Chapter 9: Washington’s Birthday
Again it was Sunday morning. A part of Jen wanted to return to China. A part wanted to stay in France. How could he settle this? Taking the I Ching out of his suitcase, he threw it on his bed. It opened to Sun/Decrease. Jen creased the page to hold the book open. The sun was streaming in the window. He studied the hexagram, lighter on top than the bottom. Feminine elements intermingled with masculine; decrease combined with sincerity. “Brings about supreme good fortune,” it said. “At the foot of the mountain, the lake.” As he felt himself increasing, Jen blinked. An image of the sun presented itself, reflected in a lake at the base of the mountain. The West, thought Jen. I must stay in the West. Ten pairs of tortoises can’t prevent it. “If one is increased,” read the moral, “without depriving others, then there’s no blame.”
That was April. Now, once more, it was New Year’s. Defecting to the West, Jen had stayed in Paris. He was offered a job teaching his native language at Jussieu. In the last week of January Jen received a letter. It came from a place called New York City. Columbia University, an institution he’d heard of, was inviting him to lecture on Ancient China. Jen was curious about this strange country across the ocean where, it was said, reality surpassed all precedents and fables. It was there, reportedly, that one encountered the fruits of the French Revolution.
Soon the first month gave way to the second. Again Jen found himself at Orly embarking for the New World. Ignorant of her history, he had inquired where to begin. France, he was told by the French. That seemed funny. Nonetheless he acquired the book. France it was called: Twelve Key Moments in Her History. He opened it and settled in for the flight. The early going was rough. Vercingetorix rendered himself unto Caesar, Joan of Arc was burnt, Saint Barthelmy’s day was bloody. In chapter V Louis XIV was taking power. Jen still couldn’t see the connection with The United States. Then in chapter VI the War of the Encyclopedia started. But in chapter VII they were already celebrating the Federation. Something seemed to be missing in between chapters. The rest were modern: coup d’états, revolutions, world wars. Jen found it all interesting and pleasant. History’s orderly, he said to himself. By the time they’d reached the mid-Atlantic, Jen had finished the book. Western history, he concluded, emphasizes drama, sentiment and significance. It’s the poetry of history that counts. He wondered if they really thought France had caused America. Falling asleep, Jen dreamt of the past.
“Let’s wake up from this profound sleep.” The voice emanated from the late eighteenth century. Jen had left the book open to a gloss on the Revolution. “We are passing over Lexington and Concord.” It was the Captain speaking. Jen looked down to see wisps of smoke still rising from famous battlegrounds. “The Industrial Revolution had brought about all manner of change in the American Way of Life.” Inadvertently Jen’s hand had switched on a speaker. It was the voice of a documentary concerned with a Bicentennial theme. He turned the speaker off, closed his book and fastened his seat belt. As they began the approach to J.F.K., Jen wondered how Americans viewed the French. The plane touched down.
New York looked expensive. Luckily, Jen had a free place to stay. He’d written to Mary, who had offered him a “crash” in her Lower East Side apartment. Jen, who assumed she must be speaking metaphorically, had graciously accepted. Mary, in her own words, was “pretty fucked up” when he arrived. She seemed more than happy to let him browse through her books and pursue his new interest: the Anglo-American view of France.
The first of Mary’s books that Jen’s eye fell on was by a chap named Henry Adams. It sounded like just what he was looking for. The author had all but identified with his subject, which he spoke of in surprisingly eloquent terms for someone who didn’t believe in it. “Her expression,” he said, “is always calm and commanding.” Jen glanced at Mary, who was waving blue smoke away from her face. “She never calls for sympathy by hysterical appeals to our feelings.”
“Right on,” said Mary, who’d had some trouble with her mother too.
“She does not even altogether command,” Jen continued, “but rather accepts the instinctive, unhesitating love and devotion of mankind.” Mary breathed in deeply, her attitude serene. A gentleman, dressed like a Boston lawyer, was seating himself on the couch. “She will accept our faith unquestioningly” – the gentleman had taken over – “and we have not the heart to refuse it.” Jen smiled. “We haven’t even the right,” said Adams, smiling too, “for we are her guests.” Jen found the experience moving but held up his hand when Adams offered him a 1960s peace-symbol roach-clip.
Adams and Mary had both begun to nod. Moving along to the eighteenth century, Jen picked up a book about a man named Voltaire. As he scratched his head, he heard some scratching on the other side of the room and looked up in time to see the man from across the hall taking a seat on the couch next to Henry Adams. Winking at Jen, the man started off again on one of his cogitations: “Innumerable high-dressed gentlemen,” he said, adjusting his cravat, “are gone to inorganic power.” Jen noticed he had some white stuff on his upper lip. “No comfortable memory held of them more,” he added, beginning to nod himself. Jen was familiar with the rhetoric but continued to listen politely. “And this poor Voltaire,” said Carlyle, looking at the ceiling through glazed eyes, “without implement except the tongue and brain of him, he is still a shining object to all the populations.” Jen thought especially of England, France and America. “And” – Carlyle was wrapping up – “they say and symbol to me: ‘tell us of him, he is the man.’” Jen smiled an inscrutable smile as Carlyle fell asleep.
Passing up some books on the influence of French poetry, Jen came across something called The New French Revolution. The “New” was blue, the “French” white, and the “Revolution” red. Jen thought of America, but again the author was English. He opened to a chapter entitled “A Jesuit Grocer’s Crusade” and read about a man by the name of Leclerc. By now he was feeling dizzy himself and ignored a knock at the door. As he fell asleep on the floor someone out in the hall was arguing about industrial conspiracy.
Waking up, Jen felt stiff. There was something heavy on his lap. Mistaking him for Shiva, Mary had climbed aboard. Deep in Tantric meditation, she was completely zonked. “Me Kali,” she said. She’d made a circle out of each forefinger and thumb and was sitting astride Jen with her tongue sticking out.
“Listen,” he said, “none of this Indian stuff. I may be old, but I’m not dead.” Mary gazed past him at a mandala on the wall. “Look at yourself,” said Jen. “Circles are for the birds.” Mary was chanting. “Seriously, stop,” Jen continued, “and ask yourself who you are. That’s all you need to do.” Mary dismounted and stood up. She felt better right away.
As she was “getting her head together,” Jen took out his Michelin Guide to New York City. Mary had agreed to show him the town, but he thought he’d get some guidance first. The map showed New York and Paris on the same scale, the mauve, heart-shaped French capital superimposed over a yellow phallic Manhattan. In the mood for a bit of history, Jen turned to “New York in the Past.” The first picture was Washington. That’s appropriate, thought Jen. Today’s the twenty-second of February, 1976. Two hundred years ago the General had waged a victorious battle on Harlem Heights. “Plus ça change, ça ne change rien,” he said, speaking like a true Parisian. He studied the illustration, which looked like a Tintin cartoon. Washington sat astride a chocolate horse. Because of bad composition, they’d had to fly the flag in the wrong direction. “Opening of the Statue of Liberty,” read another caption. They’d put the French flag closer to Liberty than the other one. “Let’s go see this,” Jen suggested.
“OK,” said Mary. “But since we’re here, why not start with the East Village?”
“OK by me,” said Jen. He already sounded like a Yank.
Out on the street Jen and Mary saw things differently. He looked up and saw the Celestial City. She looked down and saw Bohemia. Picking their way over the bums on the doorstep, Jen dropped some change in their pockets. Together he and Mary headed up Second Avenue toward St. Mark’s-in-the-Bowery. Next to the Eden Theater, this was one of Mary’s favorite places. “Miraculously,” said the voice of the French guide, “it’s remained a country church.” Mary was about to explain everything to Jen, when he waved her aside in favor of discovering it for himself. The church was actually very simple, with a classic facade.
Astor Place was a little more interesting. They’d opened an Opera House in 1847, and someone named Macready was still standing on the corner crying “Washington forever!,” even though the Opera itself had vanished. Lafayette Street: that sounded more like what Jen was looking for. The Corinthian columns, however, put him off, even after he learned they were an imitation of a château near Paris. Entering Fourth Street, they passed an old house. A hardware merchant by the name of Seabury Tredwell stood out front beating the asphalt with a broom. Inside, Empire-style furniture was on display. Jen felt more like the Statue of Liberty.
Before they could get there, however, they had to walk through Chinatown. Mary guided Jen into Mott Street for “a whiff of the authentic perfume of the Orient.” It smelled like a melting pot to Jen, who found the flavors more imported than exotic. They were passing the Oriental Bean-Curd Company. Still, it all brought back memories. The China Times! Mary smiled at the Buddhist Temple. The Oriental Fashion Center! Jen was going to need a new traditional robe pretty soon. Again Mary perked up, as they passed the Chinatown Pharmacy. The Chinatown Bean Sprout Company! Jen scratched his head, almost bumping into a sober, familiar-looking character who was stepping out the door of the Chinese Rathskeller. At last the smell was familiar, though it wasn’t exactly Jen’s idea of China. He paused, looking in the window of the Oriental Country Store, but decided to move on when he saw a man brandishing a hatchet inside.
Leaving Chinatown they headed southwest, or “downtown” as they say in New York. Jen found Wall Street rather forbidding. He and Mary hurried back to Broadway. Soon they reached the end of Manhattan, leaving the Battery behind for Liberty Island. There she was! – trampling the shackles of tyranny, The Declaration of Independence in her hand. “Here she stands, lighting the world,” said Mickey Michelin, who had joined them at the base of the statue. Jen looked up with a politely astonished smile. They paid the price and entered. Jen hadn’t realized you could climb up inside her. It was quite exciting, but rather tiring. When they’d got to the head, things sounded hollow, but they all thought the echoes were great. The three of them listened as the artist explained how he’d used his mother for a model, putting her in a bronze dressing gown with a candle in her hand. Turning back the pages of history, Mickey cupped his hand to his mouth and recreated the roar of the crowd at the moment of the unveiling. Grover Cleveland stood on a platform pretending to pay attention, as the noise drowned out a senator’s flowery speech.
The one thing Jen most wanted to do was see the city from the 102nd floor of the Empire State Building. That, he thought, would be a truly philosophical perspective. On the way up in the elevator Mary asked him for his “views on life.” “Let’s start with Heaven and Earth,” said Jen, smiling.
“What do you mean?” said Mary.
“I mean let’s begin with principles.” They were passing the 51st floor.
“Sure,” said Mary impatiently.
“The central one,” said Jen, “is existence, though everything is constantly changing.” Mary, a bored look on her face, stared up over the door, where the numbers of the floors kept getting higher. “Man,’ he continued, unperturbed, “is central in the scheme of things, and the mind is central in man.” They’d reached the observation deck. Jen looked overhead. “The sun is most glorious and the mood is full when they’re in the central position.” A clock was striking noon. “Therefore,” he concluded, “the superior man highly values the principle of centrality.” Mary yawned. She was looking down at the city, trying to get her bearings. Jen pointed out a compass on the ledge. Mary smiled. Jen was going on about sincerity. Mary stared at the compass. “Out there,” he said, “is external life. In here” – he tapped his head with his finger – “are the directions.” Man, what a square, thought Mary. Jen put his arm around her and turned her toward the city, pointing north with his finger. Both gazed out at the horizon, Mary shading her eyes from the sun. Neither of them knew exactly what they were looking at. Luckily, a rotund man with a guidebook stepped up alongside them. “The homestead of Rochambeau in Westchester County,” he said, following the trajectory of Jen’s finger toward its destination. Jen nodded and started off on another of those philosophical glosses that bored Mary nearly out of her gourd. “Our nature and substance come from Heaven,” he began, “but learning lies with man.” Sexist pig, thought Mary. “Nature and substance develop from within, while learning enters from without.” The man made out of tires held the Green Book at a distance and offered details: “In this house Rochambeau and Washington met in secret conference, planning the strategy that led to the British surrender and the subsequent formation of the USA. These events in turn provided an example for the French people, who, in 1789, the year of the American Constitution, created another Revolution.” As the man spoke, figures from the past came alive on the distant horizon, reenacting important philosophical, political and military events. This blew Mary’s mind. Jen, who was accustomed to that sort of thing, simply offered another gloss: “The beginning of Heaven and Earth is today. The ways of the past are those of the present and future.”
“Oh man, you’re too much,” said Mary, who couldn’t contain herself. Jen laughed. After they’d all gazed north awhile, Mickey escorted Jen and Mary to the south side of the observation deck. Here he pointed out features near at hand. “Almost directly below you is The Church of the Transfiguration.”
“That’s The Little Church Around the Corner,” Mary said, correcting him. They were both right of course.
“One of Satan’s right-hand men is buried there,” Mickey added. He was about to point out Edwin Booth in the role of Hamlet, when Jen told him he was more interested in what lay in the other directions.
With a gesture of self-deprecation, Mickey led them over toward the East. Jen, whose eye was attracted by a group of buildings on the banks of the river, was curious as to their purpose. “That’s the United Nations,” said Mickey.
“It’s sort of a contradiction in terms,” Mary remarked by way of rejoinder.
“Well, yes,” said Mickey, who was impartial – though not neutral – on political questions. He was content to point out the statue of peace in the garden next to the buildings. Mary thought that too was a little ironic, but Jen accepted the idea.
As Mary tried to engage Mickey in more polemics, Jen drifted over to the western side of the building, put a silver coin in a telescope, and began looking for something of interest. As he scanned the far side of the Park, a strange-looking colossus loomed into view. “The American Museum of Natural History,” read the sign over the door. It was life-size. Jen couldn’t see through the windows, but, about to turn away, he heard a voice, apparently picked up by the telescope. It sounded intelligent. “Here we are,” it stated, “in the Copernican Room of the Hayden Planetarium. The first part of the show takes place in a large round room called the Hall of the Sun. Its ceiling, as you can see, is an animated model of the solar system. Uranus, Neptune and Pluto are not represented, because they can’t be seen by the naked eye. Please follow me now upstairs to the theater of the stars.”
It sounded marvelous to Jen, who left the telescope for a moment to find Mary. When he had guided her over and she had begun to look for herself, the voice quickly changed. The orderly and significant bodies that Jen imagined a moment ago appeared an illusion. Instead, Mary saw nothing but dead planets and heard a voice altogether different from the one that spoke to Jen. It was dry and matter-of-fact. “Our sun, which primitive people took to be a god, is in fact a simple nuclear reactor, converting atoms of hydrogen to helium. The moon, once regarded as symbolic of fecundity, has of course been shown to be dead.” Mary nodded in agreement with the obvious facts. “Mars,” the voice went on, “is minuscule by comparison with the Earth.” It proceeded to deflate the rest of the system. Jen, who was now listening in, couldn’t imagine anything more wrongheaded, but experience had taught him not to argue directly with logic. The voice described scientific progress as “a momentous transfiguration.” “Certain notions,” it said, “had at long last been abolished, for example, the idea of the primum mobile and the mystery of God.” Although he couldn’t communicate with the people at the Planetarium, Jen wondered why they’d never asked themselves where hydrogen came from. It was a mystery to him.
Less mysterious, and more interesting, was the French landscape that he was looking at (he’d given up on the telescope and was simply gathering normal impressions). How had they managed to recapitulate France in Gotham? “With stones from Southern France and elsewhere, with art from France and elsewhere, with money from John D. Rockefeller, Jr. and elsewhere,” said Mickey, who was explaining The Cloisters to Mary.
“Oh, but it’s so dead, man,” she insisted. Here Jen had to agree. It looked rather like a fort. Nor was the Gothic Brooklyn Bridge or the “40-story Versailles” of the Pierre Hotel much better. (Jen did admit that he hadn’t yet adjusted to the time lag.) Mickey, who had reached the end of the line, was describing how an architect had fled from the French Revolution to design City Hall in the Louis XVI style. “History’s boring,” said Mary abruptly, “It’s people that count.” Mickey, rising to the challenge (he thought), pointed out The Dauphin as it entered New York Harbor in search of a passage to India; Rochefontaine, leaving France to become a colonel in Washington’s army; Washington himself, asleep in a bed sent to America by Napoleon. Mary couldn’t see what he was talking about.
Maybe she’s right after all, said Jen to himself. He asked if Mickey would sell him the guidebook he had in his hand. Having paid for it, Jen sailed it down into Fifth Avenue. Mary leaned over, smiling, and watched as it almost disappeared. At the corner of 33rd and Fifth, where it landed, it looked like a blade of grass. “So much for history,” she said. Thinking of what to do next, she proposed to go look at “the thing itself.”
“What’s that?” asked Mickey. Now Jen was smiling.
“The Big Apple,” said Mary. She made it sound tempting. For one thing they hadn’t had any lunch.
“Oh why not,” said Jen philosophically. As he pushed the “down” button, he heard Mickey’s stomach growl.
As they stood on the corner of 33rd and Fifth they wondered which way to go. “Why not Madison Avenue?” Mary suggested. She had the worst and the best of the city in mind. Mickey was looking back (downtown) at the signs: “Eastern Products Showroom,” “French Neckwear,” “Washington Manufacturing Co.” Without his Green Book he realized he didn’t know which way to go. His stomach, though, sent up another message.
“I’m starved,” he said.
“Me too,” said Mary.
“Déjeuner?” (lunch?) replied the ancient of days.
“Oui (we) (hwei),” they said. Pooling their funds, however, they found themselves in a tight resource environment, until Jen spotted a five and ten up at 39th. They set off arm in arm.
This was Fifth Avenue, the heart of the city, where they had everything you wanted. Most of the people they saw were interested in spending money. Jen, Mary and Mickey were happy with the signs alone. Jen, walking on her left (west), looked up for signs of France on the east side of the street. Mickey, walking on the right (east), looked to the west for signs of America. Mary looked straight ahead for the Orient.
They passed between Altman and Ohrbach’s. At 520 they came to the Washington School of Art. Mickey made a quick mental note, glancing at Jen, but Jen had his eyes on the French Line at 555. Mary had turned around and was looking back at the Oriental Pacific USA. She was swallowing hard. They passed the Bank of New York, where a woman was emerging, holding a poodle in one hand, a passbook in the other. As the New York Public Library loomed into view, Mary’s stomach groaned. She was afraid Jen and Mickey were going to pass up lunch for all those books. “Patience, Mary,” said Jen, “Patience and Fortitude.” He was looking at the lions on either side of the entrance; meanwhile, Mickey was dreaming of all the things inside: the collection of Americana, which included an early copy of the Gettysburg Address, a draft of the Declaration of Independence in Jefferson’s hand, a manuscript letter from Columbus. Closing his eyes Mickey saw the old Latting Observatory, the Crystal Palace, the Distributing Reservoir.
“Hey man,” said Mary, “I thought you said you were hungry.” As Mary was “dropping acid,” they had passed by the five and ten. Now Mickey was going over the branches in his mind: the Foreign Language Collection, the Collection for the Blind on the Avenue of the Americas, the Collection of Negro Lit. and History.
“Man, I thought you wanted to eat!” said Mary. “What about you?” she said, turning to Jen, who’d been looking around for a place. He’d spotted a man with a silver cart and a large umbrella, offering “Foods of All Nations.” That ought to suit everyone, he said to himself, easing Mary and Mickey in the right direction. Mickey, his eye on the vendor’s American flag arm patch, asked for a hot dog with relish. Jen settled for French fries. Mary, who was feeling a touch freaky, picked up a handful of Tokyo Bars for quick energy. Starting up the avenue again they passed the Takashimaya Department Store. People of different colors were entering and leaving.
By the time they reached 49th, Mickey and Jen were feeling better, but Mary looked a little shaky. She thought she’d better walk between them again. This was Rockefeller Center. The Time and Life Building had come into view, making them all think philosophical thoughts. Mickey looked up at the new Americana Hotel and wondered how long it would last. “Look!” said Mary suddenly, pointing up. Jen looked over the Maison Française in time to see a man threatening to jump from a high window. It was the Time-Life Building. Mary was appalled. “Life,” Jen remarked sadly, “isn’t everything.” As Mickey was raising his eyebrows, Mary bolted and ran toward the base of the building, her arms spread to catch the poor devil, who was already in the air. Mickey and Jen rushed forward, catching Mary by the arms.
They all took a deep breath and passed on up the avenue. From the top of the building a man, who’d been lunching at the Fonda del Sol, looked down on the scene. An ambulance had arrived to take the body away. He watched as Jen, Mary and Mickey departed, arm in arm. A woman having lunch at the Top of the Sixes also looked down, observing them as they passed by the French and Eastern Newsstands and the Washington Accommodation Center. As they reflected on what they’d seen, Jen took solace in the bright colors of French establishments. At 53rd Street he looked in on Air France and thought of his return flight to Paris. He looked west down 57th toward French American Re-Weaving. At 767 Fifth all three looked up, as they passed France Today.
When they had reached 59th Street, Mickey noticed that the police had set up barricades. Reflecting a moment, he recalled that it was Washington’s Birthday. The Parade would be coming down the avenue soon. Maybe they’d get to see the General himself! As Jen looked up to observe the detailed French Renaissance facade of the Plaza Hotel (1907), Mary let go his arm, pulling Mickey aside toward a group of American Tibetan Buddhist monks. In bright saffron robes they were dancing for a crowd by the Pulitzer Fountain, where Zelda Fitzgerald had once gone swimming. Mickey, with his practiced eye, noticed pick-pockets, prostitutes and pimps among the people assembled. As he and Mary took a seat at the edge of the fountain, they were joined by a tall, thin monk whose head was shaved except for a tuft on top. Looking at Mickey’s suit, he asked him if he were from out of town. “Out of this town, yes,” said Mickey, who hadn’t thought of New York as a town, recently. The monk gestured toward the low-life with one hand and offered literature with the other. Mary was sympathetic, but she was also tired of all this reading and writing. “Could you tell us in your own words?” she asked.
“I’m not in the habit of speaking for myself,” he said. His eyes were uplifted.
“Well, OK, read it then,” Mary replied.
“The beings,” he began, “in the three lowest states of existence have suffering as their character, evil as their nature, and corruption as their substance.” Mary tilted her head toward the monk; Mickey remained skeptical and aloof. “Behind evil, their activity, lies its cause, a tainted Karma.” Jen, nodding at the monk, had seated himself next to Mary. “C’est normal”(yung), he said. There was no cynicism in his voice, only a certain resignation.
“But,” the monk continued, “man can achieve perfect virtue.” His companions were moving among the crowd now, begging for money. “He can achieve perfect enlightenment.” The young man’s eyelids, which had been half open, were starting to narrow. “With absence of thought and action, he can achieve Nirvana.” He was standing now with his eyes closed and his hand outstretched. Mickey stood up, glancing nervously at Jen and Mary. Then he reached out and shook the monk’s hand. “Good luck,” he said. Mary was pissed at that and would like to have given the monk some money, but she’d spent the last of hers on candy. Jen, who still had a dollar he’d saved for bus fare, placed it unobtrusively in the monk’s hand. He was a little ashamed of Mickey, though he understood Mary’s situation.
As they continued up Fifth Avenue, Mary seemed to be nursing a blue funk. Mickey, his head tilted toward Paris, ignored her with what he regarded as “civilized irony.” As they passed the Zoo and the Arsenal, Jen stepped between them and tried to make pleasant conversation. With all its noisy red, white and blue, the parade had finally arrived. It annoyed Mary and Mickey so much that they both approved Jen’s suggestion to visit the Frick Collection. Reaching the museum, however, they discovered the line went around the block. Mary refused to wait. To save the day, Jen suggested that the Frenchman visit the Frick while he and Mary rested in Central Park. Since Mickey had never in his life passed up a museum, the problem was solved; they all agreed to meet at the Statue of Alice in Wonderland.
As Jen and Mary seated themselves, an English-looking type in a tweed suit with a large walrus mustache began intoning: “The time has come to talk of many things.” With a harmless grin he turned to Jen and Mary for approval.
“Of shoes and ships and sealing-wax, and cabbages and kings.” It wasn’t Lewis Carroll, it was just some creep who couldn’t stop quoting him.
“Oh cut the crap, man,” said Mary, looking the other way. Again Jen was caught in the middle.
“To talk of many things, yes,” said Jen, “but also to see their unity.” He thought it best to be serious here. Part of Mary’s problem, he surmised, was that she’d seen more things today than she was accustomed to. The man in the tweed suit wore monk-strap shoes and a monocle.
“Of shoes and shit!” said Mary, motioning toward the prof. “Cabbages my ass,” she added. The professor gasped, frowning at Mary and turning toward Jen.
“I see,” he said, gesturing toward Alice and the Mad Hatter, “that there are many things your friend does not understand.’
“Man, I’ve seen all I want to,” said Mary, getting up to leave. Jen took her hand and gently restrained her. Mary sat down again.
“By seeing things is not meant,” the professor continued, “seeing them with the eyes, but seeing in the sense of knowing or understanding them.”
“By ‘seeing things,’” Jen smiled at the professor, “is not meant merely understanding them, but grasping their nature and the principles that underlie their destiny.” Jen could be philosophical too. “These can only be known when everything has been studied and we have taken the time to master the principle of destiny.” The professor had taken his eye off the statue and was consulting his pocket watch. “Oh my goodness, I’m late,” he said, looking nervously at Mary and Jen. “This is true knowledge,” Jen was concluding. “The wise man can’t go any further; whoever goes further can’t be wise.” The professor had scampered off.
At that moment, Mickey returned from the Frick, full of the highest praise for the Boucher and Fragonard Rooms. He spoke of porcelain, furniture and other things that Jen was sorry to have missed. When Jen inquired, however, about their collection of contemporary art, he was disappointed to hear they had none. He asked if the Metropolitan Museum would be better in his regard. The answer was “Not much, I’m afraid.” There was a Museum of Modern Art, but that was expensive.
“Hey, look at this! Wow!” said Mary. She was lying on the ground, looking at a pebble. The acid had taken effect. Sorry to give up her company, Jen nonetheless toured the collections, doing the best he could on his own. The rooms of Louis XIV and XV showed marvelous taste, though he had some doubts about a clock in the form of a black woman made by Louis XVI’s watchmaker. When her earrings were pulled, the hours and minutes appeared as numbers in her eyes. There was much else to see, but, lacking any other means of transportation, Jen was forced to set out on foot for Columbia in order to get there on time.
On his way up Central Park West he saw what the guidebook had referred to as “contrasts.” He was happy to see that other people regarded him as a colorful figure. Turning west at the end of the Park, he entered Cathedral Parkway and passed St. John the Divine’s. To tell the truth he was glad his time had run out. Naturally the challenging task of building “the world’s largest Gothic cathedral” interested him; and he found amusing the image of Jefferson signing the Declaration of Independence in one of its windows; still, size and irony were not Jen’s major esthetic criteria.
Nor was he especially distressed at having missed a tour of the Columbia campus. “The knowledge itself,” he said before his audience, “is the thing that counts.” He found the students, citizens and sprinkling of faculty entirely sympathetic and spoke of obvious matters in lucid terms. “Things,” he said, “have their roots as well as their branches, their ends as well as their beginnings.” Jen was fully aware that he had come near the end of the way himself. From the audience a minister inquired if he, with his lack of transcendental religious beliefs, was not in danger of making a god of human culture; and in which case wouldn’t the university represent the modern church? Jen smiled, pausing to reflect how he might most tactfully phrase the inadequacy of these arguments. He thought it best to put the matter simply. “Human culture,” he said, “did not create the universe.” That had been accomplished by Fate, whose principles man alone was well enough equipped to comprehend. “However,” he pointed out, “Fate works outside time and space as well as within it, and therefore eludes our complete comprehension. We may, though, learn much about its operations by merely examining ourselves. And if we do so with sincerity and treat one another decently, we may preserve humanity.”