OF THIS TIME, OF THAT PLACE
77
am I? Tertan I am, but what is Tertan? Of this time, of that
place, of some parentage, what does it matter?"
Existence without alloy: the phrase established itself. Howe
put aside Tertan's paper and at random picked up another. "I am
Arthur J. Casebeer, Jr.," he read. "My father is Arthur J. Case–
beer and my grand£ather was Arthur J. Casebeer before him.
My mother is Nina Wimble Casebeer. Both of them are college
graduates and my father is in insurance. I was born in St. Louis
eighteen years ago and we still make our residence there."
Arthur J. Casebeer, who knew who he was, was less interest–
ing than Tertan, but more coherent. Howe picked up Tertan's
paper again.
It
was clear that none of the routine marginal com–
ments, no "sent. str." or "punct." or "vocab." could cope with this
torrential rhetoric. He read ahead, contenting himself with under–
scoring the errors against the time·when he should have the neces–
sary "conference" with Tertan.
It was a busy and official day of cards and sheets, arrange–
ments and small decisions and it gave Howe pleasure. Even when
it was time to attend the first of the weekly Convocations he felt
the charm of the beginning of things when intention is still inno–
cent and uncorrupted by effort. He sat among the young instructors
on the platform and joined in their humorous complaints at having
to assist at the ceremony but actually he got a clear satisfaction
from the ritual of prayer and prosy speech and even from wearing
his academic gown. And when the Convocation was over the
pleasure continued as he crossed the campus, exchanging greet–
ings with men he had not seen since the spring. They were people
who did. not yet, and perhaps never would, mean much to him,
but in a year they had grown amiably to be part of his life. They
were his fellow-townsmen.
The day had cooled again
at
sunset and there was a bright
chill
in the September twilight. Howe carried his voluminous
gown over his arm, he swung his doctoral hood by its purple
neckpiece and on his head he wore his mortarboard with its heavy
gold tassel bobbing just over his eye. These were the weighty and
absurd symbols of his new profession and they pleased him. At
twenty-six Joseph Howe had discovered that he was neither so
well off nor so bohemian as he had once thought. A small income,
adequate when supplemented by a sizable cash legacy, was genteel
