California. There had been some kind of scandal. Paul could never get it clear, nor did he wish to, and Horace never spoke of the bruise. Several times, Paul had heard professors’ wives, or their grown daughters, refer to the recent Mrs. Van Duesen with antagonism and distaste. Since this always came from women, and the antagonism was unanimous, Paul felt safe in assuming that the recent Mrs. Van Duesen had been good looking and attractive to men.
As their friendship developed-poker, ball games, movies, occasional double dates, long walks and talks about their work-Paul learned of Dr. Chapman’s project, and Horace learned of Paul’s published book and book in the works. One summer evening, Horace asked to read The Censorable Fringe. A week later, having read and enjoyed it, he reported that he had loaned it to Dr. Chapman. Two days after that, in a state of excitement, Horace caught Paul between classes, before the gymnasium, and told him that Dr. Chapman wanted to see him.
And so, at last, Paul met Dr. Chapman. Horace drove Paul to the Swedish restaurant in town where, in a leather booth across the large room, Dr. Chapman was waiting. They ate and talked. They drove back to the school, and went inside the quonset hut, and Dr. Chapman showed what he and Horace and the others were doing, and he talked. Later, deciding that a breath of air would do them good, Dr. Chapman led them on a long stroll about the darkened campus, Paul striding quickly to keep up beside him, and Horace a step behind.
It was a dizzying and stimulating night, in every way, and for Paul, it was wonderful. He found Dr. Chapman quick-witted, though humorless about his work, a man as well read as himself, and an hypnotic talker. Several times during the evening, drawing himself away from the flow of words, Paul considered Dr. Chapman and saw Dwight Moody and Billy Sunday. Not only in high-pitched, droning eloquence, but in single-mindedness, was Dr. Chapman fanatic about his calling and his mission. He spoke of the men and women who were his subjects with the same bloodless detachment that one might use when speaking of halibuts, and he spoke of sex with the same offhandedness that one might use to speak of a piece of furniture or wearing apparel.
When they crossed the campus, Paul became aware-and this awareness was confirmed in later travels-that Dr. Chapman had no sensibility or consciousness of externals. He had no interests in sights and landscapes, and he had no sensory reactions. He was not even interested in people as individual human beings, except for what they might contribute to his precious digits and codings. It was during that evening, for the first time, that Paul had casually wondered about Dr. Chapman’s personal sex life. Later, Horace had informed him of the once Mrs. Chapman and repeated a rumor of some handsome, middle-aged woman in Milwaukee (only a rumor, mind you, though he did go to Milwaukee several times a month, always alone), but if true, the affair was merely an anatomical convenience.
All through that night, Paul knew what was coming, and waited, fearful that it would not come (a fear rooted in the uncertainty of his academic standing, since he was not even an instructor with a Master’s degree but merely a lecturer, which sometimes made him
feel he did not belong to the club), but at last it did come, and he was finally not surprised.
“It’s a pity, at this point, but I’m afraid I’ll have to let Dominick go,” Dr. Chapman had said.
They had reached the gabled Theta Xi house, and Dr. Chapman stood at the edge of the curb, making much of lighting a new cigar.
“A good man,” he continued, exhaling smoke. “But he’s married a Catholic girl, and she and her whole family are pounding him for his disgraceful vocation. He wants to get back to his first work -he was in physiological chemistry when I found him-but he feels a certain loyalty to me. He was with us this past year, on the interviews throughout
As their friendship developed-poker, ball games, movies, occasional double dates, long walks and talks about their work-Paul learned of Dr. Chapman’s project, and Horace learned of Paul’s published book and book in the works. One summer evening, Horace asked to read The Censorable Fringe. A week later, having read and enjoyed it, he reported that he had loaned it to Dr. Chapman. Two days after that, in a state of excitement, Horace caught Paul between classes, before the gymnasium, and told him that Dr. Chapman wanted to see him.
And so, at last, Paul met Dr. Chapman. Horace drove Paul to the Swedish restaurant in town where, in a leather booth across the large room, Dr. Chapman was waiting. They ate and talked. They drove back to the school, and went inside the quonset hut, and Dr. Chapman showed what he and Horace and the others were doing, and he talked. Later, deciding that a breath of air would do them good, Dr. Chapman led them on a long stroll about the darkened campus, Paul striding quickly to keep up beside him, and Horace a step behind.
It was a dizzying and stimulating night, in every way, and for Paul, it was wonderful. He found Dr. Chapman quick-witted, though humorless about his work, a man as well read as himself, and an hypnotic talker. Several times during the evening, drawing himself away from the flow of words, Paul considered Dr. Chapman and saw Dwight Moody and Billy Sunday. Not only in high-pitched, droning eloquence, but in single-mindedness, was Dr. Chapman fanatic about his calling and his mission. He spoke of the men and women who were his subjects with the same bloodless detachment that one might use when speaking of halibuts, and he spoke of sex with the same offhandedness that one might use to speak of a piece of furniture or wearing apparel.
When they crossed the campus, Paul became aware-and this awareness was confirmed in later travels-that Dr. Chapman had no sensibility or consciousness of externals. He had no interests in sights and landscapes, and he had no sensory reactions. He was not even interested in people as individual human beings, except for what they might contribute to his precious digits and codings. It was during that evening, for the first time, that Paul had casually wondered about Dr. Chapman’s personal sex life. Later, Horace had informed him of the once Mrs. Chapman and repeated a rumor of some handsome, middle-aged woman in Milwaukee (only a rumor, mind you, though he did go to Milwaukee several times a month, always alone), but if true, the affair was merely an anatomical convenience.
All through that night, Paul knew what was coming, and waited, fearful that it would not come (a fear rooted in the uncertainty of his academic standing, since he was not even an instructor with a Master’s degree but merely a lecturer, which sometimes made him
feel he did not belong to the club), but at last it did come, and he was finally not surprised.
“It’s a pity, at this point, but I’m afraid I’ll have to let Dominick go,” Dr. Chapman had said.
They had reached the gabled Theta Xi house, and Dr. Chapman stood at the edge of the curb, making much of lighting a new cigar.
“A good man,” he continued, exhaling smoke. “But he’s married a Catholic girl, and she and her whole family are pounding him for his disgraceful vocation. He wants to get back to his first work -he was in physiological chemistry when I found him-but he feels a certain loyalty to me. He was with us this past year, on the interviews throughout
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