The Headmasters Papers

by Richard A. Hawley

  My good wishes,

  John Greeve

  UNTHINKABLE AS

  What is left, hours later, on the plate.

  There is a way.

  There are as many ways

  As junk mail,

  As hair color, as hair color goes,

  As vision goes

  Black

  Or flesh sags under bone,

  Bones sag under clothes;

  As bones.

  Hear, O shoppers

  The manic little melody

  Of a manic little angel

  Flying just behind the ear;

  She shadows, she shadows

  Each memory and dream.

  Grim jingle in the brain.

  It could go on for days

  This way,

  There are so many ways.

  John Oberon Greeve

  26 March Little House

  Mrs. Florence Armbruster

  22 Pie Alley

  Torrington, Connecticut

  Dear Florence,

  I am so sorry for the mess. You were very sweet to come see me but you should not have come. I am not fit for visitors, certainly not for you. You are still warm. I am fortune’s fool. Do you know that line?

  You will see what I mean.

  Bless you,

  John

  31 March

  Little House

  Mr. Clifford Bennett

  Trust Department

  The Fiduciary Trust Company

  New Haven, Connecticut

  Dear Cliff,

  Thanks for all the time on the phone. I’ve drawn up a fair semblance of what you said would go down in the courts. It’s basically very simple; the important thing, I think, is that you and others at the Fiduciary are clear of the intent. Here is the gist.

  Upon my death I would like my wife’s and my share of Little House and the yawl, the Valmar, which we also owned conjointly with my brother Frank, to go to him and his wife. The rest, such as it is, should be divided as follows: one-third to Wells School for whatever purposes they may choose; the other two-thirds I would like you to hold in trust for seven years for my son, Brian, who has been a missing person for some time, but possibly not lost; if after seven years Brian has not claimed his share, then I would like to give it to my nephew Hugh Greeve, my brother Frank’s son.

  Enclosed is a more formal statement of this arrangement witnessed as you stipulated by Herb Jenkins, proprietor of East Sandwich Boatyard. Herb has also notarized it.

  I have also written and sealed a letter to my son which I would like my executors to hold for him until what time, if any, he can be found.

  I thank you once again, Cliff, for the impeccable service you have given my family, especially since Meg’s passing. You do your work credit.

  Sincerely,

  John Greeve

  DISPOSITION OF ESTATE

  I, John Greeve, being of sound mind and sure judgment, do hereby make on the date indicated below, the following disposition upon my death of my effects and possessions and of all property, revenue, dividends, and interest owned by me or due me.

  My share of the property of Little House, number 9 Ticonsett Lane, East Sandwich, Commonwealth of Massachusetts, shall pass to my brother, Francis Greeve of Tarrytown, New York.

  My share of the yawl, Valmar, shall likewise pass to my brother, Francis Greeve.

  A partition of one-third of my remaining estate shall, in a manner determined and directed by executors appointed by the Fiduciary Trust Company of New Haven, be given over to Wells School, Wells, Connecticut, as a gift. I understand that no special purpose or qualification shall impede the use of this gift by Wells School. Wells School may receive this gift in furniture, library documents, vehicles, or other portable property; or as cash value from such property sold at auction; or as cash and securities from my estate. The determination of the partition, the management of auction or auctions, and the transfer of all cash and securities will be directed by my executors.

  The remaining share of my estate, in no way including or overlapping the dispositions stated in items one, two, and three, shall pass to my son, Brian Greeve, provided he is located and can make a claim to this disposition within seven years from the date of this document.

  If after seven years no claim is made by my son on this part of my estate, it shall pass forthwith to my nephew, Hugh Greeve.

  This statement was composed in the presence of Herbert Jenkins of East Sandwich, Massachusetts on March 31, 19__.

  (Signed)

  John Oberon Greeve

  March 31, 19__

  (Witnessed)

  Herbert Paul Jenkins

  March 31, 19__

  (Notarized)

  Herbert Paul Jenkins

  March 31, 19__

  31 March

  Little House

  Dear Brian,

  In earlier letters to you, unclaimed and unanswered, I tried to explain how hard it was expressing things to someone who might not be there. In the event you are there and one day read this, you will know what I mean.

  If/when you come home, you will want information, history. Frank and Val will have that. Rely on them for as long as you need. Both of them care about you. I do want you to know, though, that tonight I am fairly clearheaded, although not too hot physically. I am steady about your mother’s loss this past winter, steady but not “adjusted” to it.

  The most recent intelligence I have on you is that your wallet and passport were turned in to the police a year ago in Tangier. A lady in an agency told me to expect the worst, which I do.

  I am not a desperate man, the way you might think of one in a movie or in a Poe story. I feel used up, overcome, gnawn on, by irritations which, if I admit them fully to consciousness, will turn out to be the Furies themselves. What I am trying to say, Brian, is that I am not crazy. But I am finished.

  This is even harder than I thought. Now my head is full of you, memories of you. Memories of all of us. A pitiful image of you keeps cropping up, like something in Dickens: you return this summer with your knapsack, sunburnt, cheery, perhaps even with a pal or a girl, to surprise Meg and me, maybe even to make some sort of end-of-adolescence, commencement-of-manhood reconciliation, only to find that your mother and I have, as the Wells boys say, checked out. Just a picture, not what I think will happen, not even, necessarily, what I want. It’s a picture to hurt myself with, because I can’t imagine, should that scene ever happen, your being able to handle it. It is a picture of you as me now. Me not you. Every bubble bursts back to me. It should make me sad not to believe in the picture—the part about your coming home gladly to see us—but I don’t. I don’t think you are alive, Brian. I don’t think that you are glad or were ever glad in your travels. I think you are dead and that you died in terror, possibly not in your right mind. I don’t think you thought much about your mother and me, which is not to say that we weren’t crucial anyway. I think your runaways, your school rebellions, your silences, your frightening flights of fantasy when you were little—I think all of them were ways of negating us. Now we are negated, but by our own demons and diseases, not by you. You hurt us, Brian, because you wouldn’t let us know how we hurt you. You hurt us, but you didn’t kill us. May you live.

  Your mother was 34 and I was 33 when we had you. There had been lots of gynecological problems and failures, but then it finally worked. No child was ever more wanted. But we were aware of that, and like intelligent educators steeped in child-development, we vowed not to smother you. From the beginning you were given real liberty—and we watched in fear for liberty to fail. Did it? Or was it the watching and the assessing and the knowing on our parts? Maybe granting liberty negates the liberty. I’m back to “negates.” I wish I knew the answers. I was only the father of you, just that once. I was not really very confident about it. I think I was a good teacher, a very good teacher (why be modest?). As a teacher and usually as a headmaster, I was very sure, which made me seem even strong at times. But not as a father
. As a father, I always felt I was guessing. I felt I was guessing and felt you knew I was guessing. I didn’t know whether to hit you or hold you, whether to make you turn out the light and go to sleep or to turn up the light so you could see what you were doing. What did I do? I think I generally went on down the hall, thinking about it. Thinking a lot about it. Oh, Brian! What I wanted was for you to be admirable without ever being told to or told how—to surprise me with your brains and skill and splendid qualities, qualities that would burst forth simply because you were ours and we were good. I wanted you to be happy, one-of-a-kind, passionate, imaginative. I wanted to follow your happiness and be happy about it, like the dads whose hearts thrill in the stands when their sons hit a long ball. Any old kind of long ball would have been fine with me. But you sensed me in the stands. I was not only a dad in the stands but a headmaster in the stands. I don’t like to think about that.

  I was glad to be head of Wells, Brian. I think I was good at it, and I think people who know thought I was good at it. I was better than old-fashioned. Like Socrates, but less purely, I had my “little voice” and it told the hard truth. I also had something else that was good for a school—I loved the culture. Not everything, not the whole mess, but the triumphs of its building, its pictures, its literature especially, at least the English pockets of it I knew. It is great to love some things like that and stand by them, to be able to pass them on with energy and conviction. What am I talking about? Headmastering. That’s what I was. It was good for me, but not for you.

  Your mother was headmaster, too, even more so. Her judgment was better, she could take more stress, and she was funnier. Your mother was the greatest talker I have ever known—and that includes some good ones at Cambridge. She was company, Brian. I loved her every minute I knew her, and I love her still. She would say the same, I think. That is rare, Brian, and that is good. It must have been good for you too. It must have been. I don’t want to sadden you, but to reassure you, by saying you were obsessively in her thoughts during her illness.

  Guilt is inherent to life. If you are alive—may you live—you are feeling guilty. Do not feel excessively so on our account. We lived richly, and, as I say, loved. We didn’t collapse because you wandered away from us. Which is not to say, sonny boy, that you don’t owe us a few. As the world reckons, we were pretty nice folks, pretty damned nice parents. You got clothed, held, fed, sent-to, given-to, sat-up-with, nursed, and even cultured by some pretty good people. So while a long ball is not really necessary, your very kindest, truest self would be much appreciated.

  We are forever in the stands, kid. Sorry. We love and loved you.

  Dad

  Val and Frank,

  Jenkins has mercifully turned on the gas.

  This is not a tragedy. I am used up—Meg in December. You were family and I love you for it.

  J.

  Mrs. Dorothy Weimer

  Editor, The Wells Quarterly

  Cibbs House Annex

  Wells School

  Wells, Connecticut

  Dear Dottie,

  Enclosed is a submission for the Spring number. I know we don’t print poems as a rule, but since there will be no Headmaster’s Letter, maybe you could work it in.

  Best to you,

  John

  A SCHOOLMASTER CONSIDERS SCHOOL

  Like the seasons but wordier

  History teaching history

  A dark road stretching back, back

  And I have stepped aside

  Just long enough to think about it

  And its memory

  Is big and drab and urgent

  There is something old-fashioned about it

  Of oak desks and ink wells

  Waxed floors and the cane

  Of footsteps along cold stone walks

  Hurtful days, stained through

  With some pulsing infatuation

  Days, just days

  Fright of first days, waiting days

  Proud days, prize days

  A sudden recognition

  Of cruelty or some small excellence

  Days, dressed for school days

  Tom Brown’s schooldays

  Every school day that ever was

  Romeo’s, Cicero’s

  All Hellas at their little lyres

  A bright road opening wide to me

  Ghost children chanting something

  About verbs

  They are cheering in waves

  Hymns from voices clear and sad

  And gone as bells

  Hurrying bells, evening bells

  School bells banging me back

  To school.

  Afterword

  When Richard Hawley’s novel, The Headmaster’s Papers, was first published in 1983, the author was himself a headmaster; he was a teacher and the director of the upper school division of the University School, an independent school in Cleveland, Ohio. The Headmaster’s Papers is an epistolary novel – a form I much admire, chiefly for the difficulty of writing a novel with such a limited structure.

  The best writer of fiction in the epistolary form is Alice Munro, and I told Alice once that two things prevented me from trying to write an epistolary novel, which I have long been tempted to do. One is that Alice has already written better in this form than anyone likely will, and two is that Richard A. Hawley wrote The Headmaster’s Papers, an epistolary novel so heartbreaking that no one is likely to surpass its emotional effect in letter form. I sent a copy of the novel to Alice; she liked it very much. We had a further conversation about epistolary novels, and I told her that I thought Hawley’s novel was so moving that he establishes a virtual rule for future epistolary novels: namely, the last letter in the novel to be a suicide note. Nothing else will do.

  The Headmaster’s Papers is entirely composed of one man’s letters – John Greeve’s, the suffering headmaster at an all-boys’ private school. His name is well-chosen. In Hawley’s journal, before he began the novel, he wrote: “Imagine a good man whose props have fallen away.” That is John Greeve – a very good man, whose life has been to guide others but who finds himself, in his middle fifties, rudderless and at sea. His letters are to friends, to the angry parents of boys dismissed from school, to his own son – lost to drugs and wandering Europe, or (the reader presumes) most likely dead. Also, included among Greeve’s “papers” are his public addresses to the boys and faculty of his school, and his heartfelt (occasionally too heartfelt) poems, which he submits to various small magazines.

  From his letters, we see how impossibly “good” Greeve’s standards are; we also see his own efforts to maintain himself, with dignity and grace, slipping. His wife is dying of cancer. When she dies, Greeve gives up. In his last letter to his lost son, Greeve writes: “We are forever in the stands, kid. Sorry.” In his suicide notes, to old friends, he writes: “This is not a tragedy. I am used up.” But he’s wrong; The Headmaster’s Papers is a tragedy, a fine one.

  I implied earlier that the last letter in Hawley’s novel is a suicide note, but this isn’t exactly true – the suicide note is next to last. The last letter is a kind of P.S. to the suicide note, or a different kind of suicide note from the first one – call it suicide note number two. Greeve submits a poem to his school’s quaterly magazine. To the editor, he writes: “I know we don’t print poems as a rule, but since there will be no Headmaster’s Letter, maybe you could work it in.”

  The poem itself is one of John Greeve’s best, the closing lines of which can be read as suicide note number three.

  A bright road opening wide to me

  Ghost children chanting something

  About verbs

  They are cheering in waves

  Hymns from voices clear and sad

  And gone as bells

  Hurrying bells, evening bells

  School bells banging me back

  To school.

  Back in 1983, the novel received a fair amount of well-deserved attention – especially for a first novel, and f
or a small-press publication. The Boston Globe compared Hawley to Louis Auchincloss, and Mr. Auchincloss himself wrote in praise of the novel – as did I: “the headmaster is a character ripe with nobility, and with personal failure and hopelessness.” I wrote, “Mr. Hawley has the poise and vision of a writer who can create a whole world.” Whatever narrative limitations are imposed on an epistolary novel, The Headmaster’s Papers demonstrates that a good man’s suffering can be felt in his letters as keenly as in any other form of storytelling.

  John Irving

  Readers Respond

  To date I have received over “a thousand letters from readers of The Headmaster’s Papers. Nearly every one of them has been interesting, and a great majority of my correspondents (I have answered the letters) have shared touching and serious concerns. I had no idea when I wrote it that my novel of letters would actually generate epistolary activity, but with hindsight the response makes a certain kind of sense.

  If a reader assumes that I am, if not John Greeve, at least sympathetic to his approach to life, then it is fair to conclude that I might like to write and to receive letters. Greeve gives the impression that he is the kind of man you could write to—although some readers wonder whether he is the kind of man you could talk to. In any event, readers have written letters, some very clearly to me, some seemingly to Greeve. Where there is a chance of intruding into a correspondent’s privacy I have withheld his or her name.

  From my standpoint as author, the most artistically reassuring letters came from actual school hands. These responses were also the most personal, some of them almost urgent in their concerns. A letter from the head of one of the nation’s great boarding schools began as follows:

  I’ve just finished your book. A friend of my wife’s last evening left it on the backstairs but only after saying to [her] “But don’t take it seriously, my giving it to you is not a message.” But, of course, it is a message, if not to my wife, at least to me. I’m fifty-seven, don’t think my spirit is very right for what I face right now, doubt that I am giving widespread satisfaction, and to be honest, am feeling low and sorry for myself almost purposefully. My wife said, What’s it like? and like a fool I said, Read it, it’s about me, except that you don’t have cancer and our children came out of the marijuana culture and are doing fine. Bad.