He could not think of himself as old. Sometimes, in the morning when he shaved, he looked at his image in the glass and felt no identity with the face that stared back at him in surprise, the eyes clear in a grotesque mask; it was as if he wore, for an obscure reason, an outrageous disguise, as if he could, if he wished, strip away the bushy white eyebrows, the rumpled white hair, the flesh that sagged around the sharp bones, the deep lines that pretended age.
Yet his age, he knew, was not pretense. He saw the sickness of the world and of his own country during the years after the great war; he saw hatred and suspicion become a kind of madness that swept across the land like a swift plague; he saw young men go again to war, marching eagerly to a senseless doom, as if in the echo of a nightmare. And the pity and sadness he felt were so old, so much a part of his age, that he seemed to himself nearly untouched.
The years went swiftly, and he was hardly aware of their passing. In the spring of 1954 he was sixty-three years old; and he suddenly realized that he had at the most four years of teaching left to him. He tried to see beyond that time; he could not see, and had no wish to do so.
That fall he received a note from Gordon Finch’s secretary, asking him to drop by to see the dean whenever it was convenient. He was busy, and it was several days before he found a free afternoon.
Every time he saw Gordon Finch, Stoner was conscious of a small surprise at how little he had aged. A year younger than Stoner, he looked no more than fifty. He was wholly bald, his face was heavy and unlined, and it glowed with an almost cherubic health; his step was springy, and in these later years he had begun to affect a casualness of dress; he wore colorful shirts and odd jackets.
He seemed embarrassed that afternoon when Stoner came in to see him. They talked casually for a few moments; Finch asked him about Edith’s health and mentioned that his own wife, Caroline, had been talking just the other day about how they all ought to get together again. Then he said, “Time. My God, how it flies!”
Stoner nodded.
Finch sighed abruptly. “Well,” he said, “I guess we’ve got to talk about it. You’ll be—sixty-five next year. I suppose we ought to be making some plans.”
Stoner shook his head. “Not right away. I intend to take advantage of the two-year option, of course.”
“I figured you would,” Finch said and leaned back in his chair. “Not me. I have three years to go and I’m getting out. I think sometimes about what I’ve missed, the places I haven’t been to, and—hell, Bill, life’s too short. Why don’t you get out too? Think of all the time—”
“I wouldn’t know what to do with it,” Stoner said. “I’ve never learned.”
“Well, hell,” Finch said. “This day and age, sixty-five’s pretty young. There’s time to learn things that—”
“It’s Lomax, isn’t it? He’s putting the squeeze on you.”
Finch grinned. “Sure. What did you expect?”
Stoner was silent for a moment. Then he said, “You tell Lomax that I wouldn’t talk to you about it. Tell him that I’ve become so cantankerous and ornery in my old age that you can’t do a thing with me. That he’s going to have to do it himself.”
Finch laughed and shook his head. “By God, I will. After all these years, maybe you two old bastards will unbend a little.”
But the confrontation did not take place at once, and when it did—in the middle of the second semester, in March—it did not take the form that Stoner expected. Once again he was requested to appear at the dean’s office; a time was specified, and urgency was hinted.
Stoner came in a few minutes late. Lomax was already there; he sat stiffly in front of Finch’s desk; there was an empty chair beside him. Stoner walked slowly across the room and sat down. He turned his head and looked at Lomax; Lomax stared imperturbably in front of him, one eyebrow lifted in a general disdain.
Finch stared at both of them for several moments, a little smile of amusement on his face.
“Well,” he said, “we all know the matter before us. It is that of Professor Stoner’s retirement.” He sketched the regulations—voluntary retirement was possible at sixty-five; under this option, Stoner could if he wished retire either at the end of the current academic year, or at the end of either semester of the following year. Or he could, if it were agreed upon by the chairman of the department, the dean of the college, and the professor concerned, extend his retirement age to sixty-seven, at which time retirement was mandatory. Unless, of course, the person concerned were given a Distinguished Professorship and awarded a Chair, in which event—
“A most remote likelihood, I believe we can agree,” Lomax said dryly.
Stoner nodded to Finch. “Most remote.”
“I frankly believe,” Lomax said to Finch, “it would be in the best interests of the department and college if Professor Stoner would take advantage of his opportunity to retire. There are certain curricular and personnel changes that I have long contemplated, which this retirement would make possible.”
Stoner said to Finch, “I have no wish to retire before I have to, merely to accommodate a whim of Professor Lomax.”
Finch turned to Lomax. Lomax said, “I’m sure that there is a great deal that Professor Stoner has not considered. He would have the leisure to do some of the writing that his”—he paused delicately—”his dedication to teaching has prevented him from doing. Surely the academic community would be edified if the fruit of his long experience were—”
Stoner interrupted, “I have no desire to begin a literary career at this stage in my life.”
Lomax, without moving from his chair, seemed to bow to Finch. “I’m sure our colleague is too modest. Within two years I myself will be forced by regulations to vacate the chairmanship of the department. I certainly intend to put my declining years to good use; indeed, I look forward to the leisure of my retirement.”
Stoner said, “I hope to remain a member of the department, at least until that auspicious occasion.”
Lomax was silent for a moment. Then he said contemplatively to Finch, “It has occurred to me several times during the past few years that Professor Stoner’s efforts on behalf of the University have perhaps not been fully appreciated. It has occurred to me that a promotion to full professor might be a fitting climax to his retirement year. A dinner in honor of the occasion—a fitting ceremony. It should be most gratifying. Though it is late in the year, and though most of the promotions have already been declared, I am sure that, if I insisted, a promotion might be arranged for next year, in commemoration of an auspicious retirement.”
Suddenly the game that he had been playing with Lomax—and, in a curious way, enjoying—seemed trivial and mean. A tiredness came over him. He looked directly at Lomax and said wearily, “Holly, after all these years, I thought you knew me better than that. I’ve never cared a damn for what you thought you could ‘give’ me, or what you thought you could ‘do’ to me, or whatever.” He paused; he was, indeed, more tired than he had thought. He continued with an effort, “That isn’t the point; it has never been the point. You’re a good man, I suppose; certainly you’re a good teacher. But in some ways you’re an ignorant son-of-a-bitch.” He paused again. “I don’t know what you hoped for. But I won’t retire—not at the end of this year, nor the end of the next.” He got up slowly and stood for a moment, gathering his strength. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m a little tired. I’ll leave you to discuss whatever it is you have to discuss.”
He knew that it would not end there, but he did not care. When, at the last general faculty meeting of the year, Lomax, in his departmental report to the faculty, announced the retirement at the end of the next year of Professor William Stoner, Stoner got to his feet and informed the faculty that Professor Lomax was in error, that the retirement would not be effective until two years after the time that Lomax had announced. At the beginning of the fall semester the new president of the University invited Stoner to his home for afternoon tea and spoke expansively of the ye
ars of his service, of the well-earned rest, of the gratitude they all felt; Stoner put on his most crochety manner, called the president “young man,” and pretended not to hear, so that at last the young man ended by shouting in the most placatory tone he could manage.
But his efforts, meager as they were, tired him more than he had expected, so that by Christmas vacation he was nearly exhausted. He told himself that he was, indeed, getting old, and that he would have to let up if he were to do a good job the rest of the year. During the ten days of Christmas vacation he rested, as if he might hoard his strength; and when he returned for the last weeks of the semester he worked with a vigor and energy that surprised him. The issue of his retirement seemed settled, and he did not bother to think of it again.
Late in February the tiredness came over him again, and he could not seem to shake it off; he spent a great deal of his time at home and did much of his paper work propped on the day bed in his little back room. In March he became aware of a dull general pain in his legs and arms; he told himself that he was tired, that he would be better when the warm spring days came, that he needed rest. By April the pain had become localized in the lower part of his body; occasionally he missed a class, and he found that it took most of his strength merely to walk from class to class. In early May the pain became intense, and he could no longer think of it as a minor nuisance. He made an appointment with a doctor at the University infirmary.
There were tests and examinations and questions, the import of which Stoner only vaguely understood. He was given a special diet, some pills for the pain, and was told to come back at the beginning of the next week for consultation, when the results of the tests would be completed and put together. He felt better, though the tiredness remained.
His doctor was a young man named Jamison, who had explained to Stoner that he was working for the University for a few years before he went into private practice. He had a pink, round face, wore rimless glasses, and had a kind of nervous awkwardness of manner that Stoner trusted.
Stoner was a few minutes early for his appointment, but the receptionist told him to go right in. He went down the long narrow hall of the infirmary to the little cubicle where Jamison had his office.
Jamison was waiting for him, and it was clear to Stoner that he had been waiting for some time; folders and X-rays and notes were laid out neatly on his desk. Jamison stood up, smiled abruptly and nervously, and extended his hand toward a chair in front of his desk.
“Professor Stoner,” he said. “Sit down, sit down.”
Stoner sat.
Jamison frowned at the display on his desk, smoothed a sheet of paper, and let himself down on his chair. “Well,” he said, “there’s some sort of obstruction in the lower intestinal tract, that’s clear. Not much shows up on the X-rays, but that isn’t unusual. Oh, a little cloudiness; but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.” He turned his chair, set an X-ray in a frame, switched on a light, and pointed vaguely. Stoner looked, but he could see nothing. Jamison switched off the light and turned back to his desk. He became very businesslike. “Your blood count’s down pretty low, but there doesn’t seem to be any infection there; your sedimentation is subnormal and your blood pressure’s down. There is some internal swelling that doesn’t seem quite right, you’ve lost quite a bit of weight, and—well, with the symptoms you’ve shown and from what I can tell from these”—he waved at his desk—”I’d say there’s only one thing to do.” He smiled fixedly and said with strained jocularity, “We’ve just got to go in there and see what we can find out.”
Stoner nodded. “It’s cancer then.”
“Well,” Jamison said, “that’s a pretty big word. It can mean a lot of things. I’m pretty sure there’s a tumor there, but—well, we can’t be absolutely sure of anything until we go in there and look around.”
“How long have I had it?”
“Oh, there’s no way of telling that. But it feels like—well, it’s pretty large; it’s been there some time.”
Stoner was silent for a moment. Then he said, “How long would you estimate I have?”
Jamison said distractedly, “Oh, now, look, Mr. Stoner.” He attempted a laugh. “We mustn’t jump to conclusions. Why, there’s always a chance—there’s a chance it’s only a tumor, nonmalignant, you know. Or—or it could be a lot of things. We just can’t know for sure until we—”
“Yes,” Stoner said. “When would you want to operate?”
“As soon as possible,” Jamison said relievedly. “Within the next two or three days.”
“That soon,” Stoner said, almost absently. Then he looked at Jamison steadily. “Let me ask you a few questions, Doctor. I must tell you that I want you to answer them frankly.”
Jamison nodded.
“If it is only a tumor—non-malignant, as you say—would a couple of weeks make any great difference?”
“Well,” Jamison said reluctantly, “there would be the pain; and—no, not a great deal of difference, I suppose.”
“Good,” Stoner said. “And if it is as bad as you think it is—would a couple of weeks make a great difference then ?”
After a long while Jamison said, almost bitterly, “No, I suppose not.”
“Then,” Stoner said reasonably, “I’ll wait for a couple of weeks. There are a few things I need to clear up—some work I need to do.”
“I don’t advise it, you understand,” Jamison said. “I don’t advise it at all.”
“Of course,” Stoner said. “And, Doctor—you won’t mention this to anyone, will you?”
“No,” Jamison said and added with a little warmth, “of course not.” He suggested a few revisions of the diet he had earlier given him, prescribed more pills, and set a date for his entrance into the hospital.
Stoner felt nothing at all; it was as if what the doctor told him were a minor annoyance, an obstacle he would have somehow to work around in order to get done what he had to do. It occurred to him that it was rather late in the year for this to be happening; Lomax might have some difficulty in finding a replacement.
The pill he had taken in the doctor’s office made him a little light-headed, and he found the sensation oddly pleasurable. His sense of time was displaced; he found himself standing in the long parqueted first-floor corridor of Jesse Hall. A low hum, like the distant thrumming of birds’ wings, was in his ears; in the shadowed corridor a sourceless light seemed to glow and dim, pulsating like the beat of his heart; and his flesh, intimately aware of every move he made, tingled as he stepped forward with deliberate care into the mingled light and dark.
He stood at the stairs that led up to the second floor; the steps were marble, and in their precise centers were gentle troughs worn smooth by decades of footsteps going up and down. They had been almost new when—how many years ago?—he had first stood here and looked up, as he looked now, and wondered where they would lead him. He thought of time and of its gentle flowing. He put one foot carefully in the first smooth depression and lifted himself up.
Then he was in Gordon Finch’s outer office. The girl said, “Dean Finch was about to leave ...” He nodded absently, smiled at her, and went into Finch’s office.
“Gordon,” he said cordially, the smile still on his face. “I won’t keep you long.”
Finch returned the smile reflexively; his eyes were tired. “Sure, Bill, sit down.”
“I won’t keep you long,” he said again; he felt a curious power come into his voice. “The fact is, I’ve changed my mind—about retiring, I mean. I know it’s awkward; sorry to be so late letting you know, but—well, I think it’s best all around. I’m quitting at the end of this semester.”
Finch’s face floated before him, round in its amazement. “What the hell,” he said. “Has anyone been putting the screws on you?”
“Nothing like that,” Stoner said. “It’s my own decision. It’s just that—I’ve discovered there are some things I’d like to do.” He added reasonably, “And I do need a little rest.”
Finch was annoyed, and Stoner knew that he had cause to be. He thought he heard himself murmur another apology; he felt the smile remain foolishly on his face.
“Well,” Finch said, “I guess it’s not too late. I can start the papers through tomorrow. I suppose you know all you need to know about your annuity income, insurance, and things like that?”
“Oh, yes,” Stoner said. “I’ve thought of all that. It’s all right.”
Finch looked at his watch. “I’m kind of late, Bill. Drop by in a day or so and we’ll clear up the details. In the meantime—well, I suppose Lomax ought to know. I’ll call him tonight.” He grinned. “I’m afraid you’ve succeeded in pleasing him.”
“Yes,” Stoner said. “I’m afraid I have.”
There was much to do in the two weeks that remained before he was to go into the hospital, but he decided that he would be able to do it. He canceled his classes for the next two days and called into conference all those students for whom he had the responsibility of directing independent research, theses, and dissertations. He wrote detailed instructions that would guide them to the completion of the work they had begun and left carbon copies of these instructions in Lomax’s mailbox. He soothed those who were thrown into a panic by what they considered his desertion of them and reassured those who were fearful of committing themselves to a new adviser. He found that the pills he had been taking reduced the clarity of his intelligence as they relieved the pain; so in the daytime, when he talked to students, and in the evening, when he read the deluge of half-completed papers, theses, and dissertations, he took them only when the pain became so intense that it forced his attention away from his work.
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