Narcissus Off Duty
During Princeton's transition period, that is, during Amory's last two
years there, while he saw it change and broaden and live up to its Gothic
beauty by better means than night parades, certain individuals arrived
who stirred it to its plethoric depths. Some of them had been freshmen, and wild freshmen, with Amory; some were in the class below; and it was in the beginning of his last year and around small tables at the Nassau Inn that they began questioning aloud the institutions that Amory and countless others before him had questioned so long in secret. First, and partly by accident, they struck on certain books, a definite type of biographical novel that Amory christened "quest" books. In the "quest" book the hero set off in life armed with the best weapons and avowedly intending to use them as such weapons are usually used, to push their possessors ahead as selfishly and blindly as possible, but the heroes of the "quest" books discovered that there might be a more magnificent use for them. "None Other Gods," "Sinister Street," and "The Research Magnificent" were examples of such books; it was the latter of these three that gripped Burne Holiday and made him wonder in the beginning of senior year how much it was worth while being a diplomatic autocrat around his club on Prospect Avenue and basking in the high lights of class office. It was distinctly through the channels of aristocracy that Burne found his way. Amory, through Kerry, had had a vague drifting acquaintance with him, but not until January of senior year did their friendship commence.
"Heard the latest?" said Tom, coming in late one drizzly evening with
that triumphant air he always wore after a successful conversational bout.
"No. Somebody flunked out? Or another ship sunk?"
"Worse than that. About one-third of the junior class are going to
resign from their clubs."
"What!"
"Actual fact!"
"Why!"
"Spirit of reform and all that. Burne Holiday is behind it. The club
presidents are holding a meeting to-night to see if they can find a joint
means of combating it."
"Well, what's the idea of the thing?"
"Oh, clubs injurious to Princeton democracy; cost a lot; draw social
lines, take time; the regular line you get sometimes from disappointed
sophomores. Woodrow thought they should be abolished and all that."
"But this is the real thing?"
"Absolutely. I think it'll go through."
"For Pete's sake, tell me more about it."
"Well," began Tom, "it seems that the idea developed simultaneously in
several heads. I was talking to Burne awhile ago, and he claims that
it's a logical result if an intelligent person thinks long enough about
the social system. They had a 'discussion crowd' and the point of
abolishing the clubs was brought up by some one—everybody there leaped
at it—it had been in each one's mind, more or less, and it just needed
a spark to bring it out."
"Fine! I swear I think it'll be most entertaining. How do they feel up
at Cap and Gown?"
"Wild, of course. Every one's been sitting and arguing and swearing and
getting mad and getting sentimental and getting brutal. It's the same at
all the clubs; I've been the rounds. They get one of the radicals in the
corner and fire questions at him."
"How do the radicals stand up?"
"Oh, moderately well. Burne's a damn good talker, and so obviously
sincere that you can't get anywhere with him. It's so evident that
resigning from his club means so much more to him than preventing it does
to us that I felt futile when I argued; finally took a position that was
brilliantly neutral. In fact, I believe Burne thought for a while that
he'd converted me."
"And you say almost a third of the junior class are going to resign?"
"Call it a fourth and be safe."
"Lord—who'd have thought it possible!"
There was a brisk knock at the door, and Burne himself came in. "Hello, Amory—hello, Tom."
Amory rose.
"'Evening, Burne. Don't mind if I seem to rush; I'm going to Renwick's."
Burne turned to him quickly.
"You probably know what I want to talk to Tom about, and it isn't a bit
private. I wish you'd stay."