audience before me had
broken into a hundred — no, a thousand — brightly moving dots.
“The business of a university …” I began again, but I could not think how I had intended for the sentence to end. My mouth
opened and closed, and I am sure I must have winced, for I was certainly wincing inwardly from extraordinary pain. I felt
light-headed and gripped the podium. It was then that I found myself most grievously indisposed in a manner I should not like
to set forth in any detail here. After a time, I felt a hand on my arm and looked up into the face of Arthur Hallock, who,
as a physician, undoubtedly felt it necessary (and politically expedient) to see to my distress. I shook him off, humiliated
by his attentions. “Go away,” I think I actually said as I fainted to the floor.
I awoke moments later on the stage of the amphitheater. I could hear Hallock telling Phillips that he thought I had had a
seizure, and though I wanted to protest this misdiagnosis, I found that I could not; that, for the moment, I had no speech.
In a state of confusion and deep chagrin, I was brought to a sitting position and then to my feet. When it was determined
I could stand on my own — even though, mysteriously, I still could not talk — I was led like a child to my rooms.
Though I regained my speech before the night was out, I was too exhausted to move or to eat — my collapse, I am convinced
now, more emotional than physical. I tried diligently to convince my would-be physician of this, but I could tell that he
was no more persuaded by my argument than he had been by my impassioned rhetoric in the amphitheater.
I remained in my rooms for several days. The vote to institute a department of physical culture was delayed a week. The outcome
might have been predicted. And although by then I hardly cared about the matter, I have often wondered whether I should have
been more persuasive and perhaps even victorious had Etna not abandoned me and had my voice contained a natural and convincing
enthusiasm for my cause, or had I not presented such a haggard appearance on the stage. Thus there might not be, even today,
a department of physical culture at Thrupp College. Which makes me ponder the nature of fate and coincidence: A man is propelled
one minute sooner to his automobile because he decides not to stop to kiss his wife good-bye. As a consequence of this omission,
he then crosses a bridge one minute before it collapses, taking all its traffic and doomed souls into the swirling and angry
depths below. Oblivious, and safely out of harm’s way, our man continues on his journey.
I waited the week in a feverish grimace. On Saturday, I hired a coach to take me to Exeter. I gave no advance warning of my
visit, for fear either Etna or her apparently formidable brother-in-law might forbid it.
The journey from Thrupp to Exeter could be made in one very long day and was then a rough journey, since there were no direct
highways to that part of the state. One had to resort to the twisting lanes and village roads of a countryside not best known
for its easy landscape. Thus I was in somewhat disheveled condition when I arrived in Exeter. Though my need to see Etna was
keen, for once prudence held sway; I asked the weary driver of the coach to take me to a boardinghouse instead.
I doubt Exeter has changed much since I was there. It is a handsome academy town with many fine residences along its High
and Water Streets. As the driver brought me into the village, I tried to imagine in which house Etna was prisoner. For that
is how I saw her then — a servant, even a slave, in her brother-in-law’s possession. If I had before been determined to liberate
her from the kindly though stifling household of her uncle, I was doubly resolved then to free her from the employ of the
man who had contrived to steal from Etna her entire capital.
I spent a restless night in the home of a widow who had been
broken into a hundred — no, a thousand — brightly moving dots.
“The business of a university …” I began again, but I could not think how I had intended for the sentence to end. My mouth
opened and closed, and I am sure I must have winced, for I was certainly wincing inwardly from extraordinary pain. I felt
light-headed and gripped the podium. It was then that I found myself most grievously indisposed in a manner I should not like
to set forth in any detail here. After a time, I felt a hand on my arm and looked up into the face of Arthur Hallock, who,
as a physician, undoubtedly felt it necessary (and politically expedient) to see to my distress. I shook him off, humiliated
by his attentions. “Go away,” I think I actually said as I fainted to the floor.
I awoke moments later on the stage of the amphitheater. I could hear Hallock telling Phillips that he thought I had had a
seizure, and though I wanted to protest this misdiagnosis, I found that I could not; that, for the moment, I had no speech.
In a state of confusion and deep chagrin, I was brought to a sitting position and then to my feet. When it was determined
I could stand on my own — even though, mysteriously, I still could not talk — I was led like a child to my rooms.
Though I regained my speech before the night was out, I was too exhausted to move or to eat — my collapse, I am convinced
now, more emotional than physical. I tried diligently to convince my would-be physician of this, but I could tell that he
was no more persuaded by my argument than he had been by my impassioned rhetoric in the amphitheater.
I remained in my rooms for several days. The vote to institute a department of physical culture was delayed a week. The outcome
might have been predicted. And although by then I hardly cared about the matter, I have often wondered whether I should have
been more persuasive and perhaps even victorious had Etna not abandoned me and had my voice contained a natural and convincing
enthusiasm for my cause, or had I not presented such a haggard appearance on the stage. Thus there might not be, even today,
a department of physical culture at Thrupp College. Which makes me ponder the nature of fate and coincidence: A man is propelled
one minute sooner to his automobile because he decides not to stop to kiss his wife good-bye. As a consequence of this omission,
he then crosses a bridge one minute before it collapses, taking all its traffic and doomed souls into the swirling and angry
depths below. Oblivious, and safely out of harm’s way, our man continues on his journey.
I waited the week in a feverish grimace. On Saturday, I hired a coach to take me to Exeter. I gave no advance warning of my
visit, for fear either Etna or her apparently formidable brother-in-law might forbid it.
The journey from Thrupp to Exeter could be made in one very long day and was then a rough journey, since there were no direct
highways to that part of the state. One had to resort to the twisting lanes and village roads of a countryside not best known
for its easy landscape. Thus I was in somewhat disheveled condition when I arrived in Exeter. Though my need to see Etna was
keen, for once prudence held sway; I asked the weary driver of the coach to take me to a boardinghouse instead.
I doubt Exeter has changed much since I was there. It is a handsome academy town with many fine residences along its High
and Water Streets. As the driver brought me into the village, I tried to imagine in which house Etna was prisoner. For that
is how I saw her then — a servant, even a slave, in her brother-in-law’s possession. If I had before been determined to liberate
her from the kindly though stifling household of her uncle, I was doubly resolved then to free her from the employ of the
man who had contrived to steal from Etna her entire capital.
I spent a restless night in the home of a widow who had been
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