iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第21部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


less　way…always　stylish；　never　flashy；　dashing　yet　gentlemanly；　bright　but　not　bookish。　That　his　father　was　a　wealthy　stockbroker　who　gave　his　only　son　a　scandalous　allowance　did　nothing　to　hurt　his　chances。　It　came　as　no　more　surprise　when　he　was　admitted　to　Ivy　that　spring　than　when　he　was　elected　its　president　a　year　later。
　Paul's　acceptance　at　Ivy　was　the　product　of　a　different　logic；　I　think。　It　helped　that　Gil；　and　more　distantly　Richard　Curry；　stood　in　his　corner；　making　his　case　in　crowds　where　Paul　would　never　tread。　But　it　wasn't　to　those　connections　alone　that　he　owed　his　success。　Paul　was　also；　by　that　time；　acknowledged　as　one　of　the　academic　luminaries　of　our　class。　Unlike　the　bookworms　who　never　ventured　from　Firestone；　he　was　driven　by　a　curiosity　that　made　him　a　pleasure　to　meet　and　converse　with。　Upperclassmen　at　Ivy　seemed　to　find　something　charming　about　a　sophomore　who　had　no　skill　with　the　tired　banter　of　the　selection　process；　but　referred　to　dead　authors　by　their　first　names；　and　seemed　to　know　them　just　that　well。　It　didn't　even　surprise　Paul　when　they　accepted　him。　When　he　returned　that　spring　night；　soaked　with　celebratory　champagne；　I　thought　he'd　found　a　new　home。
　For　a　while；　in　fact；　Charlie　and　I　worried　that　the　club's　magnetism　would　draw　the　two　of　them　away　from　us。　It　didn't　help　that；　by　then；　Richard　Curry　had　bee　a　prominent　influence　in　Paul's　life。　The　two　had　met　early　in　our　freshman　year；　when　I　agreed　to　have　dinner　with　Curry　on　a　rare　trip　to　New　York。　The　interest　the　man　showed　in　me　after　my　father's　death　had　always　struck　me　as　a　strange；　selfish　thing…I'd　never　known　which　of　us　was　the　surrogate；　the　childless　father　or　the　fatherless　child…so　I　asked　Paul　to　join　us　for　dinner；　hoping　to　use　him　as　a　buffer。　It　worked　better　than　I　intended。　The　connection　was　instant：　the　vision　Curry　always　seemed　to　have　of　my　personal　potential；　which　he　claimed　my　father　shared；　was　realized　all　at　once　in　Paul。　Paul's　interest　in　the　Hypnerotomachia　resurrected　memories　of　Curry's　glory　days　working　on　the　book　with　my　father　and　Vincent　Taft；　and　it　was　only　a　semester　later　that　he　offered　to　send　Paul　to　Italy　for　a　summer　of　research。　By　then；　the　intensity　of　the　man's　support　for　Paul　had　begun　to　worry　me。
　But　if　Charlie　and　I　feared　that　we　were　losing　our　two　friends；　then　we　were　reassured　soon　enough。　At　the　end　of　junior　year；　it　was　Gil　who　suggested　that　the　four　of　us　live　together　as　seniors；　a　decision　that　meant　he　was　willing　to　give　up　living　in　the　President's　Room　at　Ivy　to　keep　us　as　his　roommates　on　campus。　Paul　immediately　agreed。　And　so；　with　a　mediocre　draw　at　the　housing　lottery；　we　found　ourselves　in　a　quad　at　the　north　end　of　Dod。　Charlie　argued　that　a　fourth…floor　room　would　force　us　to　get　more　exercise；　but　convenience　and　good　sense　prevailed；　and　the　ground…floor　suite；　well　furnished　thanks　to　Gil；　became　home　for　our　final　year　at　Princeton。
　　
　Now；　as　Gil；　Paul；　and　I　reach　the　courtyard　between　the　university　chapel　and　the　lecture　hall；　we're　greeted　by　a　strange　sight。　More　than　a　dozen　open…air　canopies　have　been　set　up　in　the　snow；　each　with　a　long　table　of　food　beneath　it。　I　know　immediately　what　it　means；　I　just　can't　believe　it。　The　lecture　organizers　intend　to　serve　refreshments　outside。
　Like　a　country　carnival　just　before　a　hurricane；　the　tables　are　pletely　deserted。　The　ground　beneath　the　canopies　is　choppy　with　mud　and　tufts　of　grass。　Snow　is　creeping　in　from　the　edges；　and　in　the　hectic　wind　the　white　tablecloths　flutter　uneasily；　anchored　by　large　dispensers　of　what　will　soon　be　hot　chocolate　or　coffee；　and　by　cold　platters　of　cookies　and　petits　fours　in　cocoons　of　plastic　wrap。　It　cuts　a　peculiar　image　in　the　silent　courtyard；　like　a　city　extinguished　in　midmotion　by　a　calamity；　a　makeshift　Pompeii。
　〃You've　got　to　be　kidding；〃　Gil　says　as　we　park。　We　get　out　of　the　car；　and　he　starts　toward　the　lecture　hall；　pausing　to　shake　the　support　poles　of　the　nearest　tent。　The　whole　structure　trembles。　〃Wait　till　Charlie　sees　this。〃
　On　cue；　Charlie　appears　at　the　door　of　the　lecture　hall。　For　some　reason　he's　preparing　to　leave。
　〃Hey；　Chuck；〃　I　call　out　as　we　approach；　gesturing　at　the　courtyard。　〃How　do　you　like　all　this？〃
　But　Charlie　has　other　things　on　his　mind。
　〃How　was　I　supposed　to　get　into　the　auditorium？〃　he　snaps　at　Gil。　〃You　idiots　put　some　girl　at　the　entrance；　and　she　won't　let　me　through。〃
　Gil　holds　the　door　for　the　rest　of　us。　He　understands　by　〃idiots〃　that　Charlie　is　referring　to　Ivy。　As　cochairs　of　the　biggest　campus　Christian　group；　three　senior　women　at　the　club　are　coordinating　the　Easter　ceremonies。
　〃Loosen　up；〃　Gil　says。　〃They　just　thought　Cottage　might　try　some　kind　of　prank。　They're　trying　to　nip　it　in　the　bud。〃
　Charlie　grabs　himself　expressively。　〃Yeah；　well；　I　almost　told　them　to　nip　this　in　the　bud。〃
　〃Beautiful；〃　I　say；　heading　for　the　warmth　of　the　lecture　hall。　My　shoes　are　already　soaked。　〃Can　we　go　inside？〃
　At　the　landing；　a　sophomore　with　frosted　blond　hair　and　a　skier's　tan　is　sitting　behind　a　long　table；　already　shaking　her　head。　When　Gil　arrives　behind　us　at　the　top　of　the　stairs；　though；　everything　changes。
　The　sophomore　looks　sheepishly　at　Charlie。　〃I　didn't　know　you　were　with　Gil　。　。　。〃　she　begins。
　From　inside　I　can　hear　the　voice　of　Professor　Henderson　from　the　parative　literature　department；　introducing　Taft　to　the　audience。
　〃Forget　it；〃　Charlie　says；　walking　past　the　table　toward　the　entrance。　The　rest　of　us　follow。
　The　auditorium　is　filled　to　capacity。　All　along　the　walls　and　toward　the　back　of　the　hall　by　the　entrance；　those　who　couldn't　find　a　seat　are　on　their　feet。　I　catch　sight　of　Katie　in　a　back　row　with　another　pair　of　Ivy　sophomores；　but　before　I　can　get　her　attention；　Gil　nudges　me　forward；　searching　for　a　place　where　the　four　of　us　can　stand。　He　puts　a　finger　over　his　lips　and　points　toward　the　stage。　Taft　is　walking　to　the　podium。
　　
　The　Good　Friday　lecture　is　a　tradition　with　deep　roots　at　Princeton；　the　first　of　three　Easter　celebrations　that　have　bee　fixtures　in　the　social　lives　of　many　students；　Christian　and　non…Christian　alike。　By　legend　the　events　were　introduced　in　the　spring　of　1758　by　Jonathan　Edwards；　the　fiery　New　England　churchman　who　moonlighted　as　Princeton's　third　president。　Edwards　led　the　students　in　a　sermon　on　the　night　of　Good　Friday；　followed　by　a　religious　meal　on　Saturday　evening；　and　a　service　at　midnight　as　Easter　Sunday　began。　Somehow　these　rituals　were　then　transmitted　intact　down　to　the　present；　profiting　from　that　immunity　to　time　and　fortune　which　the　university；　like　an　ancient　tar　pit；　confers　on　everything　that　unwittingly　lumbers　into　it　and　dies。
　One　of　those　things；　as　it　happened；　was　Jonathan　Edwards　himself。　Soon　after　arriving　at　Princeton；　Edwards　was　given　a　potent　smallpox　inoculation；　and　within　three　months　the　old　man　had　died　from　it。　Notwithstanding　the　fact　that　he　was　probably　too　weak　to　have　invented　the　ceremonies　that　have　been　attributed　to　him；　though；　university　officials　re…create　all　three　of　them；　year　after　year；　in　what　is　euphemistically　called　〃a　modern　context。〃
　I　suspect　Jonathan　Edwards　was　never　much　for　euphemisms　or　modern　contexts。　Considering　that　his　most　famous　metaphor　for　human　life　involved　a　spider　dangling　above　the　pit　of　hell；　hung　there　by　a　wrathful　God；　the　old　man　must　turn　in　his　grave　every　spring。　The　Good　Friday　sermon　is　now　nothing　more　than　a　lecture　delivered　by　a　member　of　the　humanities　faculty；　the　only　thing　mentioned　less　often　than　God　in　the　lecture　is　hell。　The　original　religious　meal；　which　must　have　been　stark　and　Calvinist　in　its　conception；　is　now　a　banquet　in　the　most　beautiful　of　the　undergraduate　dining　halls。　And　the　midnight　service；　which　I'm　sure　once　made　the　walls　tremble；　is　now　a　nondenominational　celebration　of　faith；　where　not　even　the　atheists　and　agnostics　can　feel　out　of　place。　Maybe　for　that　reason；　students　of　every　background　attend　the　Easter　ceremonies；　each　for　a　different　reason；　and　all　of　them　depart　happily；　with　their　expectations　reinforced　and　their　sensitivities　respected。
　Taft　stands　at　the　podium；　fat　and　shaggy　as　ever。　Seeing　him；　I　think　of　Procrustes；　the　mythological　highwayman　who　tortured　his　victims　by　stretching　them　on　a　bed　if　they　were　too　short；　or　cutting　them　down　to　size　if　they　were　too　tall。　Every　time　I　look　at　the　man　I　think　of　how　misshapen　he　is；　how　his　head　is　too　big　and　his　gut　is　too　round；　how　the　fat　dangles　from　his　arms　as　if　the　flesh　were　pulled　from　his　bones。　Still；　there　is　an　operatic　quality　to　the　figure　he　cuts　onstage。　In　his　wrinkled　white　dress　shirt　and　worn　tweed　coat；　he　is　larger　than　his　own　circumstances；　a　mind　bulging　at　its　human　seams。　Professor　Henderson　steps　toward　him；　trying　to　adjust　the　microphone　on　his　lapel；　and　Taft　remains　still；　like　a　crocodile　having　its　teeth　cleaned　by　a　bird。　This　is　the　giant　at　the　top　of　Paul's　beanstalk。　Remembering　the　story　of　Epp　Lang　and　the　dog；　I　feel　my　stomach　turn　again。
　By　the　time　we　find　a　pinch　of　standing　room　at　the　back　of　the　auditorium；　Taft　has　begun；　and　already　it's　far　from　the