Voltaire” was scrawled on the cover of the folder. Sarah agreed with the great French philosopher. She invariably felt more inspired by a good novel than a scrupulously footnoted account of some war. All she learned from history was that men were prone to violence. Nothing new there. But in, say, well Uncle Tom’s Cabin, she was learning about redemption, forgiveness, about the importance of seeing beneath the surface of things. Of course, as Mr. Jarvis had said, Mrs. Stowe had her limitations, and she did spark a war. But in her novel, love and justice seemed to be the animating forces. For that matter, even in the stories of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, to which Sarah was somewhat embarrassingly addicted, she found inspiration in the power of the human mind, in man’s ability to overcome fear and unravel seemingly unsolvable mysteries.
She looked at the quote again, at the bold printing, so full of life, trailing across the folder in a diagonal line. She then opened the folder and started thumbing through the mass of papers. Some notes, typed documents, some full-length treatises written in a meticulous, slightly backward-leaning hand. The first was titled “Interpretive Criticism.” Lena had asked her to look for anything that appeared to relate to the topic of her and the professor’s MLA paper. Better pull that one out. The next was a mimeographed essay by Joel Spingarn. Was this the same person who founded Harcourt Brace? She and Obee had worked with the man at the NAACP. Probably. Creative Criticism. “Works of art are unique acts of self-expression whose excellence must be judged by their own standards, without reference to ethics.” Yes, definitely include this one. A mimeographed quote by a Martin Wright Sampson from the Dial in 1895: “I condemn as an obsolete notion the habit of harping on the moral purposes of the poet or the novelist.” This too, Lena would want to see.
“Excuse me?” A wheat-haired, lithe young woman knocked quietly and stood halfway through the doorway. “Excuse me, but have you seen Miss Greenberg?”
“She should be back shortly. Can I help you? I’m Sarah, Miss Greenberg’s cousin.”
“Oh, hello.” Sarah recognized the voice. Calmer, lower-pitched now, but the same as the other night. “I’m Kathryn. Kathryn Prescott. Miss Greenberg asked me here to help.”
“Yes, she told me you’d be coming. Nice to meet you. I guess my cousin feels I need some supervision!”
Kathryn smiled, her cupid-like lips curling around small, childish looking teeth. “No, it’s not that. She said there’s a lot of material to go through.”
Kathryn’s mouth didn’t quite match the rest of her angular face, which, though attractive in a natural, farm girl sort of way, hinted at a maturity beyond her years. Sarah wasn’t quite sure what it was. Something in the set of her pale blue eyes. “Well, that’s true,” Sarah said. I guess you know what to look for?”
“Uh huh. Um, where is Miss Greenberg?”
“At the police station. She and a few others were called in to hear the coroner’s report. Just a formality, I imagine.”
The girl motioned to someone in the hall, then eased in the rest of the way. Quickly assuming her place in the doorway was a tall,