Skinny Island by Louis Auchincloss Page B

all the love of which he deemed his nature capable. What return, what contribution could he make to such a man, who was all the deity he needed, even in the craggy Gothic school chapel? What service could he render to a god who worshiped God? But Marcus was not long in concluding that if the juggler of Anatole France's tale could bring his tricks to the altar, so could he offer his scholarship as an embellishment of the school. And Forrester, having first dutifully warned the young man that he ought to see something more of the world before shutting himself up in a New England boarding school, having reminded him that Clare and its headmaster already occupied too large a space on his horizon, had given in before Marcus's stricken look. Perhaps he recognized that a rejection might prove fatal, and had therefore accepted a responsibility not to be escaped. He embraced the trembling slim shoulders with these warm words:
    "Very well, dear boy, come to us, come to us, by all means. We shall profit by your fine appreciation of letters and be heartened by your faith in our undertakings. And it need not be forever. We can always release you when occasion beckons. Oh, yes, we can even push you up the ladder of fame!"
    "When I leave Clare," Marcus cried in the passion of his gratitude, "it will be feet first!"
    In the classroom Marcus would confront his pupils without a textbook. He would make no reference to the given assignment for the day. Pulling up the old map of the Roman Empire that covered his blackboard he would reveal the sonnet or short poem or quotation that he had chalked thereon, without indication of date or author. He would then, for the given hour, limit the discussion to the phrases and words before the eyes of the class, reciting the lines one by one in different tones, from the mocking to the sublime, revealing feelingly towards the end of the period, his own emotions, either for or against the poem, and calling for assent or dissent. At first he encountered sullen silence, then ridicule and at last applause. Little by little Mr. Sumner became "the thing." Some boys actually began to read poetry without its being assigned. Others became enthusiasts. A few even caught fire.
    The most brightly burning of these, Rodman Venable, was a dark, handsome boy, tall and very thin, with enormous brooding eyes, who would stare at Marcus as if he could not believe that the latter could really mean anything as daring and original as he seemed to be saying, which made the disconcerted teacher search his mind to see if he could not come up with something that would not let the boy down. Rodman became a quick, too quick convert to the doctrine of Walter Pater; he wanted to burn with a hard, gemlike flame, and it was he who suggested to Marcus that he invite a select group of students to spend a part of their summer vacation with him.
    "I understand, sir, that you have a shingle palace on Long Island Sound and a trim sailing yacht. We could recite Keats and Shelley as we buffeted the waves of the wine-dark sea! Aren't such vacation visits common between masters and boys in the English public schools?"
    Well, of course they were, and Marcus was enchanted with the idea. The month of July was chosen, and the visitors, all poetry enthusiasts, were selected by Rodman. He hilariously compared the project to that in
Love's Labour's Lost
where the king and peers agree to abjure the company of women in favor of study. They would sail in the morning, read in the afternoon and engage in Platonic dialogues at night.
    When Marcus told the headmaster of his plan, however, the latter showed a decidedly guarded enthusiasm, and the very next weekend Marcus was asked to meet Rodman's father in Mr. Forrester's study, vacated by the headmaster for the occasion.
    Mr. Venable was a species of gentleman with whom Marcus was not familiar: the New Yorker who emulated the cultural aspirations of Boston. He sat in his armchair with an artful combination of