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Chapters (51)
  1. Introduction by Michael Bronski
  2. BEGINNING
  3. II
  4. III
  5. IV
  6. V
  7. VI
  8. VII
  9. VIII
  10. IX
  11. X
  12. XI
  13. XII
  14. XIII
  15. MIDDLE
  16. II
  17. III
  18. IV
  19. V
  20. VI
  21. VII
  22. VIII
  23. IX
  24. X
  25. XI
  26. XII
  27. XIII
  28. XIV
  29. XV
  30. XVI
  31. XVII
  32. XVIII
  33. XIX
  34. XX
  35. END
  36. II
  37. III
  38. IV
  39. V
  40. VI
  41. VII
  42. VIII
  43. IX
  44. X
  45. XI
  46. XII
  47. XIII
  48. XIV
  49. XV
  50. XVI
  51. About the Author

As always, before the opening of a new semester—even though it was only another summer school, with more or less indifferent students—John Grandin was somewhat nervous at the prospect. He wondered what the new classes would be like. If he had as many as half a dozen students to whom the courses meant one-­tenth of what they meant to him, it would be worth it. He was aware that he had been deliberately putting Ethel from his mind, unwilling to think of her misery. What he thought of now, as a kind of diversion or distraction, was the promotion that awaited him in the fall and the publication of The Tragic Ideal, which might bring him a recognition at last, however slight.

The lighthouse, off from Nantucket, was already far behind him. Sea birds followed the steamer as if it were the only object of reality in their unreal world. A chilling wind blew across the deck; John Grandin wrapped himself as snugly as possible in his topcoat and longed for the lonely voyage to be over, though it was not nearly so lonely as the earlier trip in company with his wife, when they had been estranged to the point of hostility.

He boarded the train at Woods Hole shortly before ten, in a chair car as before; and once again there were the fascinating place names of Falmouth, Pocasset, Buzzards Bay, Onset, Taunton, to say nothing of Providence, which now seemed to connote an almost Biblical rightness. In spite of the fact that his romance with Clifford Hauman had got him nowhere (for romance it had been), it was strange but somehow comforting and comfortable to sense how rapidly the island holiday was behind him; for truly it had never been a holiday to begin with. During the train trip he fell back into the matter-­of-­fact considerations and details of daily life. Perhaps he had or had not lost Ethel; but Clifford Hauman, thank God, no longer existed. Certainly he would never see him again. . . .

The atmosphere was stifling, sultry, enervating, as he came up the ramp into Grand Central. After the continual breezes of Sconset, he felt he could scarcely breathe. It was no better when he stepped into the humid street; but during the ride uptown, wind of a sort did blow in through the lowered window of the taxi. Arrived at his apartment, he raised all the windows at once and replaced the fallen firetongs against the frame of the hearth. Halfheartedly he considered phoning Ethel in Maine to tell her he had arrived home; in another hour or so it would be time for the evening rates of long-­distance. Would Ethel care, for one minute, where he was? Perhaps she would be interested to know, but he could not afford the risk of having her hang up on him.

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