Princeton Stories

by Jesse Lynch Williams

But instead of everything springing back to actuality immediately as one would suppose, it took some time to hammer things into seeming as they really were in their proper proportions. It was like trying to act sober. He began by paying conscious attention to what his young friend was saying.

After all he was only a freshman. He talked like any other fellow except that his voice was more gentle, and he had a deferential manner when addressing him. Though rather young to be in college and of unusual appearance, there was not enough about him to affect a fellow in such a queer sentimental way.

And yet he did. To Lawrence he seemed different from everyone else in the world. He had never experienced this peculiar melting feeling toward anyone before. What was more, he liked it, and he had no thought of laughing himself out of it. He had an undefined idea that it was doing him good. He felt like clinging close to this companion who was younger and seemed so many times better and purer than himself.

Then suddenly the senior was struck by something he had not remarked before. He waited a moment to make sure. Then it came again. There was no mistaking it this time. The refined voice was dragging in profanity at absurdly frequent intervals, with every other sentence almost. He had very likely been doing so all along. And the odd part of this was that every word of it was making Lawrence wince and shiver like seeing a respectable woman drunk. It was none of his business. It was all nonsense. The expletives were not very bad ones anyway. But he did not care to stand any more of this; and as abruptly as he had proposed the walk he said: "Oh, excuse me, I have an engagement," and turned rapidly toward the campus. Perhaps neurasthenia had a hand in this also.

He did not stop to see how the freshman took it. He did not want to think of him now. He fairly ran up Nassau Street with a feeling as though someone was after him. He rushed past the fellows along the walk and nearly bumped into the three old professors starting off with the Irish setter for their sedate evening stroll. He was trembling when he reached his room, and he slammed the door and threw himself down on the rug before the fire.

He knew something was coming. He knew what it was, too, but he was going to fight it off as long as he could. He drew the end of the fur skin up over his head and pressed hard with both hands, as though that would keep him from thinking of what he did not want to think. Then he rubbed the back of his hand across his wet brow and tried to sneer the thing away as he had always been able to do at other times. But this was not at all like any of the other times, and it would not work. Besides his nerves were in no shape for a fight of this sort, and he soon gave up. He let his head fall back against the rug and he lay there flat on the floor while the aching thoughts came soaking over him. All this had been accumulating for many days. The freshman had set it off.

And it was not as if he had only a little to feel sorry over. He could not even say, "I'm no worse than most fellows," for he had gone quite far indeed, much farther than anyone in the world, except two or three, had any idea of, and he had things to remember that very few older sinners than he would often care to think about. It seemed so certain to him now, as he lay there breathing hard and staring at the fire as though expecting it to jump out at him, that these remembrances were never going to let up on him for a single moment; as long as he lived, no matter how he might live in the future, these unforgetable things were, from this time on, to rise up and spoil every bit of sweetness in life for him.

But that was not what hurt the most. It was just and reasonable that all that should be as it was. It was the thought of his people at home that was making him squirm and roll over toward the desk and then back again toward the fire. What had they done to deserve this? He could not understand. Aside from all consideration of right and wrong, or wisdom and folly, he was astounded at the thought of how a fellow could be so dead, dead unkind. It would not seem possible at first. He kept asking himself, "Is this really true? Is it really true?"

For an hour he lay there on the floor, with his remorse and his sick nerves, telling himself the kind of a fellow he was, while the rest of the college went to dinner.

After this came the reaction, the natural instincts of love and yearning for the home that he had left. He told himself how that vacations would come, and little Dick, the prep., would come, and Helen and all would come out there to the old place on Long Island—all but one. His place at the table would be vacant. No, there would be no place for him. They would avoid mentioning his name. They would change the subject when visitors referred to him. After awhile visitors would learn not to refer to him. He would be known as "the one that went to the devil."