He met me at the door of his study, and escorted me to a padded chair with an arm under my elbow.
“Well, Harkness.”
“Sir.”
“Well, sit down.”
“Thank you, sir.” I sat down. As I did he turned away from me, to look out the window. All I could see of him were his hands, which twisted and turned as he built up steam for our little chat. Finally he turned again to face me.
“Harkness, you probably know why I’ve called you in today.”
“Sir.”
“I said, you probably know why I’ve called you in.”
“Yes, sir. I have a fairly good idea.”
“A fairly good idea. Ah-ha.” He went over to his desk and began to fill his pipe. The Senior Tutor had a way of repeating things that you’d said as if they were meant to be funny. It was not very amusing.
“And what would that fairly good idea be, may I ask?”
“I suppose that I screwed that economics exam yesterday.”
“You suppose that you—ah-ha, yes. You mean to say that you suppose that you did poorly on the exam.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You did poorly, Harkness, you did very poorly.” Pausing to light his pipe. “You flunked it, as a matter of fact.”
“Sir.”
“I said you flunked it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well,” he said, looking up from behind billows of smoke. “Is that all you have to say?”
“What else is there to say?” I said. “What’s done is done.”
He smiled benevolently at that. It was one of his favorite sayings. “Well, yes,” he said. “Now I assume that you know what your failure means?”
“I think so,” I said.
“It means that your period of academic probation will not end this spring, but will continue next fall. Until the end of the fall term,” he explained.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
Having finished with that, the Tutor seemed suddenly relieved. He sat down in front of me on the edge of his desk, as if to show me how he was letting his hair down. Business was done, and now it was time for an intimate chat.
“Now, Harkness,” he said. “I’ve been looking through your folder. While I’ve been waiting for you, you see, just glancing through. But I must say that I don’t understand your case at all. Not at all.”
“Sir?”
“I’ve been looking at your high school records, both scholastic and athletic. And your recommendations. And the comments of your freshman proctor and advisers, that sort of thing.”
“Sir.”
“And I don’t understand it at all. You’re not performing up to expectations, Harkness. You know that, of course.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes. Well, I was wondering if you could give me any clues as to why. From all the indications of your record, you should have been a sort of Harvard Frank Merriwell.”
“Thank you, sir.” Bloated ass-hole.
“I’ve been wondering if there are any problems you might be having. Personal problems, family problems, financial problems? That I might assist you in straightening out?” He looked at me, but I tried to look blank. “After all,” he said expansively, “that’s what I’m here for.”
“No, sir,” I said. “I don’t think there are. But thank you anyway.” Nosy bastard.
“Well, Harkness,” he went on, “I was wondering, because I’ve noticed a certain trend in your behavioral development, if I may say so. For example, you came here all All-American in football, and yet you quit after the first half of the season.”
“Well, sir,” I said, “if you knew the coach, I think—”
“Now, now,” he said, holding up his pipe, “just let me finish. You quit playing football, and shortly after that your grades dropped. The next year, last year that is, you were involved in one of the radical student political organizations that we tolerate here on campus. And you achieved some prominence in that endeavor. But you quit that too. Now, during this year, you haven’t pursued any organized activities that I know of, so you haven’t quit anything. But it doesn’t seem to me that you’ve been doing anything, either, Harkness, if you will permit me to say so.”
“Sir,” I said. Nothing more. The imbecile.
“Well,” he said, “do you have anything to say?”
“In my defense, sir?” I cocked my head.
“Oh, come now, Harkness,” he said, getting off his desk, “that’s distorting my meaning quite deliberately, don’t you think? I’m not trying to accuse you of anything, I’m trying to help you.”
“Thank you, sir. But I don’t think I need anyone’s help right now but my own.”
“As you wish,” he said.
“Thank you, sir,” again.
“Well,” he said, “hope you do better next round. And if anything comes up, don’t hesitate to come and see me. My secretary will make an appointment for you.” Edging me to the door.
“Thank you, sir,” again.
“It’s normally a week or so from the appointment to the meeting, but if you feel that you have something important to discuss, we could make it a day or two, you know.”
“Thank you, sir,” again.
He opened the door, looked out at his secretary and the crowded sitting room, and then closed it.
“There is just one more thing I should like to say to you, Harkness. As regards your record.”
“Sir.” Here we go again. The old fart could never find a last word that really suited him, so he just dribbled on endlessly.
“Sit down, Harkness, sit down.” He filled his pipe and snuggled into his chair. “It’s not exactly my field,” he began, “but I’ve made a quite extensive study of the man and his work. And I think that, in some ways, my conclusions about him can be applied to you, as well.”
“Sir?” I said. What was this routine?
“De Quincey,” he said, “Thomas De Quincey. Are you familiar with his work?” Puffing on his pipe fatuously.
“Only vaguely,” I said, thinking, Of course I am, moron.
“Yes,” he went on, as though he would’ve been disappointed if I’d said anything else. “A very interesting fellow, De Quincey was.” He paused and looked at me. “Is, I should say, in light of your case.”
“Sir?”
“Are you, ah, at home with his little volume on the aspects and vagaries of the opium-eater’s existence?”
“No, sir.” God, not this.
“Well, De Quincey was an addict himself, you know, an opium addict. And he wrote a fascinating little study of his addiction, entitled Confessions of an English Opium Eater. Fascinating.” He glanced over at me to make sure that I was with him, and I nodded. “And in the course of his account, he makes some extraordinary observations.” Looking at me again. “For instance, at one point, he remarks that ‘opium eaters never finish anything.’ That’s a wonderfully, oh, to-the-point remark, don’t you think, Harkness?”
“Telling it like it is,” I murmured.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“Yes,” he said, “I quite agree. Well, do you see the connection, then, do you see what I’m driving at?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I think I do.”
“Uh-huh,” fumbling with his pipe, which had as usual gone out. “And do you have any, ah, comment on the matter? Does it strike a responsive chord, I should say.”
“I don’t believe so,” I said.
“None at all?” he queried. Man, he was begging for it.
“Only an intellectual one,” I said finally.
“Ah-ha,” he nodded. “And what is that?”
“Artaud,” I said. “You’re familiar with Artaud, I take it?”