A Separate Peace

by John Knowles

  “The marrow of his bone . . .” I repeated aimlessly. This at last penetrated my mind. Phineas had died from the marrow of his bone flowing down his blood stream to his heart.

  I did not cry then or ever about Finny. I did not cry even when I stood watching him being lowered into his family’s strait-laced burial ground outside of Boston. I could not escape a feeling that this was my own funeral, and you do not cry in that case.

  13

  The quadrangle surrounding the Far Common was never considered absolutely essential to the Devon School. The essence was elsewhere, in the older, uglier, more comfortable halls enclosing the Center Common. There the School’s history had unrolled, the fabled riot scenes and Presidential visits and Civil War musterings, if not in these buildings then in their predecessors on the same site. The upperclassmen and the faculty met there, the budget was compiled there, and there students were expelled. When you said “Devon” to an alumnus ten years after graduation he visualized the Center Common.

  The Far Common was different, a gift of the rich lady benefactress. It was Georgian like the rest of the school, and it combined scholasticism with grace in the way which made Devon architecturally interesting. But the bricks had been laid a little too skillfully, and the woodwork was not as brittle and chipped as it should have been. It was not the essence of Devon, and so it was donated, without too serious a wrench, to the war.

  The Far Common could be seen from the window of my room, and early in June I stood at the window and watched the war moving in to occupy it. The advance guard which came down the street from the railroad station consisted of a number of Jeeps, being driven with a certain restraint, their gyration-prone wheels inactive on these old ways which offered nothing bumpier than a few cobblestones. I thought the Jeeps looked noticeably uncomfortable from all the power they were not being allowed to use. There is no stage you comprehend better than the one you have just left, and as I watched the Jeeps almost asserting a wish to bounce up the side of Mount Washington at eighty miles an hour instead of rolling along this dull street, they reminded me, in a comical and a poignant way, of adolescents.

  Following them there were some heavy trucks painted olive drab, and behind them came the troops. They were not very bellicose-looking; their columns were straggling, their suntan uniforms had gotten rumpled in the train, and they were singing Roll Out the Barrel.

  “What’s that?” Brinker said from behind me, pointing across my shoulder at some open trucks bringing up the rear. “What’s in those trucks?”

  “They look like sewing machines.”

  “They are sewing machines!”

  “I guess a Parachute Riggers’ school has to have sewing machines.”

  “If only Leper had enlisted in the Army Air Force and been assigned to Parachute Riggers’ school . . .”

  “I don’t think it would have made any difference,” I said. “Let’s not talk about Leper.”

  “Leper’ll be all right. There’s nothing like a discharge. Two years after the war’s over people will think a Section Eight means a berth on a Pullman car.”

  “Right. Now do you mind? Why talk about something you can’t do anything about?”

  “Right.”

  I had to be right in never talking about what you could not change, and I had to make many people agree that I was right. None of them ever accused me of being responsible for what had happened to Phineas, either because they could not believe it or else because they could not understand it. I would have talked about that, but they would not, and I would not talk about Phineas in any other way.

  The Jeeps, troops, and sewing machines were now drawn up next to the Far Common quadrangle. There was some kind of consultation or ceremony under way on the steps of one of the buildings, Veazy Hall. The Headmaster and a few of the senior members of the faculty stood in a group before the door, and a number of Army Air Force officers stood in another group within easy speaking distance of them. Then the Headmaster advanced several steps and enlarged his gestures; he was apparently addressing the troops. Then an officer took his place and spoke longer and louder; we could hear his voice fairly well but not make out the words.

  Around them spread a beautiful New England day. Peace lay on Devon like a blessing, the summer’s peace, the reprieve, New Hampshire’s response to all the cogitation and deadness of winter. There could be no urgency in work during such summers; any parachutes rigged would be no more effective than napkins.

  Or perhaps that was only true for me and a few others, our gypsy band of the summer before. Or was it rarer even than that; had Chet and Bobby sensed it then, for instance? Had Leper, despite his trays of snails? I could be certain of only two people, Phineas and myself. So now it might be true only for me.

  The company fell out and began scattering through the Far Common. Dormitory windows began to fly open and olive drab blankets were hung over the sills by the dozens to air. The sewing machines were carried with considerable exertion into Veazy Hall.

  “Dad’s here,” said Brinker. “I told him to take his cigar down to the Butt Room. He wants to meet you.”

  We went downstairs and found Mr. Hadley sitting in one of the lumpy chairs, trying not to look offended by the surroundings. But he stood up and shook my hand with genuine cordiality when we came in. He was a distinguished-looking man, taller than Brinker so that his portliness was not very noticeable. His hair was white, thick, and healthy-looking and his face was healthily pink.

  “You boys look fine, fine,” he said in his full and cordial voice, “better I would say than those doughboys—G.I.’s—I saw marching in. And how about their artillery! Sewing machines!”

  Brinker slid his fingers into the back pockets of his slacks. “This war’s so technical they’ve got to use all kinds of machines, even sewing machines, don’t you think so, Gene?”

  “Well,” Mr. Hadley went on emphatically, “I can’t imagine any man in my time settling for duty on a sewing machine. I can’t picture that at all.” Then his temper switched tracks and he smiled cordially again. “But then times change, and wars change. But men don’t change, do they? You boys are the image of me and my gang in the old days. It does me good to see you. What are you enlisting in, son,” he said, meaning me, “the Marines, the Paratroops? There are doggone many exciting things to enlist in these days. There’s that bunch they call the Frogmen, underwater demolition stuff. I’d give something to be a kid again with all that to choose from.”

  “I was going to wait and be drafted,” I replied, trying to be polite and answer his question honestly, “but if I did that they might put me straight in the infantry, and that’s not only the dirtiest but also the most dangerous branch of all, the worst branch of all. So I’ve joined the Navy and they’re sending me to Pensacola. I’ll probably have a lot of training, and I’ll never see a foxhole. I hope.”

  “Foxhole” was still a fairly new term and I wasn’t sure Mr. Hadley knew what it meant. But I saw that he didn’t care for the sound of what I said. “And then Brinker,” I added, “is all set for the Coast Guard, which is good too.” Mr. Hadley’s scowl deepened, although his experienced face partially masked it.

  “You know, Dad,” Brinker broke in, “the Coast Guard does some very rough stuff, putting the men on the beaches, all that dangerous amphibious stuff.”

  His father nodded slightly, looking at the floor, and then said, “You have to do what you think is the right thing, but just make sure it’s the right thing in the long run, and not just for the moment. Your war memories will be with you forever, you’ll be asked about them thousands of times after the war is over. People will get their respect for you from that—partly from that, don’t get me wrong—but if you can say that you were up front where there was some real shooting going on, then that will mean a whole lot to you in years to come. I know you boys want to see plenty of action, but don’t go around talking too much about being comfortable, and which branch of the service has too much dirt and stuff like that. Now I kn
ow you—I feel I know you, Gene, as well as I know Brink here—but other people might misunderstand you. You want to serve, that’s all. It’s your greatest moment, greatest privilege, to serve your country. We’re all proud of you, and we’re all—old guys like me—we’re all darn jealous of you too.”

  I could see that Brinker was more embarrassed by this than I was, but I felt it was his responsibility to answer it. “Well, Dad,” he mumbled, “we’ll do what we have to.”

  “That’s not a very good answer, Brink,” he said in a tone struggling to remain reasonable.

  “After all that’s all we can do.”

  “You can do more! A lot more. If you want a military record you can be proud of, you’ll do a heck of a lot more than just what you have to. Believe me.”

  Brinker sighed under his breath, his father stiffened, paused, then relaxed with an effort. “Your mother’s out in the car. I’d better get back to her. You boys clean up—ah, those shoes,” he added reluctantly, in spite of himself, having to, “those shoes, Brink, a little polish?—and we’ll see you at the Inn at six.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  His father left, trailing the faint, unfamiliar, prosperous aroma of his cigar.

  “Dad keeps making that speech about serving the country,” Brinker said apologetically, “I wish to hell he wouldn’t.”

  “That’s all right.” I knew that part of friendship consisted in accepting a friend’s shortcomings, which sometimes included his parents.

  “I’m enlisting,” he went on, “I’m going to ‘serve’ as he puts it, I may even get killed. But I’ll be damned if I’ll have that Nathan Hale attitude of his about it. It’s all that World War I malarkey that gets me. They’re all children about that war, did you never notice?” He flopped comfortably into the chair which had been disconcerting his father. “It gives me a pain, personally. I’m not any kind of hero, and neither are you. And neither is the old man, and he never was, and I don’t care what he says he almost did at Château-Thierry.”

  “He’s just trying to keep up with the times. He probably feels left out, being too old this time.”

  “Left out!” Brinker’s eyes lighted up. “Left out! He and his crowd are responsible for it! And we’re going to fight it!”

  I had heard this generation-complaint from Brinker before, so often that I finally identified this as the source of his disillusionment during the winter, this generalized, faintly self-pitying resentment against millions of people he did not know. He did know his father, however, and so they were not getting along well now. In a way this was Finny’s view, except that naturally he saw it comically, as a huge and intensely practical joke, played by fat and foolish old men bungling away behind the scenes.

  I could never agree with either of them. It would have been comfortable, but I could not believe it. Because it seemed clear that wars were not made by generations and their special stupidities, but that wars were made instead by something ignorant in the human heart.

  Brinker went upstairs to continue his packing, and I walked over to the gym to clean out my locker. As I crossed the Far Common I saw that it was rapidly becoming unrecognizable, with huge green barrels placed at many strategic points, the ground punctuated by white markers identifying offices and areas, and also certain less tangible things: a kind of snap in the atmosphere, a professional optimism, a conscious maintenance of high morale. I myself had often been happy at Devon, but such times it seemed to me that afternoon were over now. Happiness had disappeared along with rubber, silk, and many other staples, to be replaced by the wartime synthetic, high morale, for the Duration.

  At the gym a platoon was undressing in the locker room. The best that could be said for them physically was that they looked wiry in their startling sets of underwear, which were the color of moss.

  I never talked about Phineas and neither did anyone else; he was, however, present in every moment of every day since Dr. Stanpole had told me. Finny had a vitality which could not be quenched so suddenly, even by the marrow of his bone. That was why I couldn’t say anything or listen to anything about him, because he endured so forcefully that what I had to say would have seemed crazy to anyone else—I could not use the past tense, for instance—and what they had to say would be incomprehensible to me. During the time I was with him, Phineas created an atmosphere in which I continued now to live, a way of sizing up the world with erratic and entirely personal reservations, letting its rocklike facts sift through and be accepted only a little at a time, only as much as he could assimilate without a sense of chaos and loss.

  No one else I have ever met could do this. All others at some point found something in themselves pitted violently against something in the world around them. With those of my year this point often came when they grasped the fact of the war. When they began to feel that there was this overwhelmingly hostile thing in the world with them, then the simplicity and unity of their characters broke and they were not the same again.

  Phineas alone had escaped this. He possessed an extra vigor, a heightened confidence in himself, a serene capacity for affection which saved him. Nothing as he was growing up at home, nothing at Devon, nothing even about the war had broken his harmonious and natural unity. So at last I had.

  The parachute riggers sprinted out of the hallway toward the playing fields. From my locker I collected my sneakers, jock strap, and gym pants and then turned away, leaving the door ajar for the first time, forlornly open and abandoned, the locker unlocked. This was more final than the moment when the Headmaster handed me my diploma. My schooling was over now.

  I walked down the aisle past the rows of lockers, and instead of turning left toward the exit leading back to my dormitory, I turned right and followed the Army Air Force out onto the playing fields of Devon. A high wooden platform had been erected there and on it stood a barking instructor, giving the rows of men below him calisthenics by the numbers.

  This kind of regimentation would fasten itself on me in a few weeks. I no longer had any qualms about that, although I couldn’t help being glad that it would not be at Devon, at anywhere like Devon, that I would have that. I had no qualms at all; in fact I could feel now the gathering, glowing sense of sureness in the face of it. I was ready for the war, now that I no longer had any hatred to contribute to it. My fury was gone, I felt it gone, dried up at the source, withered and lifeless. Phineas had absorbed it and taken it with him, and I was rid of it forever.

  The P.T. instructor’s voice, like a frog’s croak amplified a hundred times, blared out the Army’s numerals, “Hut! Hew! Hee! Hore!” behind me as I started back toward the dormitory, and my feet of course could not help but begin to fall involuntarily into step with that coarse, compelling voice, which carried to me like an air-raid siren across the fields and commons.

  They fell into step then, as they fell into step a few weeks later under the influence of an even louder voice and a stronger sun. Down there I fell into step as well as my nature, Phineas-filled, would allow.

  I never killed anybody and I never developed an intense level of hatred for the enemy. Because my war ended before I ever put on a uniform; I was on active duty all my time at school; I killed my enemy there.

  Only Phineas never was afraid, only Phineas never hated anyone. Other people experienced this fearful shock somewhere, this sighting of the enemy, and so began an obsessive labor of defense, began to parry the menace they saw facing them by developing a particular frame of mind, “You see,” their behavior toward everything and everyone proclaimed, “I am a humble ant, I am nothing, I am not worthy of this menace,” or else, like Mr. Ludsbury, “How dare this threaten me, I am much too good for this sort of handling, I shall rise above this,” or else, like Quackenbush, strike out at it always and everywhere, or else, like Brinker, develop a careless general resentment against it, or else, like Leper, emerge from a protective cloud of vagueness only to meet it, the horror, face to face, just as he had always feared, and so give up the struggle absolutely.
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  All of them, all except Phineas, constructed at infinite cost to themselves these Maginot Lines against this enemy they thought they saw across the frontier, this enemy who never attacked that way—if he ever attacked at all; if he was indeed the enemy.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  John Knowles, a graduate of Phillips Exeter and Yale, wrote seven novels, a book on travel, and a collection of short stories. He was a recipient of the William Faulkner Award and the Rosenthal Award of the National Institute of Arts and Letters. He lectured widely to university audiences. Knowles died in 2001 at the age of seventy-five.

  JOHN KNOWLES, who died in 2001, was a graduate of Phillips Exeter Academy and Yale University, as well as a recipient of the William Faulkner Award and the Rosenthal Award of the National Institute of Arts and Letters.

  SCRIBNER

  authors.simonandschuster.com/John-Knowles

  Visit us online at www.simonsays.com

  BOOKS BY JOHN KNOWLES

  Indian Summer

  The Paagon

  The Private Life of Axie Reed

  A Stolen Past

  A Vein of Riches

  Phineas

  Peace Breaks Out

  We hope you enjoyed reading this Scribner eBook.

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