The Plastic Age - Percy Marks (trending books to read txt) 📗
- Author: Percy Marks
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Pulled You Away. I'd Hate To See You Messing Around With Bags Like That
Myself, And If I Hadn't Been Drunk I Wouldn't Have Let You. I'm More
Grateful To Him Than You Are. Gee! I'd Never Have Forgiven Myself," He
Concluded Fervently.
* * * * *
Just When The Incident Was Beginning To Occupy Less Of Hugh's Thoughts,
It Was Suddenly Brought Back With A Crash. He Came Home From The
Gymnasium One Afternoon To Find Carl Seated At His Desk Writing. He
Looked Up When Hugh Came In, Tore The Paper Into Fragments, And Tossed
Them Info The Waste-Basket.
"Guess I'd Better Tell You," He Said Briefly. "I Was Just Writing A Note
To You."
"To Me? Why?"
Carl Pointedred The Works On Rhetoric And Dramatic
Theory--Subjects Which Hindu Savants Have Treated With Great, If
Sometimes Hair-Splitting, Ingenuity. The Profound And Subtle Systems
Of Philosophy Were Also Possessed By Kalidasa, And He Had Some
Knowledge Of Astronomy And Law.
But It Was Not Only In Written Books That Kalidasa Was Deeply Read.
Rarely Has A Man Walked Our Earth Who Observed The Phenomena Of Living
Nature As Accurately As He, Though His Accuracy Was Of Course That Of
The Poet, Not That Of The Scientist. Much Is Lost To Us Who Grow Up
Among Other Animals And Plants; Yet We Can Appreciate His "Bee-Black
Hair," His Ashoka-Tree That "Sheds His Blossoms In A Rain Of Tears,"
His River Wearing A Sombre Veil Of Mist:
Although Her Reeds Seem Hands That Clutch The Dress
To Hide Her Charms;
His Picture Of The Day-Blooming Water-Lily At Sunset:
The Water-Lily Closes, But
With Wonderful Reluctancy;
As If It Troubled Her To Shut
Her Door Of Welcome To The Bee.
The Religion Of Any Great Poet Is Always A Matter Of Interest,
Especially The Religion Of A Hindu Poet; For The Hindus Have Ever Been
A Deeply And Creatively Religious People. So Far As We Can Judge,
Kalidasa Moved Among The Jarring Sects With Sympathy For All,
Fanaticism For None. The Dedicatory Prayers That Introduce His Dramas
Are Addressed To Shiva. This Is Hardly More Than A Convention, For
Shiva Is The Patron Of Literature. If One Of His Epics, _The Birth Of
The War-God_, Is Distinctively Shivaistic, The Other, _The Dynasty Of
Raghu_, Is No Less Vishnuite In Tendency. If The Hymn To Vishnu In
_The Dynasty Of Raghu_ Is An Expression Of Vedantic Monism, The Hymn
To Brahma In _The Birth Of The War-God_ Gives Equally Clear Expression
To The Rival Dualism Of The Sankhya System. Nor Are The Yoga Doctrine
And Buddhism Left Without Sympathetic Mention. We Are Therefore
Justified In Concluding That Kalidasa Was, In Matters Of Religion,
What William James Would Call "Healthy-Minded," Emphatically Not A
"Sick Soul."
There Are Certain Other Impressions Of Kalidasa's Life And Personality
Which Gradually Become Convictions In The Mind Of One Who Reads And
Re-Reads His Poetry, Though They Are Less Easily Susceptible Of Exact
Proof. One Feels Certain That He Was Physically Handsome, And The
Handsome Hindu Is A Wonderfully Fine Type Of Manhood. One Knows That
He Possessed A Fascination For Women, As They In Turn Fascinated Him.
One Knows That Children Loved Him. One Becomes Convinced That He Never
Suffered Any Morbid, Soul-Shaking Experience Such As Besetting
Religious Doubt Brings With It, Or The Pangs Of Despised Love; That
On The Contrary He Moved Among Men And Women With A Serene And Godlike
Tread, Neither Self-Indulgent Nor Ascetic, With Mind And Senses Ever
Alert To Every Form Of Beauty. We Know That His Poetry Was Popular
While He Lived, And We Cannot Doubt That His Personality Was Equally
Attractive, Though It Is Probable That No Contemporary Knew The Full
Measure Of His Greatness. For His Nature Was One Of Singular Balance,
Equally At Home In A Splendid Court And On A Lonely Mountain, With Men
Of High And Of Low Degree. Such Men Are Never Fully Appreciated During
Life. They Continue To Grow After They Are Dead.
Ii
Kalidasa Left Seven Works Which Have Come Down To Us: Three Dramas,
Two Epics, One Elegiac Poem, And One Descriptive Poem. Many Other
Works, Including Even An Astronomical Treatise, Have Been Attributed
To Him; They Are Certainly Not His. Perhaps There Was More Than One
Author Who Bore The Name Kalidasa; Perhaps Certain Later Writers Were
More Concerned For Their Work Than For Personal Fame. On The Other
Hand, There Is No Reason To Doubt That The Seven Recognised Works Are
In Truth From Kalidasa's Hand. The Only One Concerning Which There Is
Reasonable Room For Suspicion Is The Short Poem Descriptive Of The
Seasons, And This Is Fortunately The Least Important Of The Seven. Nor
Is There Evidence To Show That Any Considerable Poem Has Been Aving
Decided To Major In English, He Found That He Was Required To Take A
Composition Course The Second Half Of His Sophomore Year. His Instructor
Was Professor Henley, Known As Jimmie Henley Among The Students, A Man
In His Middle Thirties, Spare, Neat In His Dress, Sharp With His Tongue,
Apt To Say What He Thought In Terms So Plain That Not Even The Stupidest
Undergraduate Could Fail To Understand Him. His Hazel-Brown Eyes Were
Capable Of A Friendly Twinkle, But They Had A Way Of Darkening Suddenly
And Snapping That Kept His Students Constantly On The Alert. There Was
Little Of The Professor About Him But A Great Deal Of The Teacher.
Hugh Went To His First Conference With Him Not Entirely Easy In His
Mind. Henley Had A Reputation For "Tearing Themes To Pieces And Making A
Fellow Feel Like A Poor Fish." Hugh Had Written His Themes Hastily, As
He Had During His Freshman Year, And He Was Afraid That Henley Might
Discover Evidences Of That Haste.
Henley Was Leaning Back In His Swivel Chair, His Feet On The Desk, A
Brier Pipe In His Mouth, As Hugh Entered The Cubbyhole Of An Office.
Down Came The Feet With A Bang.
"Hello, Carver," Henley Said Cheerfully. "Come In And Sit Down While I
Go Through Your Themes." He Motioned To A Chair By The Desk. Hugh
Muttered A Shy "Hello" And Sat Down, Watching Henley Expectantly And
Rather Uncomfortably.
Henley Picked Up Three Themes. Then He Turned His Keen Eyes On Hugh.
"I've Already Read These. Lazy Cuss, Aren't You?" He Asked Amiably.
Hugh Flushed. "I--I Suppose So."
"You Know That You Are; No Supposing To It." He Slapped The Desk Lightly
With The Themes. "First Drafts, Aren't They?"
"Yes, Sir." Hugh Felt His Cheeks Getting Warmer.
Henley Smiled. "Thanks For Not Lying. If You Had Lied, This Conference
Would Have Ended Right Now. Oh, I Wouldn't Have Told You That I Thought
You Were Lying; I Would Simply Have Made A Few Polite But Entirely
Insincere Comments About Your Work And Let You Go. Now I Am Going To
Talk To You Frankly And Honestly."
"I Wish You Would," Hugh Murmured, But He Wasn't At All Sure That He
Wished Anything Of The Sort.
Henley Knocked The Ashes Out Of His Pipe Into A Metal Tray, Refilled It,
Lighted It, And Then Puffed Meditatively, Gazing At Hugh With Kind But
Speculative Eyes.
"I Think You Have Ability," He Began Slowly. "You Evidently Write With
Great Fluency And Considerable Accuracy, And I Can Find Poetic Touches
Here And There That Please Me. But You Are Careless, Abominably
Careless, Lazy. Whatever Virtues There Are In Your Themes Come From A
Natural Gift, Not From Any Effort You Made To Say The Thing In The Best
Way. Now, I'm Not Going To Spend Anytime Discussing These Themes In
Detail; They Aren't Worth It."
He Pointed His Pipe At Hugh. "The Point Is Exactly This," He Said
Sternly. "I'll Never Spend Any Time Discussing Your Themes So Long As
You Turn In Hasty, Shoddy Work. I Can See Right Now That You Can Get A C
In This Course Without Trying. If That's All You Want, All Right, I'll
Give It To You--And Let It Go At That. The Lord Knows That I Have Enough
To Do Without Wasting Time On Lazy Youngsters Who Haven't Sense Enough
To Develop Their Gifts. If You Continue To Turn In Themes Like These,
I'll Give You C's Or D's On Them And Let You Dig Your Own Shallow Grave
By Yourself. But If You Want To Try To Write As Well As You Can, I'll
Give You All The Help In My Power. Not One Minute Can You Have So Long
As You Don't Try, But You Can Have Hours If You Do Try. Furthermore, You
Will Find Writing A Pleasure If You Write As Well As You Can, But You
Won't Get Any Sport Just Scribbling Off Themes Because You Have To."
He Paused To Toss The Three Themes Across The Desk To Hugh, Who Was
Watching Him With Astonishment. No Instructor Had Ever Talked To Him
That Way Before.
"You Can Rewrite These Themes If You Want To," Henley Went On. "I
Haven't Graded Them, And I'll Reserve The Grades For The Rewritten
Themes; And If I Find That You Have Made A Real Effort, I'll Discuss
Them In Detail With You. What Do You Say?"
"I'd Like To Rewrite Them," Hugh Said Softly. "I Know They Are Rotten."
"No, They Aren't Rotten. I've Got Dozens That Are Worse. That Isn't The
Point. They Aren't Nearly So Good As You Can Make Them, And Only Your
Best Work Is Acceptable To Me. Now Show Me What You Can Do With Them,
And Then We'll Tear Them To Shreds In Regular Fashion." He Turned To His
Desk And Smiled At Hugh, Who, Understanding That The Conference Was
Over, Stood Up And Reached For The Themes. "I'll Be Interested In
Seeing What You Can Do With Those," Henley Concluded. "Every One Of Them
Has A Good Idea. Go To It--And Get Them Back In A Week."
"Yes, Sir. Thanks Very Much."
"Right-O. Good-By."
"Good-By, Sir," And Hugh Left The Office Determined To Rewrite Those
Themes So That "They'd Knock Jimmie Henley's Eye Out." They Didn't Do
Exactly That, But They Did Interest Him, And He Spent An Hour And A Half
Discussing Them With Hugh.
That Was Merely The First Of A Series Of Long Conferences. Sometimes
Henley And Hugh Discussed Writing, But Often They Talked About Other
Subjects, Not As Instructor And Student But As Two Men Who Respected
Each Other's Mind. Before The Term Was Out Henley Had Invited Hugh To
His Home For Dinner And To Meet Mrs. Henley. Hugh Was Enormously
Flattered And, For Some Reason, Stimulated To Do Better Work. He Found
His Talks With Henley Really Exciting, And He Expressed His Opinions To
Him As Freely And Almost As Positively As He Did To His Classmates. He
Told His Friends That Jimmie Henley Was Human, Not Like Most Profs. And
He Worked At His Writing As He Had Never Worked At Anything, Running
Excepted, Since He Had Been In College.
The Students Never Knew What To Expect From Henley In The Class-Room.
Sometimes He Read Themes And Criticized Them; Sometimes He Discussed
Books That He Had Been Reading; Sometimes He Read Poetry, Not Because
Contemporary Poetry Was Part Of The Course But Because He Happened To
Feel Like Reading It That Morning; Sometimes He Discoursed On The Art Of
Writing; And Sometimes He Talked About Anything That Happened To Be
Occupying His Mind. He Made His Class-Room An Open Forum, And The
Students Felt Free To Interrupt Him At Any Time And To Disagree With
Him. Usually They Did Disagree With Him And Afterward Wrote Violent
Themes To Prove That He Was Wrong. That Was Exactly What Henley Wanted
Them To Do, And The More He Could Stir Them Up The Better Satisfied He
Was.
One Morning, However, He Talked Without Interruption. He Didn't Want To
Be Interrupted, And The Boys Were So Taken Back By His Statements That
They Could Find No Words To Say Anything.
The Bell Rang. Henley Called The Roll, Stuck His Class-Book Into His
Coat Pocket, Placed His Watch On The Desk; Then Leaned Back And Looked
The Class Over.
"Your Themes Are Making Me Sick," He Began, "Nauseated. I Have A Fairly
Strong Stomach, But There Is Just So Much That I Can Stand--And You Have
Passed The Limit. There Is Hardly A Man In This Class Who Hasn't Written
At Least One Theme On The Glory That Is Sanford. As You Know, I Am A
Sanford Man Myself, And I Have My Share Of Affection For The College,
But You Have Reached An Ecstasy Of Chauvinism That Makes Chauvin's
Affection For Napoleon Seem Almost Like Contempt.
"In The Last Batch Of Themes I Got Five Telling Me Of The Perfection Of
Sanford: Sanford Is The Greatest College In The Country; Sanford Has The
Best Athletes, The Finest Equipment, The Most Erudite Faculty, The Most
Perfect Location, The Most Loyal Alumni, The Strongest Spirit--The Most
Superlative Everything. Nonsense! Rot! Bunk! Sanford Hasn't Anything Of
The Sort,
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