“I’m ready to leave at once,” Joenes said, afraid the dean would change his mind.
“Wonderful!” cried Fols. “I admire the spirit of you younger men. I must say that we have been particularly fortunate in finding suitable talent in artist colonies such as this one. Mr. Joenes, if you will be so kind as to follow me?”
Joenes went outside with Dean Fols, to an ancient automobile. With a last wave to Lum, Joenes got in. Soon the asylum had receded into the distance. Again Joenes was free, held only by his promise to teach at the University of St. Stephen’s Wood. He was disturbed only by the fact that he did not know what he was supposed to teach.
VIII
HOW JOENES TAUGHT, AND WHAT HE LEARNED
(As told by Maubingi of Tahiti)
Soon enough, Joenes arrived at the University of St. Stephen’s Wood, which was located in Newark, New Jersey. Joenes saw a wide green campus and low, pleasingly shaped buildings. Fols identified these buildings as Gretz Hall, Waniker Hall, The Digs, Commons, The Physics Lab, Faculty House, The Library, The Chapel, The Chemistry Lab, The New Wing, and Old Scarmuth. Behind the University flowed the Newark River, its grey-brown waters touched with an occasional streak of ochre from the plutonium plant up the river. Close by towered the factories of industrial Newark, and in front of the Campus ran an eight-lane highway. These things, Dean Fols pointed out, added a touch of reality to the cloistered academic life.
Joenes was given a room in Faculty House. Then he was taken to a faculty cocktail party.
Here he met his colleagues. There was Professor Carpe, head of the English Department, who took his pipe out of his mouth long enough to say, “Welcome aboard, Joenes. Anything at all I can do, feel free.”
Chandler of Philosophy said, “Well, now.”
Blake of Physics said, “I hope you aren’t one of those humanities fellows who feels called upon to attack E=MC2. I mean what the hell, it just worked out that way and I don’t think we have to apologize to anyone. I have stated that view in my book, The Conscience of a Nuclear Physicist, and I still stand by it. Won’t you have a drink?”
Hanley of Anthropology said, “I’m sure you will be a very welcome addition to my department, Mr. Joenes.”
Dalton of Chemistry said, “Glad to have you aboard, Joenes, and welcome to my department.”
Geoffrard of Classics said, “Of course you probably look down on old codgers like me.”
Harris of Political Science said, “Well, now.”
Manisfree of Fine Arts said, “Welcome aboard, Joenes. Big teaching load they’ve given you, eh?”
Hoytburn of Music said, “I believe I read your dissertation, Joenes, and I must say I don’t entirely agree with that analogy you drew concerning Monteverdi. Of course I am not an expert in your field, but of course you are not an expert in mine, so that makes analogies a little difficult, eh? But welcome aboard.”
Ptolemy of Mathematics said, “Joenes? I think I read your doctorate concerning binary-sense-value systems. Looked pretty good to me. Won’t you have another drink?”
Shan Lee of the French Department said, “Welcome aboard, Joenes. Can I get you a refill?”
So the evening passed with this and a great deal more pleasant conversation. Joenes tried to discover unobtrusively what he was supposed to teach, by talking to those professors who seemed to know about his subject. But these men, perhaps out of delicacy, never mentioned Joenes’s field by name, preferring to relate stories concerning their own competencies.
When this attempt failed, Joenes strolled outside and glanced at the bulletin board. But the only thing that concerned him was a typed notice that Mr. Joenes’s class would meet at 11:00 in Room 143 of the New Wing instead of Room 341 of Waniker Hall as previously announced.
Joenes considered taking one of the professors aside, perhaps Chandler of Philosophy, whose field doubtless took circumstances like this into consideration, and asking him exactly what he was supposed to teach. But a natural feeling of embarrassment prevented him from doing this. So the party ended, and Joenes went to his room in Faculty House unenlightened.
The next morning, standing at the door to Room 143 of the New Wing, Joenes was stricken with an acute attack of stage fright. He considered fleeing from the University. But he did not wish to do this, because he liked the glimpses he had had of university life, and did not wish to give it up over so small a point. Therefore, with set face and purposeful step, he entered his classroom.
Talk in the room died down, and the students looked with lively interest at their new instructor. Joenes pulled himself together and addressed the class with that outward show of confidence which is so often better than confidence itself.
“Class,” Joenes said, “at this our first meeting, I think I should set certain things straight. Because of the somewhat unusual nature of my course, some of you may have been led to believe that it will be simplicity itself, and that you can consider our hours together as something in the nature of a rest period. To those who think this, I say, transfer now to a course that will be more in keeping with your expectations.”
This brought an attentive silence into the room. Joenes continued. “Some of you may have heard that I have a reputation as an easy marker. You may rid yourselves of that notion at once. Marking will be hard, but fair. And I will not hesitate to give failing marks to the entire class, if the circumstances warrant.”
A gentle sigh, almost a whispered wail of despair, escaped from the lips of several premedical students. From the cowed looks on the faces before him, Joenes knew that he was master of the situation. Therefore he said in kindlier tones: “I believe that you know me a little better now. It only remains for me to say to those of you who have elected this course out of genuine thirst for knowledge—welcome aboard!”
The students, like one huge organism, relaxed slightly.
For the next twenty minutes, Joenes busied himself with making a record of the students’ names and seat positions. When he had put down the last name, a happy inspiration struck him and he acted upon it at once.
“Mr. Ethelred,” Joenes said, addressing a competent-looking student in a front-row seat, “would you come up to the blackboard and write, in letters large enough for all of us to see, the full name of this course?”
Ethelred gulped hard, glanced at his open notebook, then walked up to the blackboard. He wrote: “The Southwest Pacific Islands: Bridge Between Two Worlds.”
“Very good,” Joenes said. “Now then, Miss Hua, would you kindly take the chalk and write a short statement of the subject matter we plan to cover in this course?”
Miss Hua was a very tall homely, bespectacled girl whom Joenes instinctively chose as a promising student. She wrote: “This course deals with the culture of the Southwest Pacific Islands, with special emphasis on their art, science, music, crafts, folkways, mores, psychology, and philosophy. Parallels will be drawn throughout between this culture and its Source-Culture in Asia and its Borrow-Culture in Europe.”
“That’s fine, Miss Hua,” Joenes said. Now he knew his subject. There were still difficulties, of course. He had come from Manituatua, in the heart of the South Pacific. The Southwest Pacific, which he thought included the Solomon Islands, the Marshals, and the Carolines, was something about which he knew very little. And of the culture of Europe and Asia, to which he was supposed to draw parallels, he knew nothing at all.
This was discouraging, but Joenes was sure he could overcome his deficiencies. And he was glad to see that class time had ended.
He said to his students, “For today, I say good-bye, or aloha. And once again, welcome aboard.”
With this, Joenes dismissed his class. After they had gone, Dean Fols entered the room.
“Please don’t stand up,” Fols said. “This visit is scarcely official, shall we say? I just wanted you to know that I was listening outside your classroom, and I approve most heartily. You captured them, Joenes. I thought you would have some trouble, since most of our international bas
ketball team has elected your course. But you showed that flexible firmness which is the glory of the true pedagogue. I congratulate you, and I predict a long and successful career for you at this University.”
“Thank you, sir,” Joenes said.
“Don’t thank me,” Fols said gloomily. “My last prediction concerned Baron-Professor Moltke, a brilliant man in his field of Mathematical Fallacy. I foresaw great things for him, but poor Moltke went insane three days after the term opened and killed five members of the varsity football squad. We lost to Amherst that year, and I have never trusted my intuitions since. But good luck, Joenes. I may be only an administrator, but I know what I like.”
Fols nodded briskly and left the classroom. After a decent interval Joenes also left, and hurried to the campus bookstore to purchase the required reading for his course. Unfortunately it was sold out, and the quickest delivery Joenes could hope for was in a week.
Joenes went to his room, lay down on his bed, and thought about Dean Fol’s intuition and poor Moltke’s insanity. He cursed the evil fate that had allowed his students to buy books before the far more acute need of their instructor had been met. And he tried to think what he would do in his next class.
When he next faced his students, inspiration came to Joenes. He said to his class: “Today I am not going to teach you, but you are going to teach me. The culture of the Southwest Pacific, as I am sure you know, is peculiarly susceptible to misconceptions. So before we begin a more formal approach, I want to hear your thoughts about this culture. Do not be afraid to make statements that you privately are not certain about. Our present purpose is to state your ideas as openly and fully as possible, with a view to reorientation later, assuming that such reorientation is necessary. In this way, having set aside all false information, we will be able to enter with fresh minds into that crucial culture which has so properly been called ‘The Bridge Between Two Worlds.’ I hope that is all quite clear. Miss Hua, would you care to begin the discussion?”
Joenes was able to keep his students talking during the next six classes, and to gather a great deal of contradictory information about Europe, Asia, and the Southwest Pacific. When any student asked if some notion were correct, Joenes would smile and say, “I will reserve comment for a later time. For now, let us continue with the subject at hand.”
By the seventh session, the students couldn’t think of anything more to say. Joenes then lectured on the cultural impact of electrical transformers on a Pacific atoll. Through the use of anecdotes, he made this material last for several days. Whenever a student asked a question to which Joenes didn’t know the answer, Joenes would say, “That’s excellent, Holingshead! Your question strikes to the core of the problem. Suppose you find the answer before our next class, and write it in, shall we say, five thousand words double-spaced?”
In this way Joenes discouraged questions, particularly among the basketball players, who feared straining their fingers and thus barring themselves from the squad.
But even with these expedients, Joenes again found himself running out of material. In desperation he gave a test, asking the students to judge the probable validity of certain statements that had been made. In all fairness, Joenes promised that the results of the test would not be reflected in their grades.
He had no idea what he would do after this. But luckily the long-overdue textbooks arrived, and Joenes had a weekend in which to study them.
Very useful to him was a book entitled The Southwest Pacific Islands: Bridge Between Two Worlds, written by Juan Diego Alvarez de las Vegas y de Rivera. This man had been a captain in the Spanish treasure fleet based in the Philippines, and, aside from his invective against Sir Francis Drake, his information seemed very complete.
Equally useful was another book entitled The Culture of the Southwest Pacific Islands: Their Art, Science, Music, Crafts, Folkways, Mores, Psychology and Philosophy, and Their Relatedness to the Asiatic Source-Culture and the European Borrow-Culture. This book had been written by the Right Honorable Allan Flint-Mooth, K.J.B., D.B.E., L.C.T., former assistant governor of Fiji and leader of the punitive expedition of ’03 into Tonga.
With the aid of these works, Joenes was usually able to keep one lesson ahead of his class. And when, for one reason or another, he fell behind, he was always able to give a test on the material previously covered. Best of all, the very tall and bespectacled Miss Hua volunteered to correct and grade the papers. Joenes was grateful to the dedicated girl for taking care of the dullest pedagogic labors.
Life settled down to a placid routine. Joenes lectured and gave tests, and Miss Hua corrected and graded. Joenes’s students quickly absorbed the material given to them, passed their tests, and quickly forgot the material. Like many vital young organisms, they were able to eject anything harmful, disturbing, distressing, or merely boring. Of course they also ejected anything useful, stimulating, or thought-provoking. This was perhaps regrettable, but it was part of the educative process to which every teacher had to accustom himself. As Ptolemy of Mathematics said, “The value of a university education resides in the fact that it puts young people in proximity to learning. The students of Good-enough Dormitory are less than thirty yards from the Library, no more than fifty yards from the Physics Lab, and a mere ten yards from the Chemistry Lab. I think we can all be justly proud of this.”
But it was the teachers who, for the most part, used the University facilities. They did this with circumspection, of course. The attending physician had warned them most severely of the dangers of an overdose of learning, and had carefully rationed their weekly intake of information. Even so, there were accidents. Old Geoffrard had gone into shock while reading The Satyricon in the original Latin, under the impression that it was a Papal encyclical. He needed several weeks’ rest before he was completely himself again. And Devlin, youngest of the English professors, had suffered a temporary loss of memory shortly after reading Moby Dick and finding himself unable to supply a tenable religious interpretation for that work.
These were the common risks of the profession, and the teachers were proud rather than fearful of them. As Hanley of Anthropology said, “The sandhog risks being smothered to death in wet sand; we risk being smothered to death in old books.”
Hanley had done fieldwork among the sand hogs, and he knew what he was talking about.
The students, apart from an exceptional few, ran no such risks. Their lives were different from the lives of the professors. A number of the younger students kept the knives and bicycle chains of their high school days, and went out in the evenings in search of suspicious characters. Other students took part in the intercollegiate orgies, trial runs for which were held weekly in Freedom Hall. Still others went out for sports. The basketball players, for example, could be seen night and day at practice sessions, dropping baskets with the mechanical regularity of the industrial robot teams, whom they invariably defeated.
Finally, there were those who showed an early interest in politics. These intellectuals, as they were called, went to the liberal or conservative cause, as early training and temperament dictated. It was the college conservatives who had almost succeeded in electing John Smith to the Presidency of the United States during the last election. The fact that Smith had been dead for twenty years had not dampened their ardor; quite the contrary, many considered this the candidate’s best quality.
They might have succeeded if a majority of the voters had not feared setting a precedent. The fears of the electorate had been cleverly played upon by the liberals, who had said, in effect: “We have ho objection to John Smith, rest his soul, and many of us believe he would be a singular adornment to the White House. But what would happen if, at some future time, the wrong dead man is run for public office.”
Arguments such as this had prevailed.
The campus liberals, however, usually left talking to their elders. They preferred to attend special classes on guerrilla warfare, bomb-making, and the use of small arms. As they frequently pointed out
: “It isn’t enough merely to react to the dirty Reds. We must copy their methods, especially in propaganda, infiltration, overthrow, and political control.”
The campus conservatives, since losing the election, preferred to act as though nothing had changed in the world since General Patton’s victory against the Persians in ’45. They often sat in their beer halls and sang “The Saga of Omaha Beach.” The more erudite among them could sing it in the original Greek.
Joenes observed all these things, and continued teaching the culture of the Southwest Pacific. He was well content in University surroundings, and slowly his colleagues had come to accept him. There had been objections at first, of course. Garpe of English had said: “I don’t think Joenes accepts Moby Dick as an integral part of the Southwest Pacific Culture. Strange.”
Blake of Physics said, “I wonder if he hasn’t missed a rather important point in the total lack of modern quantum theory from the lives of his islanders. It says something to me.”
Hoytburn of Music said, “I understand he has not mentioned the church songs that became the primary influence upon local folk music in his area. But it’s his course.”
Shan Lee of French said, “I gather that Joenes has not seen fit to remark on the secondary and tertiary French-language influences on the verb-transposition technique of the Southwest. Pacific I am only a linguist, of course, but I would have thought such a thing was important.”
And there were other complaints from other professors whose specialties had been slighted, misrepresented, or left out completely. These things might, in time, have created bad feeling between Joenes and his colleagues. But the matter was settled by Geoffrard of Classics.
The Journey of Joenes Page 7