Silas Timberman Read Online Free

new atmosphere. “October is our best month at Clemington. No doubt about that—no doubt at all. Only one word to describe it—salubrious. An old-fashioned word, but in situations like this, there are no substitutes for sound, old-fashioned language. Don’t you agree?”
    Silas did not agree; and the knowledge that he would be easily dishonest in his failure to express disagreement did not raise his spirits. He had never fully admitted to himself how thoroughly he disliked Professor Edward Lundfest; for to have done so would have made it next to impossible to continue amicable relations with a man who was head of his department. Instead, he fragmentized the question; he considered Lundfest’s manner of speech ridiculous, his bearing pompous, his use of language infantile—yet he continued to propose to himself that he respected the man. At this moment, he would have bet his last dollar that Lundfest had only the vaguest notion of the meaning of salubrious , but he would have died before he would have brought himself to ask.
    â€œA very nice morning,” he said, disliking himself.
    â€œFootball weather,” Lundfest continued, and as if by magic materialized two chunky, round-cheeked boys out of the throng of students passing by, gave them the time of day, and asked how things looked for the weekend game and how this year’s squad was shaping up. Silas winced at the thought that he would not have recognized either of the boys, that he knew nothing about the 1950 squad, and that he was singularly lacking in all the various side-effects that contributed to academic success. Lundfest never denied the rumor that he had been a considerable player himself, and he looked the part, broad-shouldered, handsome in a heavy-set way, with a great head of hair that was turning iron-gray. In himself, he combined the scholar and the man of deeds, and if Silas had contempt for Lundfest the scholar, the man of deeds drew his grudging envy.
    â€œGood boys,” he told Silas, “damn good boys.” They walked on, and he asked Silas how it looked for this semester, offering his opinion that in two weeks, a skillful teacher should have all of his problems catalogued and denned.
    â€œI don’t anticipate too many problems,” Silas answered.
    â€œNo—well, that’s good, admirable, if I may say so. I wish I could say as much for myself. You took the run-over in American Literature, didn’t you, Silas?”
    â€œI think I can handle it.”
    â€œOf course. Only—this question of making Mark Twain the pivot of the whole matter—well, I sometimes feel that it becomes more a question of Mark Twain than of American literature.”
    â€œI wouldn’t say I make Mark Twain the pivot of everything. Possibly I use him as a standard of measurement—as a carpenter might use a level. I find that necessary.”
    â€œWell, you would,” Lundfest smiled, “seeing as how you’re writing a book on the man. Although for the life of me,” he added, “I can’t see the place for another book on Mark Twain. But that’s for your judgment, not mine. I have always considered Mark Twain to be the very opposite of a profound writer, more of a skilled entertainer, clown, and pamphleteer, a man concerned with surface effects and surface manifestations, and ready to twist the facts every which way, so long as he achieves his desired effect.”
    All of this was the last thing in the world that Silas expected this morning from Ed Lundfest. A lecture, indeed a denunciation of Mark Twain, out of nothing and out of nowhere, was hardly typical of Lundfest; and the abruptness of it left Silas baffled, angry, and for the moment, wordless. The reference to the book he was writing was particularly pointed, for as Lundfest knew, he had been at work on it, intermittently, for three years—with little enough progress. But most of all, he resented the comment on