Lincoln's Briefs

by Wayne, Michael

  Next to principle what mattered most to H. Avery Duck was order. Indeed, the two went hand in hand, since he could imagine no more principled endeavour than imposing order on the frightening chaos of university existence. It was his commitment to order that had first drawn him to the study of monasticism, with its rigid rules, strict lines of authority, and clockwork regularity. It was his commitment to order that also explained why he so detested undergraduates. They had, he had long ago decided, no appreciation for logical discourse, for the finely crafted argument.

  And they were careless. H. Avery Duck, to the contrary, was meticulous. Meticulous to a fault, some might say. “It is only reasonable,” he observed at the first meeting of the Faculty Union over which he presided, “that we take the time to explore each and every issue that comes before us in painstaking detail. Otherwise we might inadvertently overlook some matter of great principle.” He made the comment while overruling a motion that the minutes of the previous meeting be approved unanimously, without debate. When the faculty members in attendance responded by remaining silent after he presented the minutes for discussion, he took the opportunity to offer his own analysis of the document (consulting the seventy-one pages of notes he had composed for the purpose), covering such weighty matters as the typeface used and the design of the watermark on the paper.

  During the first weeks of his tenure in office he came to the conclusion that his predecessors had overlooked many questions of principle in which the faculty had a hidden interest. Accordingly he increased the frequency of meetings from once a term to once a month, then once a week, and finally twice a day. The meetings themselves grew longer, as did his reports on the principles at stake. Inevitably attendance declined. By the time Felicia Butterworth took over as university president and CEO, it numbered exactly seven: H. Avery Duck himself, as well as the six other members of the union executive, all retired male professors, four of whom could think of nothing better to do with their time, while the remaining two had been banned from the library for scribbling obscene comments in books written by colleagues.

  Hence the diminished relevance of the union on the date when Felicia Butterworth announced her decision to suspend Yale Templeton. H. Avery Duck immediately called an emergency meeting of the faculty. Then he dashed off a 112-page letter of protest, written in the language he had invented that most elegantly captured his outrage over her unprecedented action. “It has fallen to me,” he announced to his wife with great solemnity, “to right a most grievous wrong.” “Professor Templeton could not ask for a more noble champion,” she replied with equal solemnity.

  Alas, the emergency meeting did not turn out exactly as he had anticipated. He had scheduled it for one of the more spacious seminar rooms in the Edifice Building, expecting the usual turnout of seven but allowing for the possibility that three times that many might appear. In fact, when he arrived a half an hour before the proceedings were to begin, he found more than seven hundred faculty members lined up at the door. While you might think he would be elated by this impressive show of moral engagement, the truth is he was a man who experienced profound turmoil when forced to confront even the slightest departure from expectation. He sought guidance on this occasion, as he often did, in his dog-eared copy of Robert’s Rules of Order (annotated with his personal emendations), where he found a regulation allowing him to convene the meeting, prorogue it immediately, and reschedule it for later the same day at another site on campus. The Lyceum, of necessity, since it was the only hall large enough to accommodate so many people.

  Alas again, his equilibrium faced further challenges once the meeting got underway. When the octogenarian union secretary began to read the lengthy minutes from the previous meeting, shouts immediately went up from around the hall: “What about Templeton?” “What about the assault on our rights?” “To hell with the minutes!” When H. Avery Duck attempted to restore order he was rudely shouted down. “Have they no respect for parliamentary procedure?” he muttered to himself.

  It appeared not, because as he flipped desperately through Robert’s Rules for a regulation that would justify dispensing with the minutes, the unruliness in the hall only increased. Fearful of losing control, he put aside his book and started into the speech he had composed for the occasion (translating into English as he went on, since so few of those in attendance had familiarity with the language he had created specifically for use at union meetings). He had been talking for a mere ten minutes and was only just approaching the end of his preamble when a notoriously truculent member of the English department leaped to his feet and shouted, “C’mon, Duck, cut to the chase.” And then someone else in the gallery was up yelling, “Stop monopolizing the floor. We want a chance to speak.” And a chorus of “Yeah, yeah” echoed around the hall. And so microphones were quickly set up in the aisles while H. Avery Duck threw up his arms in exasperation and sat down to make notes for a statement of principle to be printed in the next union newsletter detailing the ethical reasons for adhering to recognized protocol.

  There then followed a stream of professors to the microphones, each of whom testified to the dire threat to academic freedom represented by the suspension of Yale Templeton. “Why, without the independence to pursue truth at any cost,” asserted Maurice Ronald Tarryton of the Psychology department, “scholars would become nothing more than ciphers for special interests.” His own recent work, a statistical analysis of biological distinctions between the races, had demonstrated conclusively that there exists a very precise inverse relationship between the intellectual ability of the individual male and the size of his reproductive organ. Those who knew him intimately, as well as officers of the Pioneer Fund, which had financed his research, agreed that his findings established him as one of the most brilliant men of his generation.

  “Much as it pains me to support Professor Tarryton on any issue,” observed the sociobiologist Bettina Fetterman, “I find I can only applaud his assessment of the formidable dangers we now face. Without academic freedom there can be no advancement of knowledge. Without advancement of knowledge there is nothing but personal prejudice.” Her own decade-long study of fruit flies had demonstrated conclusively that all males of whatever species are genetically programmed to be sadistic, bloodthirsty killers and molesters of small children. She was accompanied to the microphone by her partner, the noted feminist literary critic Ariel McNicken, whose close textual analysis of English-language poetry and prose had demonstrated conclusively that Geoffrey Chaucer, William Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, and quite likely every other man who ever put pen to paper, had harboured a secret desire to rape and murder his mother and mutilate himself.

  “We all depend on the freedom to pursue our research wherever it may lead, no matter how potentially controversial our results turn out to be,” added Chester Pinkston of the Zoology department. “I am not a brave man, I readily confess it. I only decided to pursue a career as a scientist when I was able to satisfy myself that I would be allowed to speak my views openly and without fear of reprisal. Had it not been for the protection provided by my position at this university, I would never have had the courage to publish my recent article on colour variation in the undertail coverts of the subset of Connecticut warblers that passes through downtown Toronto during the fall migration.”

  One by one they made their way to the microphones. Men and women. Tenured, untenured. Linguists and botanists, mathematicians and political scientists. Full professors who specialized in ancient Greek philosophy and assistant professors who specialized in contemporary American pop music. Lecturers who studied the geology of the Earth’s core and associate professors who studied the chemical composition of gasses found in stars millions of light years beyond the Milky Way. On it went for more than two-and-a-half hours. And then, when it appeared the discussion must be approaching exhaustion, someone raised what would have seemed the most obvious of suggestions: “Hey, why don’t we hear from Yale Templeton?” And the cry went up around the Lyceum for Yale
Templeton to take the podium.

  Only at that moment Yale Templeton was comfortably seated in his Rosedale apartment surrounded by a stack of history books. Evidently no one in the union had bothered to get in touch with him about the meeting. Sitting next to him was Bobbi Jo Jackson, also surrounded by books on American history, although as she was just beginning her journey of intellectual inquiry, she had chosen for herself works that ranged well beyond the particulars of the Civil War. So at the very moment when people were chanting for Yale Templeton at the Lyceum, he was leaning over to her and remarking, “Say, here’s an interesting fact I’ve never seen before. The captured plantation house used by Union officers as their temporary headquarters in Adams county, Mississippi, was designed by the brother-in-law of the first saw-mill operator in the region.” To which Bobbi Jo Jackson nodded and replied, “You know, the book I’m reading says that the first labourers on the plantations of colonial Virginia were white indentured servants brought over from England. They were eventually replaced by slaves imported from Africa for the simple reason that slave labour was cheaper and produced bigger profits. However, to justify slavery, planters implemented a series of restrictive laws directed at all individuals of African descent, free as well as slave, that over time effectively turned what was really only a rather vague colour prejudice into racism. Not only that, the origins of the plantation economy trace back to expansionist imperatives inherent in the search for markets, itself the inevitable consequence of the emergence of merchant capitalism in early modern Europe. Wow! We never learned about any of this stuff at the CIA!”

  So although the cry at the Lyceum reverberated back and forth across the hall for more than a minute, Yale Templeton did not respond. Which gave H. Avery Duck the opportunity he had been looking for to regain control of the meeting. He stepped up to the podium and said, “It appears that Professor Templeton is unable to be with us today. I wonder if one of his colleagues in the History department would be willing to speak on his behalf?” Then, after making a pretence of scanning the hall, he brought his eyes to rest on the figure of a tall, stately, white-haired man who had served with him on more than a half-dozen university committees over the years. “Perhaps you, St. Clair?” he said. And so, St. Clair Russell Hill, now a professor emeritus several years into retirement and unsteadily supported by a wooden cane, made his way through the crowd and up on to the stage. He shook hands with H. Avery Duck, advanced to the podium, took a sip of water, and began.

  “We live in perilous times,” he declared. “Perilous times. Hundreds of years ago our predecessors at Oxford and Cambridge struggled, at no small personal cost to themselves, to win the freedom to pursue truth no matter how unwelcome their findings might prove to the authorities. Through the centuries the rights they won have been essential to the very survival of the university, while the university itself has been essential to the very survival of Western civilization.

  “Never has the independence of scholars been entirely secure. I need only mention the names Underhill, Hunter, Crowe, and Healy to remind you of hard-fought battles here in Canada. Granted, up to now our own revered institution has managed to escape such unseemly and debilitating conflicts. But by her outrageous action against my eminent colleague, Dr … uh … uh …” (“Templeton,” whispered H. Avery Frick) “… Dr. Templeton, President Butterworth has openly declared war on the very fabric of our scholarly community. Nor, I might add, is she acting alone. I am reminded of that famous poem by the distinguished English civil servant, Humbert Wolfe …”

  But before he could begin to recite “The Grey Squirrel,” H. Avery Duck, who had heard him deliver the poem on more than a few occasions, took him by the arm and gently escorted him to one of the chairs on stage. “I think we all know your views on the squirrels, St. Clair,” he whispered. “And I can assure you that the union executive will continue to back you 100 percent in your valiant campaign, as we always have in the past.”

  Then H. Avery Duck returned to the microphone and said, “I think we have a clear picture of the unparalleled dangers posed by the suspension of Professor Templeton. Now we must decide what action to take. Let me say, I am quite ready to accept the responsibility, as burdensome as it may be, for drafting a statement of principle that outlines our—”

  “A rally!” shouted someone.

  “On the steps of Graves Hall!” shouted another.

  “Yeah, we’ll show Butterworth that we mean business!”

  And cries of approval went up all around the Lyceum.

  H. Avery Duck opened his mouth to object. He much preferred the orderliness of the carefully crafted written communication to the spontaneity of public demonstrations. However, before he could utter a word, a young astrophysicist was on her feet, shouting, “When should it be?”

  “Next week,” shot a reply from across the hall.

  “No, no. In two weeks,” roared the truculent English professor. “We need time to get the students involved.” At the mention of students, H. Avery Duck shuddered.

  “We’ll get thousands to show up!” someone cried.

  “No. Tens of thousands!” Optimism reigned supreme, as it always does on such occasions.

  There was little to be gained, H. Avery Duck cheerlessly acknowledged to himself, by pointing out the unpredictability that must attend any public protest. With profound misgivings he surrendered to the inevitable. “All right,” he sighed. “A rally. Two weeks from today. And I will write a statement summarizing the principles involved in the case, which I will personally deliver to President Butterworth.”

  “A statement in English,” someone shouted.

  “I’ll have one of my graduate students translate it into English, yes,” H. Avery Duck allowed, “to submit along with the original. Now it would probably be useful at this point for me to go over the main arguments that I believe should be included in my statement.”

  And he proceeded to deliver the speech he had been denied the opportunity to present at the outset of the meeting. And by the time he was finished, almost four hours later, the eight people left in the Lyceum—H. Avery Duck himself, the six additional members of the union executive, and St. Clair Russell Hill—voted unanimously to approve his remarks as representing the sentiments of the faculty. And they passed a motion confirming that the statement of principle to be given to Felicia Butterworth would include a clause demanding that she reveal the true nature and full extent of her relationship with the squirrel population on campus.

  XIX

  Joel was in love again. With Heather. He fell in love with her the moment he learned that she had once run naked through a vivisection laboratory to protest cruelty to animals. He wished he could think of a reason to run naked through a classroom.

  He had met her on his way to breakfast one morning. She was standing at the door of the cafeteria handing out leaflets about the protest the following afternoon on the steps of Graves Hall. What he noticed first were her fingernails, bitten down to a ragged edge, no nail polish. He liked that in a woman. Of course, he liked long nails, too, and nail polish, the flashier the better. But then, Joel never concerned himself much with contradictions. The second thing he noticed was her eyes, one blue, one hazel. They had all the intensity that his own eyes so conspicuously lacked.

  “It’s about the demonstration tomorrow afternoon,” she said earnestly as she handed him the leaflet. Everything she said, she said earnestly. He looked at the piece of paper. “Defend Freedom of Speech!! Support Yale Templeton!!” the headline read in bright red italics.

  Joel knew about the controversy surrounding the suspension of Professor Templeton. Vaguely. He had long ago stopped paying attention to what was happening on campus; it seemed to have so little to do with the meaning of life. Well, the meaning of his life. “I took a course from Professor Templeton this term,” he commented matter-of-factly. “It was on the Civil War.”

  “You mean the course where he made the remark about Abraham Lincoln? The one that got him suspende
d?!” Heather cried.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” shrugged Joel.

  “Then this is all about you, isn’t it?!”

  He thought for a moment. He thought about the lecture where Professor Templeton had made his ridiculous comment. He thought about how, afterward, he had phoned the National Enquirer and that now there was going to be a protest. “Hey. It is about me, isn’t it?” he said, feeling a momentary surge of pride.

  “I mean, he didn’t even get to finish your course!”

  “No, they brought in some grad student. Todd or Tom something.”

  “Isn’t that just like Graves Hall!”

  “Actually his lectures were pretty entertaining,” Joel thought. “By comparison, anyway.” But then he remembered the extra reading Todd or Tom had assigned, and he frowned, which Heather took as a sign of agreement.

  “Why, you’ve just got to come tomorrow!” she exclaimed. And then she started telling him about her own involvement in previous causes on campus: protests against the plan to put up a sign for Trustworthy Ted’s at the entrance to the university; the letter-writing campaign against drug company control over research at the Medical School; a sit-in against the decision to require professors to give commercials for Nike before each lecture; and, of course, her personal crusade to end vivisection experiments. And that’s when Joel learned that she had run naked through a biology lab. And that’s when he fell in love with her.

  She was an anthropology student with a special interest in hunting and gathering societies. During the previous fall term she had done an independent study with one of the world’s leading authorities on the Ju/’hoansi people of the Kalahari Desert. “The Ju/’hoansi lead an extraordinarily peaceful and contented existence,” she informed him. “Unlike us they have a truly democratic way of life. There are no leaders, and when any two individuals have a disagreement, it is resolved through calm discussion, with everyone in the community having a chance to express an opinion.”