Trinity College Trinity College Digital Repository

Trinity Publications (Newspapers, Yearbooks, Trinity Review (1939 - 1980) Catalogs, etc.)

4-1-1954

The Trinity Review, Spring 1954

Trinity College

Follow this and additional works at: https://digitalrepository.trincoll.edu/review

Recommended Citation Trinity College, "The Trinity Review, Spring 1954" (1954). Trinity Review (1939 - 1980). 30. https://digitalrepository.trincoll.edu/review/30

This Article is brought to you for free and open access by the Trinity Publications (Newspapers, Yearbooks, Catalogs, etc.) at Trinity College Digital Repository. It has been accepted for inclusion in Trinity Review (1939 - 1980) by an authorized administrator of Trinity College Digital Repository. TRINITY REVIEW

A Fine Night For A Sail James P. Foley

Two Poems .... Richard Eberhart

Two Poems ... William Bronk

The Thorns of Life. Jacque Hopkins PLEASE Complete Printing Facilities

PATRONIZE LETTER PR ESS OR OFFS ET OUR ADVERTISERS Connecticut Printers, Incorporated

WASHINGTON DINER Case, Lockwood and Brainard We Serve Dinners and Lunches LETTERPRESS DIV ISION Call CH 7-62 72 for Reservations Kellogg and Bulkeley Free Parking OFFSET DIVISION 175 Washington St. Hartford, Conn.

Hartford National Bank and Trust Company The Bond Press, Inc. Established in 1792

Since 1905 Head Office MAIN AND PEARL STREETS 6 Convenient Offices in Greater Hartford

Connecticut's Oldest and Largest Bank LE T T E R PRESS

L I T HO G RAPHY st m news in sports, 94 Allyn Street 1 in features

Hartford Connecticut

Connecticut's Greatest Newspaper EDITORIAL BOARD

]OHN R . BuRRILL Editor-in-Chief

jERALD E. HATFIELD THE TRINITY REVIEW Executive Editor Publish'ed by the Undergraduate Students of Trinity College ]OHN SAMOYLENKO Hartford 6, Connecticut Business Mana.ger

VoL. VIII SPRING, 1954 No.2 ROGER). HARMON Circulation Manager

TABLE OF CONTENTS WAYNE A . SCHOYER Art Editor

WrLLIAM DoBROVIR RICHARD HIRSCH Fine Night for a Sail...... ______.James P. Foley 4

jACQUE HoPKINS Joe's Jitters·-··----····-·--········------·------William Bron~ 8

WILSON PINNEY Right After She Died ... ·--····-·----·------William B r on~ 8 PAUL TERRY Idols of Imagination .... ·-·---·------·-···-·-·------Richard Eberhart 8 SAMUEL F. MORSE The Glance ...... ----····------···-----·-··----Richard Eberhart 8 Faculty Advisor Mid-Season Check Up...... ------·········------Ronald Richardson 9

Path------· --·- ---·------·-··- -- -·-·- -- --······ --··--··--·-·------John S. Brims 11

In the Fall of the Year ...... ·-···--········ ------·· ------··- .Herbert Par~ 11 Time·-··-- ···--··- -·------··-··-·····-·····- --···-····D. William Ritter 11 A Negro View of the Civil War ______Chester Ringheiser 12

Prologue.------·-···-··----···············---·------····Chester Ringheiser 13 ADVISORY BOARD Table of Two·--··--·····----··········-·-·····------·····-·-·Roger Harmon 14

The Thoms of Life------·····- --······-·---·-----····-1 acque Hop~ins 15 )AMES P. FoLEY

HERBERT PARK

RONALD RICHARDSON Published three times during the college year at Trinity College. THOMAS P. WRIGHT Address: Box 198, Trinity College. Subscription rates: 1 year, $1.50. Printed in U. S. A. by the Bond Press, Inc., Hartford, Connecticut. 2 THE TRINITY REVIEW

EDITORIAL CONTRIBUTORS ITH the appearance of William JAMES FOLEY, a junior, has previously pub­ Carlos Williams in our last issue, lished in The T finity Review. He was recently W we began significantly our program made an associate editor of this magazine. of bringing to our readers previously unpub­ * * * lished work by known writers. Mr. Williams RICHARD EBERHART'S Selected Poems suggested the quality which we hoped subse­ won the Shelley Memorial Award in 1951. At quent appearances by other writers would present he teaches English at the University quantify: Mr. Eberhart and Mr. Bronk have of Connecticut. helped us to avoid violating the confidence of * * * our audience established by Mr. Williams. WILLIAM BRONK studied at Dartmouth. Richard Eberhart represents a later school His poetry has appeared in The New Yorker. of modern poetry than does Mr. Williams. His * * * poems, while often difficult, are never lazy, JACQUE HOPKINS, a native of Illinois, dull or trite. Those of his latest published has published several fine stories in The Trinity collection, Undercliff, although of comparative­ Revi'ew. ly "wider range and greater diversity," seem * * * especially to have a center of force, a strong CHESTER RINGHEISER, a veteran, appears controlling sensibility. He never seems over­ for the first time in these pages. His verse is cautious in his choice of language and rhythm, part of a longer work. and this willingness to take chances is what * * * arrests our imagination. RONALD RICHARDSON received theRe­ William Bronk, later still than Mr. Eber­ view prize for poetry last fall. A sophomore, hart in this age of modern poetry, gives us two he was recently made an associate editor of this very interesting poems. More particularly, it magazine. is his handling of rhythm which immediately * * * interests us. Aware of the extents to which WAYNE SCHOYER has been art editor of many poets have gone, typographically and this magazine for two years. His illustrations otherwise, to achieve technical uniqueness are effective and harmonious, and their pres­ (often unsuccessfully), we cannot help admir­ ence gives a visual interest to the magazine. ing Mr. Bronk's technique and particularly his * * * ear. And we are grateful for highly individual ROGER HARMON, a senior, has contrib­ work which is like no one else's. What we have uted poetry and prose to earlier issues of this seen of his work-these poems and a scattering magazine. of others in other magazines-suggests that he * * * is a writer of unusual interest, and on this evi­ HERBERT PARK was awarded the Review dence, although slight, that he deserves more prize for fiction last fall. A senior, he is an attention than he has received. J. R. B. associate editor of this magazine. THE TRINITY REVIEW 3

It was with deep regret that we learned of in this magazine and his contributions, possessed the death of Jack Boyer in Philadelphia on of a very distinct verbal aptness, added qualita­ March 6 of this year. The Editors feel that tively to each issue in which they appeared. contributors, subscribers, and readers share We are saddened and perplexed by his death, with them their sense of loss in his untimely but because we feel that he would not have death and join with them in this expression of wished it, we shall indulge in no timeless sympathy to his family and friends. Before lamentations. Rather, to one who will not be his transfer at midyear to the University of forgotten in the noise and importance of to­ Pennsylvania, Jack was an associate editor of morrow, we dedicate this number of the Trinity the Trinity Review. He had a genuine interest Review. Fine Night For a Sail by /. P. Foley, '55

"I get too hungry for dinner at eight, I go to operas and never come late-"

ICHAEL stared ruefully into the bot­ "And do you really play the piano at a club tom of the glass he was holding, in the Village?" M swirled the ice cubes around, and "Yep." finished off the gin and tonic. "Well, might "Oh; I just adore the Village. It's so sort as well go honor one of the young lovelies," he of picturesque with all those arty people around. muttered, and turned to place the glass on the Do you know what I mean?" bar. "Yep," responded Michael automatically, "What did you say you wanted, sir?" thinking of all the arty queers he met each Michael gazed with a kind of pity at the day. small bartender with white starched coat, his "You don't seem to like to talk about your­ waxed bowtie repeating his absurd mustache. self. I think it's fun to talk about one's self. "You want to know something, buddy. If I go to Miss Finch's School." you put a cap on, you'd be a dead ringer for a "And do they teach you to keep it until you gas station attendant." are married at Miss Finch's School?" "What did you say?" "That's why the lady is a tramp." "I said, can't you stop batting those damned "Christ, I must be getting tight. I always eyelashes. Look, I'm sorry, but I have to leave get brave when I'm tight." He began to walk -been swell meeting you." Then he added, slowly around the crowded dance floor, his "You look as though you could take care of impeccably tailored black dinner jacket con­ yourself all right." With the compliment from spicuous against the dizzy whirl of organdy, Mike Pearson, "YouknowwhoplaysintheVil­ tulle,. and dacron. He haci never worn a lage," ringing in her ears, she ran off. white dinner jacket. In what he liked to refer Michael started with relief toward the bar, to as his younger days ("My God," he some­ thinking egotistically, "She'll probably tell all times said. "Am I really twenty-five?"), it her friends that I tried to seduce her." Half­ had given him no little pleasure to hear some way to the bar, he saw the mustache, remem­ sweet young thing exclaim; "But you do-you bered the previous wisecrack, and turned toward look so distinguished in black with everyone the other bar. else in white!" "Why Michael, where have you been all Carefully avoiding the stag-line of boys with evening? Are you being a nice boy and danc­ receding pimples and blooming artificial red ing with all the girls ?" carnations in their button-holes, Michael cut "Oh, hello mother." "Christ," he thought, in on a cute blonde and whirled her expertly "how does she do it? Must be forty-five and away at a fast debutante pace. she merely looks like an experienced deb." "I don't think I know you." "Michael dear, please don't drink too much. 'Tm Mrs. Pearson's little boy Michael, dear." After I present the Yachting Trophy to Mal­ ( Oh, Christ, you're not funny Pearson, drop it). colm I want you to play some of your cute "You're Michael Pearson?" little songs." "Yep." Michael leaned up against one of the pillars FINE NIGHT FOR A SAIL 5 supporting the canopy, twined with garlands Michael instantly regretted his brusqueness and evil-smelling gardenias, and looked down as his mother looked up at him, her fingers at his mother, Mrs. Pearson, the party-giver. clenching his coat so tightly that they paled, She was small, with a boy' s slender figure, her a new look of urgency in her face. They stood softly curled hair reaching just to the nape of there silently, gazing deeply into each other, her neck, encircling a face that at first glance oblivious to the gay tunes, to the laughing seemed always to be laughing. "Mother, dam­ couples which surrounded them. Michael had mit, you know I didn't come all the way from had this feeling just once before. He had come New York just to be exhibited at one of your home from prep school one vacation to find the stupid parties.'' house a kaleidoscope of people, drinks, and She puckered up her face, looking more like urgent pulsating music. Being weary, he had a child than ever, and with a flirtatious motion, gone upstairs only to find his mother waiting for stood on tiptoe to fix one of the gardenias in him. He had proudly unpacked the symbols her son's lapel. of his success at school, the varsity letter, the dance souvenirs, talking gaily all the time, not noticing his mother's silence. Finally, there was the inevitable break in the monologue. Mi­ chael had become very much embarrassed as he prepared for bed, his mother showing no inclina­ tion to leave, and it was with some mixed feel­ ings that he approached her to say goodnight. They gazed into each other's eyes for a long while that night, an expression of something like hopeful curiosity on her face. Now Michael read it all again. It was clearer now, what he had not seen before; the short-lived, frenzied marriage that had pro­ duced him, the traveling from place to place; never settling down, the many strange men that never remained. Then there were the parties, marked by hopeless urgency, the revolving shells thinking each bottle was the last, but there was always one more. Trying to believe that each dance was the last, but savage beats seemed to carry one along forever. Toolatetoolatetoolate, the music shrilled as Mrs. Pearson now looked up at her son, asking for help, for an escape. He wanted to tell her that he'd do anything for her, that he'd play the damned- " I hate to break up such a charming family scene, but may I have this dance?" "Oh, excuse me, Malcolm. Michael and I were just talking. Remember, Mike. After I present the trophy." And she danced off, carefree and laughing gaily at something Malcolm said. Michael 6 THE TRINITY REVIEW watched them until they. were lost among the here he was, in his element, amusing people. others and then again took up his march to the Some of his confidence restored, he turned to bar. He asked for gin and tonic, drank it fast, to the audience to introduce his song. and with another in his hand wandered away "Kiddies, the name of this first number is aimlessly. Dirty bastard, he thought. Why Be Prepat·ed. This song, whose title of course don't you leave her alone? Can't you see that is the motto of the Boy Scouts, is a rousing an­ she doesn't belong here, that the party is over? them dedicated to that worthy institution." If s not what she's looking for! Savagely he "Be prepared, that's the Boy Scout Marching tore at the small flower she had fixed in his song-," lapel. As he threw it, broken, to the ground, Looking up from the keyboard, he saw the a slight breeze lifted it, toyed with it momen­ face of the blonde he had danced with earlier tarily, and then let it drop. He realized then iR the evening. that he was on the veranda of the club. He "Don't solicit for your sister, that's not nice, sank into a large chaise lounge, sobering a bit, Unless you get a good percentage of the listening to the sibilant murmurings of the price." waves as they lapped against the seawall direct­ There's something to write home about, sister ly below him. It seemed to him now that it -a real parent shocker. Talk about your lib­ had always been like this. Beneath it all was eral education. Once he looked up and saw his his mother. She sent him to school, to col­ mother. He had a scowl on his face, and her lege, backed his fraternity liquor bills, bought eyes were saying, 'Tm sorry, Michael." him boats, horses, had given him everything. And so it went for an hour. The tinted But damnit, why couldn't she lay off. 'Tve left tunes, the suggestive glances at fashionably em­ the nest," he said aloud. That's trite but true. barrassed girls, the requests for drinks that were But she still keeps trying to support me, to eagerly filled, all as much a part of his reper­ bring me into her way of life. Can't she realize toire as the tunes themselves. Finally, with that when I want something I can ask for it? the professional intuition that knows when to She's trying to hold me-bitch would like me to leave the audience in an appreciative mood, he be a watchfob she can dangle. . Oh mother I stopped, knowing that one more would trans­ don't mean that-for God's sake, forgive me. form their feeling of being well-fed into one of Some sense told him that the music had nausea. As he got up from the piano, trying stopped, and he entered the ballroom in time to to focus his eyes on the crowd and single out hear . Mrs. Pearson present the trophy to Mal­ his mother, he realized that he was quite tight. colm. "And now, if you would all like to (Almost time to stop, Michael, old boy. Must­ look under the tables and try to find my son o' t let yourself get drunk.) Michael drew a Michael, I'm sure that he would be delighted very fine line between being tight and drunk, to play a few of his avant-garde little tunes for but now the line blurred. He had a vehement us." objection to members of his sex who draped Bitch, he thought. And then, whoa Michael their arms around each other ... drunk, Michael my boy. Remember, this is mama's party. would say. After contemplating the danger of Amid a great deal of suppressed whispering this happening to him, he reassured himself, and tittering, he walked to the bar, refilled his and went for another drink. Squinting his eyes glass, and after looking at his mother for a against the glare of his cigarette lighter, he long moment (mother, why won't you come again scanned the crowd, looking for his down to me, won't you leave this with me?) mother. He saw her, alone for a moment, turned to the piano, ignoring the ingratiating sitting on the edge of the dance floor. She was little man who made room for him. Well, nodding to the persons who passed her, her face FINE NIGHT FOR A SAIL 7 wreathed in an appreciative smile as though she chael saw her, put down his drink, and fol­ were acknowledging something she knew was lowed. Outside the white moon was the center her due. Michael imagined the words flung of everything, the heart of everything, and it at her in passing, "Such a lovely party, Mrs. seemed to Michael as though the stars were be­ Pearson," and "I don't see how you do it." ing drawn to it. Bathed in its soft light, his (God, Mother, do you really want these words? mother was almost invisible against the white Are you satisfied with them and Malcolm and chaise. As he approached, she lifted her hand the others, and are they what you really need? to him until their fingertips barely brushed, and Look at me now, Mother. Look at me now the together they looked at each other and listened way you did the night I came home from school, for I -can understand now, Mother, I've reached for a long time until the sounds of the sea you.) drowned out the disturbances from within. Abruptly she rose, and walked out onto the "Do you know something, Michael? It's a veranda. From the other end of the room, Mi- fine night for a sail." Visiting Voices: William Bronk and Richard Eberhart

RIGHT AFTER SHE DIED JOE'S JITTERS She lies still warm who will not ever now Everything is fastened down to the floor. be warm again, her body limp and all I can't move anything in here any more. her barriers as though they never were. I can't get out of this house, or close the door. How like a sleeping child, yet even then, William Bronk even asleep, one thinks she could not lie so easy, so unwary. Life in her

Was a hurt she hastened to repay. Pain THE GLANCE given and taken, the gauge of its forcefulness. She shied behind the tissues of her scars. Cold nights in December are pure, The moon is my metal. What demons gentle death has exorcised. A glance for a long thought Oh, pity her! Life, be kind to us To tell when hunger bites at the starving guts of love. that all William Bronk is well.

Enrapture my blessing IDOLS OF IMAGINATION Immediacy of perception. Concentrate my purpose I put the idols by. I left the place; To tell I journeyed where the eagles are that all To sail upon necessity is well. Under a lucid star.

Far out upon the sea Truth, instantaneous, Where talon meets the fin Have no other message. I was perplexed again Other times and other men As pure thinkers are. Will tell that all What natural act can teach is well. Up to the soul's reach, Though killer and killed are one, Cold nights in December are pure, What but idols of imagination? The moon is my metal. Come year-all heaven and hell, Grant me then one lucid star And tell And freedom give me now that all To cast the dual nature out, is well. But net idolatry,-who knows how? Richard Eberhart Richard Eberhart Mid- Season Check Up by Ronald Richardson, '56

AHLER, mobiles, and The Caine Mut­ Operawise, Hartford is extremely fortunate inty Court Martial have been early in being able to hear some of the finest singers M highlights of the round of activities of our time. It is true that performances by which will comprise Hartford's contribution to the Connecticut Opera Association are often the arts this season. uneven (the orchestra is not always what it The arrival of Fritz Mahkr on the musical might be) , but those who heard Otello at the scene was an auspicious event not easily over­ Bushnell last season agree that they witnessed rated. Mr. Mahler brings with him musician­ a performance that, for sheer vocalism, cer­ ship of the first order and an unwavering vital­ tainly equalled and perhaps surpassed recent ity, which has been a great impetus to orchestra performances at the Metropolitan. This sea­ and audience alike. The four concerts which son we have seen an ill-balanced T osca, a slip­ we have already heard this season have been shod Carmen with a cast of young singers, and arresting and by-and-large well performed. If Victoria de Los Angeles' enchanting Madame the more conservative section of the audience Butterfly. On April 6, the Connecticut Opera has notice with regret the absence of Schubert, Association will present their final offering of Schumann, and Brahms from this season's the season, a double bill- Mascagni' s Caval­ schedule, certainly the avant-garde has noticed leria Rusticana and Puccini's Gianni Schicchi. with great pleasure the inclusion of Barber, The last production by the Association each year Bartok, and William Schuman. New works is advertised as a presentation of an unusual directed by a new conductor have brought more work. Both Cavalleria and Gianni Schicchi, excitement to a Hartford Symphony concert however, are popular at the Metropolitan. It than has been witnessed in several years. There is true that last season's final show Otello was is no reason to believe that Mr. Mahler will not not heard at the Metropolitan from 1913 to include sections by the Romantic composers on 1937, but since the 1937 revival, the work has programs of future seasons. been heard a number of times. L' Elisir One of Mr. Mahler's most significant inno­ d' Amore, the "unusual" production of the 1951- vations is a series of Saturday afternoon con­ 52 season, may not be in the repertory of every certs for young people. These highly en­ road company, but it definitely is not a rare or joyable performances provide an important unique piece. experience for the youth of the city and fill Of late, however, the Hartt School of Music a gap long vacant in the Hartford area. has presented very unusual works. How many Perhaps one of the reasons for the high­ in the audience of Verdi's Macbeth last year calibre performances by the Hartford Sym­ had ever heard the work before? On Febru­ phony has been the appearance, each year, of ary 3-6, the Hartt School offered Benjamin Brit~ the finest orchestras of our land. At least six ten's Albert Herring. This work, which has evenings this season the Bushnell auditorium never been performed by a major company in the will be cosmopolitan in atmosphere, for the United States, is of some importance in the New York Philharmonic, the Philadelphia Or­ annals of contemporary music. The only op­ chestra, the Detroit Symphony, the Cleveland portunity one has of seeing it is at a college or Orchestra, the Boston Symphony, and the music school. In May, the Hartt School will Pittsburgh Symphony all appear. do two modern novelties, Martinu's Comedy on 10 THE TRINITY REVIEW the Bridge and Menotti's Amah/ and the Night and Gabo. We wonder how many of those Visitors. free-moving contraptions now dangle from the Danilova, Slavenska, and Franklin are names ceiling of West Hartford living-rooms. which even the most casual ballet fan would As the activities of the movie industry this recognize, and for two seasons Hartford has year have been largely confined to the size of seen these admirable artists and their fine the screen rather than what is being shown on troupe. Unfortunately, the new "Streetcar it, he in Hartford who wants to see an unusual Named Desire" ballet, which caused such a movie must check the newspapers very care­ sensation in New York, was not performed fully. The Art Theatre, which in the past here last November as scheduled, but the more could be counted upon to show something traditional works were received with great en­ esoteric, changed its policy in September and thusiasm. On March 22nd, Agnes de Mille's for several months seemed content with Holly­ Dance Theatre will make its debut in Hartford wood, vintage 1953. At this writing, how­ ' and in May, the Bushnell has booked the only ever, the management has obviously seen the other ballet attraction of the year - Lucia error of its ways and is currently showing for­ Chase's company, which will arrive straight eign films once more. Other than a series of from European triumphs. four films being presented at the Atheneum, the only unusual films to be seen are the offer­ Absent from the Bushnell's calendar this ings of the Cinema Club here at Trinity. The year (with but one exception) are virtuoso re­ newly-formed organization has signed an agree­ citals. Because of a low budget, the manage­ ment with the Museum of Modern Art in New ment is unable to guarantee sufficient funds to York and has already offered "The Birth of a prospective artists; and therefore, musicians Nation" and "What Price Glory." like Iturbi, Marian Anderson, Heifitz, and Rubenstein will not be heard. On April 22nd, Nearly every week 1089 Main Street has all however, Lily Pons will appear in a benefit the excitement of a Schubert theatre on an concert for the Sisters of Mercy. opening night. The New Parsons Theatre can look with pride at the theatre section of any The Sunday-afternoon recitals at the Wads­ New York newspaper. Josephine Hull, Mel­ worth Atheneum are charming but innocuous vyn Douglas, Judith Anderson, and Sir Cedric and must be classed with the minor activities of Hardwicke are stars in anybody' s book and are that institution. The high point of most of the indicative of the high calibre of the New Par­ concerts and lectures at the Atheneum seems to son's program this season. Most of the plays be the sociale, where conversation just wit­ have been on pre-Broadway runs, and one had nessed, is very precious, at times devastatingly its world premiere here in Hartford, Make so. Momma Happy, a pleasant domestic comedy "I hope it's not too sweet?" chirped a plump starring Molly Picon, queen of the Yiddish matron as she handed a gentleman a cup of tea. theatre. "But there's no sugar in it," the perplexed To the Bushnell, however, must be given the fellow replied. honor of having presented what will probably "No," the lady effused, "but you've touched go down in contemporary theatre annals as the it." outstanding play of 195 3-54- The Caine Mu­ Fortunately, such events, which are the bane tiny Court Martial. of smalltown society, are completely over­ And there we have it, highlights of the cease­ shadowed by the creditable work of the Athene­ less round of goings-on in Hartford. For its um. Very provocative was the exhibit of size, Hartford offers an extraordinary amount mobiles and kinetic constructions by Calder of first-rate, professional entertainment. IN THE FALL OF THE YEAR

That year the leaves fell like tears, straight down, A Variety of Through the still atmosphere of the dying year. No sigh, not a hushed breath came through the barren branches Poets: To incite them to a last pretence of life.

The dull, grey, overhanging clouds, that touched the hills, Seemed to wait, gently, like hopeless men. PATH I had been out among the hills, and then, I know the path, at the foot of a hill, Returning early from my ride, With towering needle falls in freeze above it, A solitary man approached me, gruffly, And shadowed crazy quilts of oak and elm And left me word that you had died. leaves, Lashed with boughs and branches, round about And then the wind came, with the rain, it. As though the earth could breathe again, But breathed in pain. I know the path, a crease at the neck of a hill. Herbert Park A grassy slope, pursued by spindling trees, races Below it into icy water sidling By (a brook which laps at spewn-forth TIME boulders). Walk close between the space of time A path instinctive labors of many have torn (And what's that voice I heard of late?) From nature, gradually succumbing, prey to Walk the tight rope of your mind? The quiet wiles of spring and fall. Is she the child who swung upon the gate?

An early morning, late May, static taupe in the Love she who smell of trees. (The sheerness east of her dress wrapped about her knees) . And purple in the west, the air still moist, Of tangled hair across a velvet calm I lingered by that lichen-flattered log, to Of .fingers curled in sleep against the palm. Breathe the incensed forest mulch. Love she who dances in the rain.

I sat on the huge, receptive rock, Carry now the raindrop, Peered up at the waking birds. As your feet trail bare across the wetness of the grass. Chirp-chirp, twill, twit-a-twit-a-twit Lie listening to the shell that softly sighs Down the artless stades, echoing the many-sized Is he the child who swung upon the gate? prints From generations of no place to nowhere. And learn to build with velvet and with snow. And know somewhere a clock will chime for A path's age is measured, one step to none. you, Corroded, it is lost; tinker-tramped, it grins, Will chime and chime and sound as in dream­ Fighting its passive battle. less sleep I know the path. And tick off days you've swung upon the gate. John Sinclair Brims D. William Ritter Two Pieces On the Civil Wa" by Chester Ringheiser, '55

A NEGRO VIEW OF THE CIVIL WAR Den they took de cutains and de windah weights De plow most broke and de mule most dyin, Dey took ha corsets and ha pretty lace. De white folks fighten and da missy cryin, Dey goin put em all in one big pile July am here an no plowin done An shoot up the yankees fo miles an miles. The soap ain't made or de candles run. Don't make much sence when Miss Bessy cryin De ole field negahs on Jackson's place Marse Myron gone and de field need plow in. Gettin lazy as hay from sitten a space. Big ole Lincoln an ole Jeff Davis The big house black as de missy's hair They' s makin things happen all ovah de place Dey ain't no whoopin go in on there Ah keeps on workin an Miss Bessy keeps cryin, They ain't no chicken fryin an coo kin Marse Myron keeps duckin ta keep from dyin Dey ain't no hams an no big doins. Don't make no sence to dis ole black head, De bosses am gone and de massa' s dead Folks id mine dey own business if'n dey'd listen De missy went loco and shot up ha head. ta Leb. TWO PIECES ON THE CIVIL WAR 13

PROLOGUE feels the pain. They are blue and gray . . Woman: What will be the issue? Woman: What is that distant sound? Man: Union and peace. Man: The sound of wind at the mountain's jaw. The sound of leaves across the dis­ Woman: What does the Union mean? tant lawn. Wind's winding. A thunder Man: It means a Union of free men. roar among the outer clouds. Nothing Woman: I have seen these things before. more. When men are free they seek the strongest Woman: Again I hear it, and my womb aches voice and follow blindly every master's at its issue. Listen again, and reason. call. Men cannot decide. Man: It is sound, only sound. Man: The future is unknown even unto itself. Woman: But nearer now. I hear the sounds A brave man dies to save his home, then a of men, and the sky is red like wicked eyes. lantern pushed by the curious fingers of his I hear men's voices. child destroys it. Laws passed in justice, in time become unjust. Only some things Man: I cannot lie, I see them. I hear the are timeless. The future is and is in time echoes back along the rolling time. Mute when the drums roll among the columns is the tongue time has placed within My and the arches of the dead. But this war mouth. But the thoughts are weary, and must come. Some moments come in his­ yet they are full of strength. tory when the deep stains of error are Woman: Then my fear is true. erased. Man: Your fear is true. Men are less eager Woman: Men do not understand, they settle to be men than woman, woman. for less to gain the foolish name. Woman: Men love nothing sometimes, and Man: Would you have us stand still? Are in those times women must teach him. you not proud when they show brave ac­ She fights this battle sound from the first tion? she drops her pain into the outward air, Woman: I am more proud of my sacrifice than and when she sees the young blond head I am of their courage. move to wooden swords and paper three­ peaked hat. Who fights in this battle? Man: We must wait. Your eyes are better to see these things Woman: Oh, the pain has made some of us than mine. men. Man: One country fights, folded in upon it­ Man: We must love each other. We must self. Like a snake who fears the sound wait. behind him in the leaves, and turns alone Woman: We must love each other. in forest to bite the enemy he fears, stop­ ping only when he sees his blood·, and Chester Ringheiser a neighbor on the far side arose early before the lamps were off to dig Table of Two carefully nudged into a tuft of earth the only life he knew nor did he LISTEN to the tune the old speak of it or hint in any way day by day tune tuba and a bit of christmas tinsel he sat and watched the sun go up and down in a two-step time that's weary "Let us go" she said. the twilight from the porch along the open rail is short these days and evening comes i looked across to the window where like a storm in august yes yes now i lived- it is time time for you and time for me in between -yet the moment is not right the alley CAUGHT under the purple moon, blue bas- Listen to the cl~msy tune a rasping soon fickled flute and a bit of christmas tinsel and an alley of coral-green monsters that scratchy jazzy jig of the spheres and a stale wind that ruffles the feathers of stiff yellow birds and brown sparrows i heard and said this is not TRUE and so I did not hear now it was evening again i knew yet my heart became distressed (old age will come so crippled and create- though it was less) not true shall we SAY only to the alley and to the broken heart and to the purple moon Always thinking of the HEART the little heart -the long day ends it is evening again the poor heart the hurt heart the broken ... (who dies of a broken eyelash? Across the way lives a neighbor girl they splinter it and shoot him full of (her hair is golden and her eyes are grey) anadiodrine) but the day was her fear and she shut it BUT the broken heart is never real OUT in the evening she strolls with locks of a child and a lollipop and lives my dear she said and I slipped her in the beam of a beautiful dream hand upon my knee and i smiled "Let us dance inside my dear." "It is dry, the alley is dusty." (could i look into her eyes and say i cannot yea, it is dry i said but we tarry -i have a broken eyelash) the music is stopped our friend wishes us "It is evening again my dear dear." gone One day when you are very old so crippled and that is my window i said createless "Of course" she laughed "that is the win­ a memory of something almost done will come dow." and you will smile, and cry, and DIE You are neighbor to an alley with black Look at the alley at its black cinders cinders where the sun never falls where i guess the sun never falls where seeds rot fall is all year long where never a clean breeze picks yours is the beam of a dream up the scraps of sticky trash ( i cannot that enters the blackness and is GONE. dance) Roger Harmon The Thorns of Life by Jacque Hopkins, '54

UT of the agonizing travail of birth­ let him into the quiet room where Agnes lay ing, Agnes Lockhart brought her son on the large hospital bed. She looked so tiny, 0 into the world. so weak that Henry suddenly felt sick and help­ But she never saw him. The rigors of moth­ less. He left the room docilely. There was erhood destroyed what never had been a strong nothing he could do. The doctors would do body, their best. and she died three days later. All that day, all Tuesday and Wednesday, Henry stayed in their small apartment. He (In the three days since his son had been drank a little and smoked too much, roaming born, Henry Lockhart had not yet seen the the rooms from window to window looking out child. blankly at the gray skies and the dirty city, He had waited anxiously at the hospital dur­ while the antiseptic hospital nurses efficiently ing the labor, not hoping for a boy or a girl, bathed and cared for the son he had forgotten. but only impatient to see his wife again. The On Wednesday night, the phone call came doctor had come out smiling- Henry cursed while Henry was lying in a nervous sleep on the him now for his deception - and congratulated sofa. He lifted up the telephone sleepily. the new father. Henry gestured irritably with "Mr. Lockhart? This is Dr. Morgan." The his hand and asked how soon he could see doctor spoke briskly; there was no sense in try­ Agnes. Casually, the doctor replied, ing to be pleasant about something like this. "It will be a while yet, Mr. Lockhart. Your "Come to the hospital. Your wife is sinking wife had a difficult delivery." rapidly, and I'm afraid there's no more hope." That was Sunday night. Henry spent Mon­ He arrived too late. day morning at the hospital waiting as patient­ As Henry turned to go, a nurse stopped him. ly as he could. That afternoon, they finally "Mr. Lockhart, we'll care for the child until 16 THE TRINITY REVIEW you make arrangements elsewh~re. And, oh him alone speaking to him infrequently and ad­ yes, had you and Mrs.-, had you decided on dressing him coldly as Michael. a name for him ?" When Michael was fourteen, Henry decided Henry looked at her blankly. He rubbed the to send his son away to school and, after con­ two day growth of beard on his face and said, ferring with his business partner, concluded that "Michael." Then he walked out of the build­ St. Matthew's would be as good as any other ing.) place. They sent Michael down to Brooks Michael lived with his grandfather and where the salesmen had been instructed to out­ grandmother for the first ten years of his life fit him completely and appropriately for the in a few musty, dark rooms that formed the sartorial rigors of preparatory school, upper half of an old, brownstone house. although this was unnecessary since no one He was a qu1et, well mannered child although had ever taught Michael how to knot a tie somewhat small and frail properly or to keep his trousers zipped up. which caused his aunts and uncles to remind It was at St. Matthew's that Michael dis­ the boy what a fine woman his mother had covered God, been. and then rejected Him . . He knew his father as the man who sat uncomfortably ill at ease m the (The sanctuary lamp in its crimson crystal parlor on Sundays burned unwaveringly, casting red shadows on and who occasionally brought footballs and the dark shapes of pews, the pulpit, and the baseball bats which were put in the attic to squat altar of the school chapel. It was Sat­ gather dust. urday evening, and the building was deserted Michael had few friends (the other children although Michael could hear groups of his played too hard), but he loved schoolmates passing by the chapel on their way his teddy bear, to the flicks in town or to the ice cream shop. the old worn purse that his grandmother gave Michael had been in the chapel since five him, o'clock when he had finished eating his solitary and the kings and princes and magical people dinner in the dining hall. that inhabited his only storybook. When the boy first started coming to the Michael was well behaved; he played quietly chapel at night, he would only stay a few min­ alone in the dark rooms; utes, praying silently, and waiting for the white and he cried himself to sleep at night. heat of revelation which, he was certain, would Henry Lockhart remarried when his son was tell him to spread the word of God among the ten. He came to the brownstone house and heathen, or to devote his life to the contempla­ took Michael away from the beaded lampshades tion of His Perfection. And quite often Mi­ and the rooms with the dark, flowered wall­ chael lost track of the time, sitting enraptured paper. by dreams of future holiness and sanctity. The boy's father, now portly prosperous with "Father Lockhart is such a handsome saintly a chesty laugh and dead, gray eyes, had mar­ wise man," they would whisper as he spoke of ried a brittly beautiful platinum blonde whom the Sacraments, and Divine Grace, and Abid­ the dark haired Michael immediately hated and ing by His Word- The congregation blurred then forgot. Henry Lockhart went through the and faded. The young girl was sitting alone ritual of making self-conscious attempts at on the lawn. It was evening. She was calling friendship with his son ("How's it going, Mike, out to him gaily, "Oh, Father Lockhart, come old trooper?"), but was baffied and hurt by sit with me." How beautiful she was! "Father Michael's indomitable reserve, and finally left Lockhart, I am so lonely ... and Father Lock- THE THORNS OF LIFE 17 hart ... oh, Father Lockhart ... dear Michael." learned two things that were not m the cur­ And the boy was hot and trembling on his riculum at St. Matthew's: knees in an agony of remorse praying for for­ he learned the fine art of self pity, giveness for his adolescent sins of lust. and he realized that he was fated to be one Michael had soon learned to avoid the of the world's finest poets (for he had suffered, perils of intellectual venery by praying fiercely had he not?). and passionately, as he was doing this night. Beyond that, Michael learned nothing from He stared fixedly at the cold, brass cross on the the bored instructors whose thin, querulous altar until it seemed to waver and strain up­ voices rose through the dry air reciting the ward like a searing flame of gold. Michael's monotonous catechisms of Latin, algebra, Eng­ frenzied voice echoed hoarsely from the arched lish literature, and history; the reedy pronounce­ ceilings, his words blurred and meaninglessly ments died unheard as Michael composed poetic disconnected. phrases "Oh God ... to do Thy will .. . I am so lone­ and mused over the countless tragedies of ly, saintly loneliness ... I am Thy humble ser­ his life vant . . . so stupid in class, the others laugh . . . and shuddered with the dark longings of if Thou would only . . . and at night, sleep is adolescent blood. hard, I try to be pure in thought and deed, but Michael had not often thought of the woman ... Thy perfection shall encompass me, I shall from whose blood and broken body he had plunge myself into the radiance of Thy holy sprung. He had never thought of her as body ...," and the words spilled out until the mother; if he thought of Agnes Lockhart at all, cadence of the language brought soothing dull­ he employed the vocabulary of mournful spin­ ness to his intellect, escape from remembering. ster aunts and tired uncles: poor Agnes, that un­ When the laughter exploded from the rear fortunate girl- of the chapel behind Michael, he stiffened and Indeed, the child had known no other than his fingers tightened around the prayer book. himself. He heard someone shout, "It's St. Lucy Lock­ hart!" and then, amidst more laughter, they (The thin boy traced childish runes upon the scrambled through the door and out of the dusty windowsill; watching the raindrops on building. As Michael prayed, he had not the pane dribble down, now hesitate, then run heard the chapel door open and the sound of the course and break upon the casement. The furtive footsteps. Michael slumped back into yellow lace curtains brushed against his face the pew, his teeth clamped together hard and and smelled of age and death. He turned his eyes closed. Tears of anger streaked his around and saw his grandfather reading the cheeks as he stood up. The boy walked up newspaper in the dimness of the room, while the center aisle to the altar rail. He stood look­ his grandmother crocheted another doily for ing at the brass cross under which was the re­ the sagging easy chairs. Michael walked quiet­ served Host, the Body and Blood of Our Lord. ly into his bedroom and sang a sad song be­ Wordlessly, he leaned forward and spat upon cause the world had died and he was all alone.) the altar. The prayer book fell from his hand to the floor as he whirled around and strode Somewhere amidst this careless heap of days, out of the building. among the endless infant songs, a thought oc­ (That was the last time that Michael ever curred: Michael is the world, and .the world is entered the chapel.) Michael. The mysterious comfort of this statement had formed his solitary life, and the After Michael's tilt with the Creator, he child had cried no more at night. 18 THE TRINITY REVIEW

-Now, in the ageless dust of St. Matthew's experienced renovation since. The freshman classrooms, he traced out the lovely tragedy of months expended themselves in introverted pas­ the motherless child ("Dear mother, I loved sions immortalized (perhaps) in inky scrawls you so! " ), rejected by an insensate father, on paper which were added to the mounting and .. . pile of cherished manuscripts: assignments the circumstances mounted in a tottering slipped by undone, countless offices of collegiate pyramid; he felt the happy weight of sadness, life remained neglected, and the room became and his lips trembled while he scrawled an­ a chaos of dirty clothing and crumpled paper other sonnet - (sloppy? oh no, la vie Boheme!). well, almost a sonnet, at least it's lyric and it's beautiful because no one understands it unless his soul's impaled upon the thorns of life ( ah, Shelley!) In the stifling atmosphere of Pepsi-Cola schol­ -in his dogeared notebook. ars and darkskinned, ugly Jews whose Semitic Michael left with one of St. Matthew's an­ intelligence crackled in the academic gloom of nual tributes paid to the Ivy League. His Widener Library and Mass Hall, Michael omnivorous reading showed up his lack of aca­ thought that he would surely languish and his demic diligence when he took the college poetry perish, for his sould was far too sensi­ boards; he managed a minimal grade, tive to flourish in the arid wastes of and with the beneficent intervention of one footnotes, of his father's business associates (Harvard bibliographies, '12), and literary analyses. Michael (a thin volume of avant-garde poe­ "And anyway, my tragic home life has left try in his pocket) left for Harvard, mother of its crippling imp~ess on my soul," he thought, poets, CummingsEliotPoundsStevens, and veri­ savoring this saccharine sadness which so con­ tas. veniently excused academic failure. He spent his freshman year in the Hollis Young Lockhart searched and found the room that had housed Thoreau, a more monu­ coterie of Harvardboys who mental rebel, many years before and had not met by candlelight and misinterpreted Eliot and listened to each other's poetry, with oc- casional flashes of jealousy, and spent their Sunday mornings trying the "Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair .. ." Although not one of them knew what a peig- nor was, of course, nor did they bother to find out. They were not pedants. They could in­ tuit the meaning of poetry. They had souls. And Michael, of the seismographic soul, suf­ fered and wrote, and accepted from an admir­ ing fellow artist a book of poetry inscribed: For Michael Lockhart, il miglior fabbro. Occasional defections led these aesthetic de­ votees from their melpomenean occupations, and they roamed the gin mills of South Boston, THE THORNS OF LIFE 19

Scollay Square feeling faintly alien, unable to sary leer to his mocking innuendo and contin­ rub off the gloss of Cambridge, yet knowing ued, "Or is it just inexperience?" this is good, for Michael flushed and protested lamely, fearful this is Life. that the others would discover the truth of Ma­ But intoxication sometimes plays bad jokes son's taunting remark about his innocence, but on Cambridge boys, even poets. the two had already begun finishing up their beer. Recovering from his momentary em­ (Michael sat at the table with Dan Mason barrassment, Michael felt a sudden surge of and Bill Sumner, his arm resting in a puddle of desire in anticipation of the adventure. He water on the plastic table top. His eyes were drank his beer and waited impatiently for Sum­ half closed, and he kept brushing ineffectually ner to finish his. The three rose and unsteadily at the black hair which fell down across his left the bar, pausing only while Michael and forehead. He squinted through the smoke at Bill dissuaded Mason from addressing a few Dan and Bill who were arguing about the obscene remarks to the patrons. function of the poet in a democratic society. The cab ride was short, and they stumbled Since he didn't feel up to following the con­ out in front of a shabby hotel. Michael stood versation, Michael turned his attention to the in the overheated lobby supporting Mason, who other patrons of the bar. It was a pretty seedy was leaning sleepily on the shoulder of his collection of people, he decided. slight companion. Sumner registered them He wasn't quite sure where they were, al­ for three single rooms, concluded a whispered though he knew that they must be near Scollay conference with the bored night clerk, and led Square. Someone had said something about them . upstairs. Michael and Sumner guided going to the Casino to see the late show, and the staggering Mason into his room where he all seven of them had taken off from Cam­ fell on the bed and almost immediately began bridge. The first cab would only take four, so to snore. The two walked further down the Michael and his two companions caught an­ hall and finally found Michael's room where other. When they got to the Casino, the box Sumner left him, remarking, "They'll be up in office was closed, and they started walking a minute." around looking for a place to get a beer. Michael walked into the small room and Michael picked up his glass and tried to finish turned on the bare light bulb which hung from off the beer, but nearly gagged. He had drunk the center of the ceiling. He threw his coat too much and pushed the glass away from him. on the flimsy wooden chair which occupied one "The Morrison? Y eh, how 'bout that?" corner of the room. The boy looked around Mason slurred his words drunkenly. "Hey, nervously and then sat down on the edge of the Michael, are you game for a li'l sportification ?" creeking bed. He picked at his fingernails, He jabbed· Lockhart in the side with his elbow. trying to keep from glancing at the door in The boy turned and looked inquiringly at the front of him. When Michael heard the soft two. Sumner glanced at Michael sharply as he knocking, he jumped up and called out, his leaned over, and Lockhart noted that he looked voice breaking adolescently, "Come in." The almost fiendishly sober. "Dan wants to go boy felt vaguely disappointed when he saw ( down to the Morrison Hotel for a bit of carnal the sallow faced, thin girl who stood in the frolic," Sumner replied with his mannered and doorway dressed in a faded dress. pedantic mockery. Her voice was stridently South Boston when When Michael didn't answer immediately, she asked, "You the kid wanted the room serv­ Mason commente~, "What's wrong, are you of ice?" Michael nodded, and the girl walked the other persuasion?" He added an unneces- into the room closing the door behind her . . . 20 THE TRINITY REVIEW

As she left, she glanced back at Michael, Rejection slips from the Advocate despair­ laying on the bed, his eyes tightly closed. "I ingly punctuated the months; a clumsy satire hate to take your money, kid, but you know we consisting of much heavy handed emphasis on all gotta make a livin'. You shouldn't try it the American Way of Life elicited no response when you had so much to drink. Maybe again from the Lampoon snobs; the examinations sometime-" She quietly closed the door. concluded with a parturition of low seventies; Michael was breathing hard and cursing un­ and Michael joined the intellectual fringe, der his breath. "The bitch, the bitch, the finding in the notsoclear light of reason a goddam bitch! Goddam them all and Sumner solace for his frequent moods of black depres­ and Mason too." He got up and angrily sion, dressed himself. He splashed his face with discussing Kierkegaard, cold water from the cracked wash bowl in the misunderstanding Sartre ("Oh hell, what's corner of the room, and stood there, lips trem­ the use? Men are animals; there is no God. bling, pounding the palm of his left hand with You believe in free love, don't you, Diana?" ) his fist. The anger subsiding, Michael walked forsaking the melancholy candlelight of poe- over to the bed and laid down tiredly. Staring try for bright philosophy (seen through a at the ceiling, he muttered, "Oh Christ, I'm no glass darkly) in Boston's gleaming coffee shops. good," and felt the satisfying sting of tears in He studied harder but was ever dismayed by his eyes. the persistency of low grades, the stupidity of Michael said nothing to the other two as the Harvard lecturers who ignored his soul­ they took the interminable trip back to Cam­ ful genius; and Michael wept when he recalled bridge. When they got to the Square, he left the crippling effects of his unfortunate child­ Sumner and Mason wordlessly, and ran to his hood - that story now embroidered suitably to Hollis room. provide an etiology for what was, in essence, The next day, Michael wrote a long poem on an inadequate intellect- and performed the faithless friends and carnal love.) litany of self pity: No one loves me. No one understands me (for I am too unique.) I am all alone (genius is always lonely.) I should be dead (for suicide is creativity; death is life.) There was a compensation, however, in the syllogisms of a fuzzy kind of Existentialism which often led to Radcliffe beds.

(They were walking down the Esplanade by the Charles River. It was a warm, spring night, and the lights of Boston were reflected in the silent river waters. Cynthia, shorter than Michael, walked closely by his side, her head tilted upward to watch him as he spoke. She never really understood what he talked about, it sounded so vague and nonsensical, al­ though she could recognize some of the names and terms from her Radcliffe course in intro- THE THORNS OF LIFE 21 ductory phil. Cynthia always nodded under­ and artistic creativity." Michael waved his standingly and agreeably, although her thoughts free hand in the air as he concluded his favor­ were ever occupied with her love for the tall, ite sophistry. thin boy. The girl was shaken from the warm security Michael had met Cynthia through his room­ of her musings by the word suicide. "But mate. She was not really very attractive, but Michael, you aren't serious?" she had a kind of cheerful intelligence which "Of course. When you realize the cruelties attracted him, and she was an admiring listener. and pain of human existence, the only alterna­ While the others had always turned away or tive is voluntary death." He spoke smugly. stirred their coffee impatiently when he ex­ Michael considered the argument and its con­ pounded his latest theory, Cynthia had listened fused references to mystical philosophy irrefu­ almost rapturously. table. "Go on, Michael. Everything you say is so "You wouldn't kill yourself, would you?" true." He smiled at the note of panic in her voice. "Thank you, Cynthia." He could hardly "I don't see why I shouldn't." hide his pleasure. "Well, why don't we get The girl replied quickly with conviction, "But out of here? Go to Boston and find a place you can't ... now." where we can really talk?" They stopped, and Michael pulled away from And that's the way it had started. The Cynthia. He looked at her carefully. "What months slipped by, and Michael found in Cyn­ do you mean?" thia's love the assurance and the confidence in She brightened as she replied, "We have to himself that he had never known before. get married. Oh, I knew you didn't want to Cynthia assumed from the beginning that get married right away, Michael, but it just Michael reciprocated the affection that she had happened that way. It will be grand fun for him. Although he never mentioned this though. Father will give us some money so (he was not the romantic sort, and told her­ that you can finish college, and I could work self) , the girl had long since planned their later-" She hesitated, looking fearfully at eventual marriage in her optimistic day dreams. Michael. Seeing the dark expression on his Often, she attempted to draw Michael into a face, Cynthia lost some of her assurance but discussion of his future plans. She suggested, hastened on. 'Tm really quite a good cook in fact, that he talk with her father who owned you know. It won't be like they always joke a profitable business in Springfield, but Michael about in the cartoons. And I could help you would only -reply with vague illusions to "the so. Don't you understand, Michael? I'm go­ life of aesthetic achievement" and references ing to have a baby." to his poetry. Cynthia accepted this and told The boy backed away muttering, "No, no." Michael that he needn't worry because she His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke, would marry him no matter how impoverished "No, Cynthia. I can't get married. I've got he was. The boy had looked at her sharply to remain free to be a great poet." Michael when she said that, but had not replied. felt the cold fear rise from his stomach. His Cynthia continued her romantic, joyful hands tensed at his side, he continued as his dreams; Michael resumed his poetic philosophi­ voice rose hysterically. "Never! I won't do cal wanderings; and neither of them showed it. You planned this, Cynthia. This has just any concern when their romance became sud­ been a scheme to trap me and make me work denly more intimate. for your middle class father and keep me from ". . . And so, Cynthia, rightly understood, being a great poet! I see it now. Well, it's suicide is the only true form of self-expression not going to work!" 22 THE TRINITY REVIEW

The girl recoiled from the viciousness of his tunity to read them. You have a facility for attack, her eyes wide with shock. Then she clever phraseology. You should continue writ­ brought her hands up to her face and began ing after you leave college. It would be a sobbing, her shoulders trembling. Michael worthy avocation." stood watching her, trying to put down the fear He handed the poems across the desk to Mi­ that possessed him, but it became stronger. · He chael before continuing, "How are your studies turned and walked away quickly leaving Cyn­ coming along?" thia al.one. It was quiet now on the walk next Michael swallowed hard and replied, "But to the placid river.The only sounds were the sir, about my poetry, isn't it really any good?" girl's soft sobbing and the crunch of gravel as The older man raised his eyebrows quizzi­ the boy walked toward the bridge. cally. "Any good? I didn't say it wasn't good. Later that week, after Michael had recovered It's well above average as a matter of fact. from the effects of Cynthia's betrayal of their Highly subjective, of course, but that's not un­ love, he sent her a letter enclosing a check for usual for an undergraduate." three hundred dollars and instructions for her "And is that all?" Michael urged the inter­ to see a doctor he had heard of in South Boston. view on. After that, Michael never saw her again.) "Well, Mr. Lockhart, it's just that your poe­ In the loveliness of Cambridge spring, the try is really quite insubstantial. It is super­ boy returned to poetry. He read "The Love ficially clever, but really possesses no depth. Of course, I may be wrong, but-" Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" once, and studied an interpretive commentary of the poem for a week, and still was not sure what Eliot meant, al­ though his loquaciousness- so cleverly evasive - provided a sophisticated facade. And Michael's friends and professors be­ came accustomed to seeing the burning eyed boy approach with sheaves of paper in his hand; they read the lines while he waited silently, timorously for approval.

("Come in, young man." The old man shouted through the layers of tobacco smoke that filled his small and dark office. "Thank you, Mr. Beard. I'm Michael Lock­ hart. I gave you some of my poetry to read-" Michael sat nervously on the edge of the straight-backed chair while the professor relit his pipe. Puffing out clouds of heavy, aro­ matic smoke, Mr. Beard rummaged through the litter on his desk and found a thick sheaf of typewriter paper held together with a paper clip. "Yes, I enjoyed your poems, Mr. Lockhart, and I must thank you for giving me the oppor- THE THORNS OF LIFE 23

Michael had stopped listening, although Pro­ Michael Lockhart, baccalaureus artis, now fessor Beard did not notice this and rambled one of the thousands undistinguished gradu­ on into a general discourse about the inherent ates, returned for the last time to his lonely difficulties in modern poetry forms. The boy room in Adams House. He packed his clothes sat stunned in his chair. He had set this inter­ and his poetry, crated his books, and, leaving, view as the supreme test. William Henry returned the room to timeless anonymity. Beard was the Harvard English department's The summer months limped by in the heat of claim to eminence in the field of literary criti­ Greenwich Village. The satisfying joys of city cism. Michael had not considered for a mo­ life- ment that the man would have anything other it was sweet to hear the children chatter like than praise for these poems, his best work. He scolding squirrels as they played beneath the had called it a test, but was unconsciously con­ open fire hydrants; vinced that Professor Beard would immediately at night, the music of more gentle tongues discern genius in the verse. Now, this- than English filled the streets; the old people "-and you should keep those elements in sat upon the stairs and talked of childhood days mind when you read Eliot or Pound, young man. in Napoli, Turino, Firenze; Well, thank you again for allowing me to ex­ the lovers dragged their feet upon the side­ amine your poems, Mr.- uh," he fumbled the walks, languidly walking in the evening cool­ name and continued, "I rarely have a chance to ness, no words to pierce the silence; see undergraduate work these days. Good - these things were lost on Michael. He day." lived amidst the feverish desolation of Bohe­ Michael mumbled and left the office. mia, but even there he was much too sullen, When the boy returned to his room at Adams turned in upon himself, and the aesthetic cast­ House, he threw himself upon his bed and lay aways left him alone in the corners of their there moodily. There was little light in the restaurants, their bars; room now that the sun had gone down, but he the little ingrown world of Ia danse and mod­ didn't bother to turn on the room lights. Fi­ ern painting where Art was propitiated in noc­ nally, Michael leaped out of bed and grabbed turnal ceremony. all of his manuscripts. He threw them angrily into the fireplace. When he held a match to His college record was little more than or­ the corners of the paper, the flame leaped high dinary, but a B.A. (Harvard) was good enough and soon only smoking ashes were left. As for graduate study at a Western university. the acrid smoke spiraled upward, Michael felt Michael returned to the dusty library stacks and despairing tears roll down his face. four bare walls of literary study, and traded a He sat with his head in his hands for a year of ChaucerMiltonNineteenthCenturyEng­ melancholy half hour, then arose and washed lishLit and "The Influence of Seneca on Eliza­ his face with cold water. Now refreshed, Mi­ bethan Tragedy A dissertation presented in par­ chael sat down at his desk and wrote "An Ode tial fulfillment of -" for a Master's degree, to My Poetry Manuscripts, Lost by Fire." then returned once more to the world of In later years, he often remarked about this saintly prep schools. tragic accident which destroyed his greatest Milton had not changed, the airless class­ work.) rooms were still too dark on winter afternoons, the students only blonde and well scrubbed du­ Summer came. With a swirl of black cotton plicates of their older brothers; gowns and the more colorful display of the fac­ there is little joy, but there is comfort, in ulty, Harvard performed the rites of graduation. the finality of failure. 24 THE TRINITY REVIEW

(Mr. Lockhart sat tiredly on the edge of his was well oiled, well kept, a marvel of machin­ bed, his pajamas falling loosely around his ery, he thought, and cocked the hammer. skinny body. The thin hair was shaggy around "I fall upon the thorns of life, I bleed!" his ears and neck. My God, Michael thought, Well they bled for me, bled me dry. The bar­ the brats get worse every year. The classes had rel of the pistol was cool against his forehead been a bedlam today. He looked at the stack and recalled to him the coolness of those nights of uncorrected papers that his sixth form class at Cambridge, the night on the Esplanade with had turned in and winced, emphasizing the Cynthia, the coolness of the dark rooms where wrinkles around his eyes. Deciding not to try his grandmother and grandfather had lived, to correct them tonight, he sighed, took off his and- heavy hornrimmed glasses and laid them on his The hammer fell with a dry snap. bedside table. Someday, he thought dully, I'll buy some Thoughtful for a moment, he turned to the bullets.) table and opened the drawer. The bulky Colt Michael is the world, and the world is Mi­ gleamed dully as he weighed it in his hand. It chael: the little boy believed it.

ABI

TRANS WORlD AIRliNES ·------]ohn H. Furbay, Ph.D., Director TWA Air World Tours I am intere!ted in: 380 Madison Ave., New York 17, N.Y. CM · NO University creditJ 0 Please send me information on the Flying Educational Tours to be offered Re!idenl study at a in 1954. foreign univeTJily 0 Name.______Position.______Special counlrie! or areas 0 A~r~------City______Zone ______Slate.______Piume No. ______~.

5. /-low -!he sfars goT-sfarfed .....

William Holden says: "My D ad, a chemist, wanted me to follow in the business. B ut I got the play-acting bug in school and college. I was in a small part at the P asa­ dena Playhouse when they picked me to test for 'Golden Boy'. I never worked so hard in my life! But the success of the picture made it worth it!"

11 I'M FOR CAMElS 1 I'VE FOUND TliEV GIVE ME EVERYTiiiNG I LIKE IN A CI GAR ETTE

-GENUINE MILDNES91 REAL FLAVOR . YOU 'LL LIKE CAMELS, TOO ! 11 ,Wi!&~ f/old~ Star of "The Bridges at Toko·Ri"

Start smoking Camels yourself! Make the 30-day Camel Mildness Test. Smoke only Camels for 30 days ~llilllilli;,l 1ri''.. - see for yourself why Camels' cool mildness and rich flavor agree with more people than R. J . Reynolds any other cigarette! Tobacco Co., Winston-Salem, N .C. ldr Mildherr ~;nq' RtJVOr THAN ANY OTHER C~MElS AGR~~ WITH MORE PIDPL~ CIGARETTE!