To me the impression that this separation made upon Dunlevy did honor to his sensibility. His existence was stranded. It bears out my own observation of the man when I say that in the midst of our college fellowship, he reflected at an age when we had scarcely begun to think. Of one thing I can vouch for certain. In the earlier account of him he is drawn as a strapping, active boy with all the suppleness of youth. Whereas the man I met was a strange looking, undersized curiosity. This leads me to recount another incident which is relevant.
One day in the early fall of that year when Dunlevy was forced to leave the university, he sat at luncheon with even a more sombre demeanor than usual. His shoulders were bent with weakness, his face calm but drawn with endurance.
“Why don’t you put on some old clothes and go out on the athletic field and get some lively exercise?” Crowther asked, good naturedly.
“Why doesn’t a mole see or a snail fly?” answered Dunlevy smiling, though evidently much embarrassed at having attention centered upon him. He finished the meal hurriedly and departed.
Poor man! I look back to those days and realize how little we purblind associates of his knew what a fight for strength he was making before our very eyes. It is one thing to observe suffering, it is another to experience it. Those who belong to the robust ranks of health, who arise in the morning with a song or a whistle on their lips, and at night drop without restlessness into slumber, those who know not what it is to be nervous and irritable, all those of sound body and sound mind, have no right to pass judgment upon Dunlevy and his kind. I say this because I am reminded that after Dunlevy had gone that day at luncheon, Crowther said to us:
“I don’t believe that man would have the spunk to run a hundred yards. He lacks gumption. There is too much of the woman about him. Please pass the pickles.”
I pondered upon this utterance as I left Crowther eating his third helping of beef steak. And I wondered which is the more noble—the courage that comes from strength or the bravery born of suffering?
There was one man, a black man, who understood Dunlevy and his condition better than we did. He was that old negro body-servant, a relic of plantation days. I saw his good, open, loyal face when I went to Dunlevy’s chambers during his illness at the University of Virginia. His name was Sandy. Could I know what Sandy must have known, I might have a tale that would be better left untold.