thoughts!”
Woodrow spoke with such adolescent sarcasm, his friend was taken aback.
It was then, the little accident occurred.
Though the men certainly could not have been described as struggling together, in any sense of the phrase, it somehow happened that, as Winslow Slade sought to take hold of Woodrow Wilson’s (flailing) arm, to calm him, the younger man shrank from him as if in fright; causing the jade snuffbox to slip from his fingers onto a tabletop, and a cloud of aged snuff was released, of such surprising potency both men began to sneeze; very much as if a malevolent spirit had escaped from the little box.
Unexpectedly then, both Woodrow Wilson and Winslow Slade suffered fits of helpless sneezing, until they could scarcely breathe, and their eyes brimmed with tears, and their hearts pounded with a lurid beat as if eager to burst.
And the austere old grandfather clock against a farther wall softly chimed the surprising hour of one— unheard.
POSTSCRIPT: “ASH WEDNESDAY EVE, 1905”
I t is not generally acknowledged to the reader that much is left out of any complex account. A reader must be trusting, and assume that what has been included is all that is necessary; what has been left out is extraneous.
But I am troubled, in assembling the previous chapter—for so much has been left out that might have been of interest, and might even be essential to a reader’s fullest understanding.
Therefore, I suggest: the reader who wants to know a little more of my chronicle should read this postscript, as well as the others to follow. (I am sure that there will be other postscripts to follow!) Readers who are satisfied that they know enough of Dr. Wilson and Dr. Slade should simply proceed to “Narcissus”—a total change of scene, I promise!
Here is a miscellany of details regarding Woodrow Wilson that could not find their way into the narrative.
—WOODROW’S “WIND-BUFFETED” walk to Crosswicks Manse was in fact an ordeal for the troubled man, who had not fully recovered from what he would recall as the unprovoked attack of his (alleged) kinsman from the hills of rural, western Virginia.
For, in leaving Prospect House, without telling his wife or daughters, all of whom (he assumed) were in bed, Woodrow Wilson was obliged to walk alone across the darkened Princeton University campus, and to pass close by undergraduate residences; though friendly to students by day, smiling his wide grimace of a presidential smile at virtually everyone he encountered, which never failed to enlist boys’ startled smiles and greetings, Woodrow quite dreaded being sighted at such a time; for a nocturnal journey, by foot, on the part of the president of the university, would seem suspicious—would it not?
So, Woodrow walked quickly, and furtively; more than once he ducked into a doorway, or around a corner, to avoid being seen by late-carousing undergraduates, returning from the Alchemist & Barrister pub on Witherspoon, or the rowdy taproom of the Nassau Inn.
The darkened tunnel of evergreens and rhododendron leading from Prospect to the inner campus was fraught with a kind of childish dread, which Woodrow recognized as unwarranted; but the deep, somehow writhing shadows behind the most Gothic of buildings, Pyne, gave him pause; nor did his fluttering heartbeat subside, at the rear of Alexander Hall with its fantastical towers, turrets, arches, walkways, and ornamental windows on all floors that, though darkened, seemed to wink with an extra-terrestrial light. (Did a voice faintly cry out from one of these high windows? Did a spectral face appear fleetingly? The hurrying man could not take time to pause, and did not dare to glance back.)
It was a sore point among the Princeton University administrators, that a high percentage of their undergraduate population were inveterate carousers for whom “clubs” were of more significance than academic studies, and persons of questionable repute of more significance than
Woodrow spoke with such adolescent sarcasm, his friend was taken aback.
It was then, the little accident occurred.
Though the men certainly could not have been described as struggling together, in any sense of the phrase, it somehow happened that, as Winslow Slade sought to take hold of Woodrow Wilson’s (flailing) arm, to calm him, the younger man shrank from him as if in fright; causing the jade snuffbox to slip from his fingers onto a tabletop, and a cloud of aged snuff was released, of such surprising potency both men began to sneeze; very much as if a malevolent spirit had escaped from the little box.
Unexpectedly then, both Woodrow Wilson and Winslow Slade suffered fits of helpless sneezing, until they could scarcely breathe, and their eyes brimmed with tears, and their hearts pounded with a lurid beat as if eager to burst.
And the austere old grandfather clock against a farther wall softly chimed the surprising hour of one— unheard.
POSTSCRIPT: “ASH WEDNESDAY EVE, 1905”
I t is not generally acknowledged to the reader that much is left out of any complex account. A reader must be trusting, and assume that what has been included is all that is necessary; what has been left out is extraneous.
But I am troubled, in assembling the previous chapter—for so much has been left out that might have been of interest, and might even be essential to a reader’s fullest understanding.
Therefore, I suggest: the reader who wants to know a little more of my chronicle should read this postscript, as well as the others to follow. (I am sure that there will be other postscripts to follow!) Readers who are satisfied that they know enough of Dr. Wilson and Dr. Slade should simply proceed to “Narcissus”—a total change of scene, I promise!
Here is a miscellany of details regarding Woodrow Wilson that could not find their way into the narrative.
—WOODROW’S “WIND-BUFFETED” walk to Crosswicks Manse was in fact an ordeal for the troubled man, who had not fully recovered from what he would recall as the unprovoked attack of his (alleged) kinsman from the hills of rural, western Virginia.
For, in leaving Prospect House, without telling his wife or daughters, all of whom (he assumed) were in bed, Woodrow Wilson was obliged to walk alone across the darkened Princeton University campus, and to pass close by undergraduate residences; though friendly to students by day, smiling his wide grimace of a presidential smile at virtually everyone he encountered, which never failed to enlist boys’ startled smiles and greetings, Woodrow quite dreaded being sighted at such a time; for a nocturnal journey, by foot, on the part of the president of the university, would seem suspicious—would it not?
So, Woodrow walked quickly, and furtively; more than once he ducked into a doorway, or around a corner, to avoid being seen by late-carousing undergraduates, returning from the Alchemist & Barrister pub on Witherspoon, or the rowdy taproom of the Nassau Inn.
The darkened tunnel of evergreens and rhododendron leading from Prospect to the inner campus was fraught with a kind of childish dread, which Woodrow recognized as unwarranted; but the deep, somehow writhing shadows behind the most Gothic of buildings, Pyne, gave him pause; nor did his fluttering heartbeat subside, at the rear of Alexander Hall with its fantastical towers, turrets, arches, walkways, and ornamental windows on all floors that, though darkened, seemed to wink with an extra-terrestrial light. (Did a voice faintly cry out from one of these high windows? Did a spectral face appear fleetingly? The hurrying man could not take time to pause, and did not dare to glance back.)
It was a sore point among the Princeton University administrators, that a high percentage of their undergraduate population were inveterate carousers for whom “clubs” were of more significance than academic studies, and persons of questionable repute of more significance than
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