Bring the Jubilee

XV. GOOD YEARS

And now I come to the period of my life which stands in such sharp contrast to what had gone before. Was it really eight years I spent at Haggershaven? The arithmetic is indisputable: I arrived in 1944 at the age of twentythree; I left in 1952 at the age of thirty-one. Indisputable, but not quite believable; as with the happy countries which are supposed to have no history I find it hard to go over those eight years and divide them by remarkable events. They blended too smoothly, too contentedly into one another.

Crops were harvested, stored, or marketed; the fields were plowed in the fall and again in the spring and sown anew. Three of the older fellows died, another became bedridden. Five new fellows were accepted; two biologists, a chemist, a poet, a philologist. It was to the last I played the same part Ace had to me, introducing him to the sanctuary of the Haven, seeing its security and refuge afresh and deeply thankful for the fortune that had brought me to it.

There was no question about success in my chosen profession, not even the expected alternation of achievement and disappointment. Once started on the road I kept on going at an even, steady pace. For what would have been my doctoral thesis I wrote a paper on “The Timing of General Stuart's Maneuvers During August 1863 in Pennsylvania.” This received flattering comment from scholars as far away as the Universities of Lima and Cambridge; because of it I was offered instructorships at highly respectable schools.

I could not think of leaving the Haven. The world into which I had been born had never been fully revealed for what it was until I had escaped from it. Secrecy and ugliness; greed, fear, and callousness; meanness, avarice, cunning, deceit, and self-worship were as close around as the nearest farmhouses. The idea of returning to that world and of entering into daily competition with other underpaid, overdriven drudges striving fruitlessly to apply a dilute coating of culture to the unresponsive surface of unwilling students had little attraction.

In those eight years, as I broadened my knowledge I narrowed my field. Undoubtedly it was presumptuous to take the War of Southron Independence as my specialty when there were already so many comprehensive works on the subject and so many celebrated historians engaged with this special event. However, my choice was made not out of self-importance but fascination, and undoubtedly it was the proximity of the scene which influenced the selection of my goal, the last thirteen months of the war, from General Lee's invasion of Pennsylvania to the capitulation at Reading. I saw the whole vast design: Gettysburg, Lancaster, the siege of Philadelphia, the disastrous Union counterthrust in Tennessee, the evacuation of Washington, and finally the desperate effort to break out of Lee's trap which ended at Reading. I could spend profitable years filling in the details.

My monographs were published in learned Confederate and British journals—there were none in the United States—and I rejoiced when they brought attention, not so much to me as to Haggershaven. I could contribute oniy this notice and my physical labor; on the other hand I asked little beyond food, clothing, and shelter—just books. My field trips I took on foot, often earning my keep by casual labor for farmers, paying for access to private collections of letters or documents by indexing and arranging them.

The time devoted to scholarship did not alone distinguish those eight years, nor even the security of the Haven. I have spoken of the simple, easy manner in which the Agatis admitted me to their friendship, but they were not the only ones with whom there grew ties of affection and understanding. With very few exceptions the fellows of Haggershaven quickly learned to shed the suspicion and aloofness, so necessary a protection elsewhere, and substitute acceptance. The result was a tranquillity I had never experienced before, so that I think of those years as set apart, a golden period, a time of perpetual warm sunshine.

Between Barbara and me the turbulent, ambivalent passion swept back and forth, the periods of estrangement seemingly only a generating force to bring us together again. Hate and love, admiration and distaste, impatience and pity were present on both sides. Only on hers there was jealousy as well; perhaps if I had not been indifferent whenever she chose to respond to some other man she might not have felt the errant desire so strongly. Perhaps not; there was a moral urge behind her behavior. She sneered at women who yielded to such temptations. To her they were not temptations but just rewards; she did not yield, she took them as her due.

Sometimes I wondered if her neurosis did not verge on insanity; I'm sure for her part she must often have stood off and appraised me as a mistake. I know there were many times when I wished there would be no more reconciliation between us.

Yet no amount of thinking could cancel the swift hunger I felt in her presence or the deep mutual satisfaction of physical union. Frequently we were lovers for as long as a month before the inevitable quarrel, followed by varying periods of coolness. During the weeks of distance I remembered how she could be tender and gracious as well as ardent, just as during our intimacy I remembered her ruthlessness and dominance.

It was not only her temperamental outbursts nor even her unappeasable craving for love and affection which thrust us apart. Impediments which, in the beginning, had appeared inconsequential assumed more importance all the time. It was increasingly hard for her to leave her work behind even for moments. She was never allowed to forget, either by her own insatiable drive or by outside acknowledgment, that she was already one of the foremost physicists in the world. She had been granted so many honorary degrees she no longer traveled to receive them; offers from foreign governments of well-paid jobs connected with their munitions industries were common. Articles were written about her equation of matter, energy, space, and time, acclaiming her as a revolutionary thinker; though she dismissed them as evaluation of elementary work, they nevertheless added to her isolation and curtailed her freedom.

Midbin was, in his way, as much under her spell as Ace or myself. His triumph over Catalina's dumbness he took lightly now it was accomplished; stabilizing Barbara's emotions was the victory he wanted. She, on her side, had lost whatever respect she must have had for him in the days when she had submitted to his treatment. On the very rare occasions when the whim moved her to listen to his entreaties—usually relayed through Ace or me—and grant him time, it seemed to be only for the opportunity of making fun of his efforts. Patiently he tried new techniques of exploration and expression.

“But it's not much use,” he said once, dolefully; “she doesn't want to be helped.”

“Wanting seemed to have little to do with making Catty talk,” I pointed out. “Couldn't you. .

“Make a tinugraph of Barbara's traumatic shock? If I had the materials there would be no necessity.”

Perhaps there was less malice in her mockery now Catty was no longer the focus of his theories about emotional pathology; perhaps she forgave him for her temporary displacement, but she did not withhold her contempt. “Oliver, you should have been a woman,” she told him; “you would have been impossible as a mother, but what a grandmother you would have made!”

That Catty herself had in her own way as strong a will as Barbara was demonstrated in her determination to become part of Haggershaven. Her reaction to the visit of the Spanish official was translated into an unyielding program. She had gone resolutely to Thomas Haggerwells, telling him she knew quite well she had neither the aptitudes nor qualifications for admission to fellowship, nor did she ask it. All she wanted was to live in what she regarded as her only home. She would gladly do any work from washing dishes to making clothes—anything she was asked. When she came of age she would turn over whatever money she inherited to the Haven without conditions.

He had patiently pointed out that a Spanish subject was a citizen of a far wealthier and more powerful nation than the United States; as an heiress she could enjoy the luxuries and distractions of Madrid or Havana and eventually make a suitable marriage. How silly it would be to give up all these advantages to become an unnoticed, penniless drudge for a group of cranks near York, Pennsylvania.

“He was quite right you know, Catty,” I said, when she told me about the interview.

She shook her head vigorously, so the loose black curls swirled back and forth. “You think so, Hodge, because you are a hard, prudent Yankee.”

I opened my eyes rather wide; this was certainly not the description I would have applied to myself.

“And also because you have Anglo-Saxon chivalry, always rescuing maidens in distress and thinking they must sit on a cushion after that and sew a fine seam. Well, I can sew a fine seam, but sitting on cushions would bore me. Women are not as delicate as you think, Hodge. Nor as terrifying.”

Was this last directed toward Barbara? Perhaps Catty had claws. “There's a difference,” I said, “between cushionsitting and living where books and pictures and music are not regarded with suspicion.”

“That's right,” she agreed; “Haggershaven.”

“No, Haggershaven is an anomaly in the United States, and in spite of everything it cannot help but be infected by the rest of the country. I meant the great, successful nations who can afford the breathing spaces for culture.”

“But you do not go to them.”

“No. This is my country.”

“And it will be mine, too. After all it was made in the first place by people willing to give up luxuries. Besides you are contradicting yourself: if Haggershaven cannot avoid being infected by what is outside it, neither can any other spot. Part of the world cannot be civilized if another part is backward.”

There was no doubt her demure expression hid stern resolution. Whatever else it hid was not so certain. Evidently Mr. Haggerwells realized the quality of her determination for eventually he proposed to the fellows that she be allowed to stay and the offer of her money be rejected. The motion was carried, with only Barbara, who spoke long and bitterly against it, voting “no.”

In accepting Catty out of charity, the fellows unexpectedly made an advantageous bargain. Not merely because she was always eager to help, but for her specific contribution to the Haven's economy. Before this, clothing the Haven had been a haphazard affair; suits or dresses were bought with money which would otherwise have been contributed to the general fund, or if the fellow had no outside income, by a grant from the same fund. Catty's artistry with the needle made a revolution. Not only did she patch and mend and alter; she designed and made clothes, conveying some of her enthusiasm to the other women. The Haven was better and more handsomely clad, and a great deal of money was saved. Only Barbara refused to have her silk trousers and jackets made at home.

It was not entirely easy to adjust to the new Catty, the busy, efficient, self-reliant creature. Her expressive voice could be enchanting even when she was speaking nonsense—and Catty rarely spoke nonsense. I don't mean she was priggish or solemn, quite the contrary; her spontaneous laughter was quick and frequent. But she was essentially not frivolous; she felt deeply, her loyalties were strong and enduring.

I missed her former all too open devotion to me. It had caused embarrassment, impatience, annoyance; now it was withdrawn I felt deprived and even pettish at its lack. Not that I had anything to offer in return or considered that any emotion was called for from me. Though I didn't express it to myself so openly at the time, what I regretted was the sensually valuable docility of a beautiful woman. Of course, there was a confusion here: I was regretting what had never been, for Catty and the nameless dumb girl were different individuals. Even her always undeniable beauty was changed and heightened; what I really wanted was for the Catty of now to act like the Catty of then. And without any reciprocal gesture from me.

The new Catty no more than the old was disingenuous or coquettish. She was simply mature, dignified, selfcontained, and just a trifle amusedly aloof. Also she was very busy. She did not pretend to any interest in other men; at the same time she had clearly outgrown her childish dependence on me. She refused any competition with Barbara. When I sought her out she was there, but she made no attempt to call me to her.

I was not so unversed that I didn't occasionally suspect this might be a calculated tactic. But when I recalled the utter innocence of her look I reflected I would have to have a very nice conceit of myself indeed to believe the two most attractive women at Haggershaven were contending for me.

I don't know precisely when I began to see Catty with a predatory male eye. Doubtless it was during one of those times when Barbara and I had quarreled, and when she had called attention to Catty by accusing me of dallying with her. I was essentially as polygamous as Barbara was polyandrous or Catty monogamous; once the idea had formed I made no attempt to reject it.

Nor, for a very long time, did I accept it in any way except academically. There are sensual values also in tantalizing, and if these values are perverse I can only say I was still immature in many ways. Additionally there must have been an element of fear of Catty, the same fear which maintained a reserve against Barbara. For the time being at least it seemed much pleasanter to talk lightly and inconsequentially with her; to laugh and boast of my progress, to discuss Haggershaven and the world, than to face our elementary relationship.

My fourth winter at the Haven had been an unusually mild one; spring was early and wet. Kimi Agati who, with her children, annually gathered quantities of mushrooms from the woodlots and pastures, claimed this year's supply was so large that she needed help and conscripted Catty and me. Catty protested she didn't know a mushroom from a toadstool; Kimi immediately gave her a brief but thorough course in mycology. “And Hodge will help you; he's a country boy.”

“All right,” I said. “I make no guarantees though; I haven't been a country boy for a long time.”

“I'm not so sure,” said Kimi thoughtfully. “You two take the small southeast woodlot; Fumio can have the big pasture, Eiko the small one; Yoshi and I will pick in the west woodlot.”

We carried a picnic lunch and nests of large baskets which were to be put by the edge of the woodlots when full; late in the afternoon a cart would pick them up and bring them in for drying. The air was warm even under the leafless branches; the damp ground steamed cosily.

“Kimi was certainly right,” I commented. “They're thick as can be.”

“I don't see…” She stooped gracefully. “Oh, is this one?”

“Yes,” I said. “And there, and there. Not that white thing over there though.”

We filled our first baskets without moving more than a few yards. “At this rate we'll have them all full by noon.”

“And go back for more?”

“I suppose. Or just wander around.”

“Oh… Look, Hodge—what's this?”

“What?”

“This.” She showed me the puffball in her hands, looking up inquiringly.

I looked down casually; suddenly there was nothing casual between us anymore, nor ever would be again. I looked down at a woman I wanted desperately, feverishly, immediately. The shock of desire was a weight on my chest, expelling the air from my lungs. “Goodness—is it some rare specimen or something?”

“Puffball,” I managed to say. “No good.”

I hardly spoke, I could hardly speak, as we filled our second baskets. I was sure the pounding of my heart must show through my shirt, and several times I thought I saw her looking curiously at me. “Let's eat now,” I suggested hoarsely.

I found a pine with low-hanging boughs and tore down enough to make a dry, soft place to sit while Catty unpacked our picnic. “Here's an egg,” she said; “I'm starved.”

We ate; that is, she ate and I pretended to. I was half dazed, half terrified. I watched her swift motions, the turn of her head, the clean, sharp way she bit into the food, and averted my eyes every time her glance crossed mine.

“Well,” she murmured at last, “I suppose we mustn't sit idle any longer. Come on, lazy; back to work.”

“Catty,” I whispered. “Catty.”

“What is it, Hodge?”

“Wait.”

Obediently she paused. I reached over and took her in my arms. She looked at me, not startled, but questioning. Just as my mouth reached hers she moved slightly so that I kissed her cheek instead of her lips. She did not struggle but lay passively, with the same questioning expression.

I held her, pressing her against the pine boughs, and found her mouth. I kissed her eyes and throat and mouth again. Her eyes stayed open, and she did not respond. I undid the top of her dress and pressed my face between her breasts.

“Hodge.”

I paid no attention.

“Hodge, wait. Listen to me. If this is what you want you know I will not try to stop you. But Hodge, be sure. Be very sure.”

“I want you, Catty.”

“Do you? Really want me, I mean.”

“I don't know what you mean. I want you.”

But it was already too late; I had made the fatal error of pausing to listen. Angrily I moved away, picked up my basket, and sullenly began to search for mushrooms again. My hands still trembled, and there was a quiver in my legs. To complement my mood a cloud drifted across the sun and the warm woods became chilly.

“Hodge.”

“Yes?”

“Please don't be angry. Or ashamed. If you are I shall be sorry.”

“I don't understand.”

She laughed. “Oh my dear Hodge. Isn't that what men always say to women? And isn't it always true?”

Suddenly the day was no longer spoiled. The tension melted, and we went on picking mushrooms with a new and fresh innocence.

After this I could no longer keep all thoughts of Catty Out of the intimacy with Barbara; now for the first time her jealousy had grounds. I felt guilty toward both, not because I desired both, but because I didn't totally desire either.

Now, years later, I condemn myself for the lost rapturous moments; at the time I procrastinated and hesitated as though I had eternity in which to make decisions. I was, as Tyss had said, the spectator type, waiting to be acted upon, waiting for events to push me where they would.