Perhaps there is some truth to the notion that stars collide or are out of balance in the universe and thus, in disarray, exert an influence upon individuals here on earth. I say this for want of any other explanation for the confluence of unpleasant events that day and the next.
There was at the college a battle brewing between two opposing factions, and I had somewhat unexpectedly found myself the informal leader of one of them. Perhaps this was a consequence of my newfound confidence and popularity during the winter months; more likely, it was because of the passion of my convictions. I could not then (and still cannot) countenance the idea of a department of physical culture at any college of classical learning, nor, moreover, the conferring of degrees in this nondiscipline upon matriculating students.
To give a degree to students whose chief occupation for four years has been employing wood-and-iron dumbbells in rhythmic motions or running circles in a gymnasium, all the while yelling like Rebels, is nothing short of absurd. Perhaps there is a place for physical exercise in the life of an individual — in the private life of the individual, that is, and to be carried out in private, as are other bodily functions — but to make of it an academic discipline with all the same rights and privileges as, say, Mathematics or Biblical History and Interpretation is an idea that would have been laughable had it not been proposed so seriously.
The Tuesday following the Monday of my hideous news, I was scheduled to speak at a meeting of college faculty and administration. I was to debate (and then vote upon) a proposal which would allow Professor Arthur Hallock (who did have, I am bound to say, a degree in medicine from the Medical School of Maine at Bowdoin College and who taught Anatomy and Physiology at Thrupp) to create a department of physical culture, which would elevate its study (what study? I ask) to the status of Literature and History. Worse, all college students would be compelled to take courses in this field and to keep to a regular regimen of physical exercise on pain of forfeiting their degrees. Even now — in this moving compartment and so far removed from the fray — I can work myself up into quite a froth on this subject.
The faculty had divided itself on this issue; two-thirds were in favor of instituting the new discipline and one-third were against. Mine was, unfortunately, the minority view, and thus it was all the more necessary to exhibit the courage of my convictions in a stirring speech before the assembled staff of the college. To say that I was not in a fit condition to do this is an almost ludicrous bit of understatement. I was barely able to stand and was completely unable to take food of any kind, since I was still in shock over the distressing news of Etna’s sudden departure. Worse, I could not gather my thoughts properly. I had left the drafting of my argument until the last minute, an uncharacteristically procrastinive gesture on my part, though, as I have said, during that time I had let a certain laxity undermine my normally excellent discipline. Thus was I faced with the horror of having to compose a speech within hours of having read Etna’s letter. That I was able to do so at all is testimony to my considerable willpower, for I remember having the utmost difficulty concentrating. In addition, I kept succumbing to intense fits of despair. Only by remaining awake most of the hours of the night was I able to fashion something that at least resembled an argument.
The next morning, the faculty assembled in the Anatomy amphitheater. Hallock and I and the President of the college, Isaac Phillips, sat on the stage. By common though unspoken agreement, the faculty had seated themselves more or less according to their convictions — two-thirds on one side of the theater, the remaining third on the other side, which made the room look a bit like a state legislature. As mentioned, I had not slept much the night before, and I knew I presented a poor argument for the continued absence of physical culture at the college. I looked pale, even haggard, and though I took great pains to position my features and my limbs so as to convey a brighter aspect, the center of my being felt aged to the core.
Hallock, by contrast, radiated good health and seemed to anticipate the debate with genuine relish. One could not fail to notice his impossibly erect spine or the way his muscled limbs nearly burst from his frock coat. He was reported to have had an excellent arm in his time and, consequently, he coached, in the springtime, the fledgling and seldom victorious Thrupp Throwing Team.
After an introduction by President Phillips, Hallock took the podium. He began by assembling an impressive number of facts about the deteriorating health of Thrupp students. Though I managed to feign politeness at the beginning of the assembly, I grew more and more agitated as Hallock’s argument evolved. He put forth the theory that moral and intellectual weakness were the result of poor hygiene. He called upon the Greek ideal of the palaestra in his comparison with the physical characteristics of the typical Thrupp student: that is, misshapen limbs, slumped posture, pale visages, and difficulties with breathing brought on by indifference to matters of the body. He called attention to cases of disease and feebleness and, in some instances, premature death among the students. (I thought this was going a bit too far.) If every student were required to participate in physical exercise daily, he insisted, the general health of the student population would improve. Worse, he had the audacity to suggest that faculty ought to be required to exercise regularly on the theory that their teaching and their relationships with the students would improve as well. To house such activity, Hallock proposed, the college should erect a gymnasium.