He looked at me shrewdly. “Think it over, boy. No use being hasty.” He handed me a card. “Anytime you change your mind come and see me or send me a telegram.”
I watched him go out of the store. The Grand Army must be annoying the mighty Confederacy. Tyss ought to know about the agent's interest. And I knew I would be unable to tell him.
“Suppose,” I asked Enfandin the next day, “suppose one were placed in the position of being an involuntary assistant in a—to a…”
I was at a loss for words to describe the situation without being incriminatingly specific. I could not tell him about Tolliburr and my clear duty to let Tyss know of the colonel's espionage without revealing Tyss's connection with the Grand Army and thus uncovering my deceit in not warning Enfandin earlier. Whatever I said or failed to say, I was somehow culpable.
He waited patiently while I groped, trying to formulate a question which was no longer a question. “You can't do evil that good may come of it,” I burst out at last.
“Quite so. And then?”
“Well… That might mean eventually giving up all action entirely, since we can never be sure even the most innocent act may not have bad consequences.”
He nodded. “It might. The Manichaeans thought it did; they believed good and evil balanced and man was created in the image of Satan. But certainly there is a vast difference between this inhuman dogma and refusing to do consciously wicked deeds.”
“Maybe,” I said dubiously.
He looked at me speculatively. “A man is drowning in the river. I have a rope. If I throw him the rope he may not only climb to safety but take it from me and use it to garrote some honest citizen. Shall I therefore let him drown because I must not do good lest evil come of it?”
“But sometimes they are so mixed up it is impossible to disentangle them.”
“Impossible? Or very difficult?”
“Um… I don't know.”
“Are you not perhaps putting the problem too abstractly? Is not perhaps your situation—your hypothetical situation—one of being accessory to wrong rather than facing an alternative which means personal unhappiness?”
Again I struggled for noncommittal words. He had formulated my dilemma about the Grand Army so far as it connected with giving up my place in the bookstore or telling him of Tyss's bias. Yet not entirely. And why could I not let Tyss know of Colonel Tolliburr's visit, which it was certainly my duty to do? Was this overscrupulousness only a means of avoiding any unpleasantness?
“Yes,” I muttered at last.
“It would be very nice if there were no drawbacks ever attached to the virtuous choice. Then the only ones who would elect to do wrong would be those of twisted minds, the perverse, the insane. Who would prefer the devious course if the straight one were just as easy? No, no, my dear Hodge, one cannot escape the responsibility for his choice simply because the other way means inconvenience or hardship or tribulation.”
“Must we always act, whether we are sure of the outcome of our action or not?”
“Not acting is also action; can we always be sure of the outcome of refusing to act?”
Was it pettiness that made me contrast his position as an official of a small yet fairly secure power, well enough paid to live comfortably, with mine where a break with Tyss meant beggary and no further chance of fulfilling the ambition every day more important to me? Did circumstances alter cases, and was it easy for Enfandin to talk as he did, unconfronted with harsh alternatives?
“You know, Hodge,” he said as though changing the subject, “I am what they call a career man, meaning I have no money except my salary. This might seem much to you, but it is really little, particularly since protocol says I must spend more than necessary. For the honor of my country. At home I have an establishment to keep up where my wife and children live—”
I had wondered about his apparent bachelorhood.
“—because to be rudely frank, I do not think they would be happy or safe in the United States on account of their color. Besides these expenses I make personal contributions for the assistance of black men who are—how shall we say it?—unhappily circumstanced in your country, for I have found the official allotment is never enough. Now I have been indiscreet; you know state secrets. Why do I tell you this? Because, my friend, I should like to help. Alas, I cannot offer money. But this I can do, if it will not offend your pride: I suggest you live here—it will be no more uncomfortable than the arrangements you have described in the store—and attend one of the colleges of the city. A medal or an order from the Haitian government judiciously conferred on an eminent educator— decorations cut so nicely across color lines, perhaps because they don't show their origin to the uninitiated— should take care of tuition fees. What do you say?”
What could I say? That I did not deserve his generosity? The statement would be meaningless, a catchphrase, unless I explained that I'd not been open with him, and now even less than before was I able to do this. Or could I say that bare minutes earlier I had thought enviously and spitefully of him? Wretched and happy, I mumbled incoherent thanks, began a number of sentences and left them unfinished, lapsed into dazed silence.
But the newly-opened prospect cut through my introspection and scattered my self-reproaches. The future was too exciting to dwell in any other time; in a moment we were both sketching rapid plans and supplementing each other's designs with revisions of our own. Words tumbled out; ideas were caught in midexpression. We decided, we reconsidered, we returned to the first decisions.
I was to give Tyss two weeks' notice despite the original agreement making such nicety superfluous; Enfandin was to discuss matriculation with a professor he knew. My employer raised a quizzical eyebrow at my information.
“Ah, Hodgins, you see how neatly the script works out. Nothing left to chance or choice. If you hadn't been relieved of your trifling capital by a man of enterprise whose methods were more successful than subtle, you might have fumbled at the edge of the academic world for four years and then, having substituted a wad of unrelated facts for common sense and whatever ability to think you may have possessed, fumbled for the rest of your life at the edge of the economic world. You wouldn't have met George Pondible or gotten here where you could discover your own mind without adjustment to a professorial iron maiden.”
“I thought it was all arbitrary.”
He gave me a reproachful look. “Arbitrary and predetermined are not synonymous, Hodgins, nor does either rule out artistry. Mindless artistry, of course, like that of the snowflake or crystal. And how artistic this development is! You will go on to become a professor yourself and construct iron maidens for promising students who might become your competitors. You will write learned histories, for you are—haven't I said this before?—the spectator type. The part written for you does not call for you to be a participant, an instrument for—apparently— influencing events. Hence it is proper that you report them so that future generations may get the illusion they aren't puppets.”
He grinned at me. At another time I would have been delighted to pounce on the assortment of inconsistencies he had just offered; at the moment I could think of nothing but my failure to mention the Confederate agent's visit. It almost seemed his mechanist notions were valid and I was destined always to be the ungrateful recipient of kindness.
“All right,” he said, swallowing the last of his bread and half-raw meat, “so long as your sentimentality impels you to respect obligations I can find work for you. Those boxes over there go upstairs. Pondible's bringing a van around for them this afternoon.”