convinced that Ellen would fall into serious trouble that in the spring of 1943 we wrote a letter to her parents. We said— and signed it jointly lest it be thought that I wasin some way enamored of the girl, as male professors sometimes are with erratic and attractive girls – that we were convinced Ellen might be in for serious psychological disturbance unless a solid attempt was made to reconcile her to her family and her society as represented by her home town. This brought her parents down upon us in full fury. They pointed out that I was not head of my department, that Ellen was doing well in her real subjects, and that it was ridiculous for an assistant professor of music to presume, etc., etc.
“‘This was not the first time I had heard this distinction between real subjects and mine, and I confess that I was always irritated by people who raised the issue. Therefore, when Mr. Jaspar shouted for the third time that my letter was ridiculous I quickly confessed that it probably was and asked him to forget the whole affair, which he did. In fact, that December he sent me a Christmas card, and three months later, in early 1944, his daughter met the boy from Afghanistan.
“‘So far as I know I was the only person with whom Ellen discussed her intention of marrying the young visitor. I took her immediately to talk with my wife, and we in turn called in the young man to interrogate him. He impressed us as one of the finest foreign students we had ever met, and if Ellen has fallen into trouble through her association with him, we cannot say, “We told you so.” We must say exactly the opposite. We told Ellen, “He’s a fine person, but he will not solve your problem.” “What is my problem?” she asked, and I said, “You have the disease that eats at our world. You cannot find peace in old conventions and beliefs, yet you are not sufficiently committed to anything to forge new ones for yourself.” She looked at me and said, “You may be right. But wouldn’t my going with Nazrullah be a step in the right direction?” I told her it would solvenothing, but on the other hand it would not make things worse. That’s the last discussion we had.
“‘When you find Ellen you will find that it is not Nazrullah who has wronged her but she who has wronged Nazrullah.
“‘I’ll close this informal report with one observation. Ellen Jaspar is sick with the disease that is beginning to infect our ablest young people. She has disaffiliated herself from the beliefs that gave our society its structure in the past, but she has found no new structure upon which she can rely for that support which every human life requires.’”
Primly Nexler handed the letter to Richardson, who accepted it without comment, but Verbruggen blustered, “I’d have acted precisely as the Jaspars did. If my daughter gets A’s and B’s in her real subjects and a music professor sends me a letter as garbled as that, I’ll be as stupefied as the Jaspars were.” Then he stared at me with his big, blunt face and demanded, “Miller, does that letter make any sense to you?”
Having heard what he had just said, I didn’t want to insult him, so I equivocated. “It’s part of the picture, sir.”
“What a hell of an answer!” he exploded. “As a father my reaction was the one I just gave. But as an outsider, trying to get a focus on this thing, the music professor’s letter is the only one that makes sense.” Nexler smiled with satisfaction.
Abruptly Verbruggen turned to Nur Muhammad and said, “Nur, we brought you here today for a fresh look at an old problem. Considering what you’ve heard, what do you make of it?”
Nur Muhammad was one of the indefinable Afghans who turned up at all embassies. He learned English—or French or German or Turkish as required—had a fair education, quickly made himself invaluable, and was surely in the pay of the Afghan government, to which he reported secretly. Nur was an agreed-upon
“‘This was not the first time I had heard this distinction between real subjects and mine, and I confess that I was always irritated by people who raised the issue. Therefore, when Mr. Jaspar shouted for the third time that my letter was ridiculous I quickly confessed that it probably was and asked him to forget the whole affair, which he did. In fact, that December he sent me a Christmas card, and three months later, in early 1944, his daughter met the boy from Afghanistan.
“‘So far as I know I was the only person with whom Ellen discussed her intention of marrying the young visitor. I took her immediately to talk with my wife, and we in turn called in the young man to interrogate him. He impressed us as one of the finest foreign students we had ever met, and if Ellen has fallen into trouble through her association with him, we cannot say, “We told you so.” We must say exactly the opposite. We told Ellen, “He’s a fine person, but he will not solve your problem.” “What is my problem?” she asked, and I said, “You have the disease that eats at our world. You cannot find peace in old conventions and beliefs, yet you are not sufficiently committed to anything to forge new ones for yourself.” She looked at me and said, “You may be right. But wouldn’t my going with Nazrullah be a step in the right direction?” I told her it would solvenothing, but on the other hand it would not make things worse. That’s the last discussion we had.
“‘When you find Ellen you will find that it is not Nazrullah who has wronged her but she who has wronged Nazrullah.
“‘I’ll close this informal report with one observation. Ellen Jaspar is sick with the disease that is beginning to infect our ablest young people. She has disaffiliated herself from the beliefs that gave our society its structure in the past, but she has found no new structure upon which she can rely for that support which every human life requires.’”
Primly Nexler handed the letter to Richardson, who accepted it without comment, but Verbruggen blustered, “I’d have acted precisely as the Jaspars did. If my daughter gets A’s and B’s in her real subjects and a music professor sends me a letter as garbled as that, I’ll be as stupefied as the Jaspars were.” Then he stared at me with his big, blunt face and demanded, “Miller, does that letter make any sense to you?”
Having heard what he had just said, I didn’t want to insult him, so I equivocated. “It’s part of the picture, sir.”
“What a hell of an answer!” he exploded. “As a father my reaction was the one I just gave. But as an outsider, trying to get a focus on this thing, the music professor’s letter is the only one that makes sense.” Nexler smiled with satisfaction.
Abruptly Verbruggen turned to Nur Muhammad and said, “Nur, we brought you here today for a fresh look at an old problem. Considering what you’ve heard, what do you make of it?”
Nur Muhammad was one of the indefinable Afghans who turned up at all embassies. He learned English—or French or German or Turkish as required—had a fair education, quickly made himself invaluable, and was surely in the pay of the Afghan government, to which he reported secretly. Nur was an agreed-upon
Similar Books
