Swedenborg - Chapter 13

13.

     “… And so,” Staples continued, ”during the fourteenth century allegory was the guiding concept for thought and writing. Just as events in the Old Testament were seen to pre-figure events in the New Testament, so, too, everything in nature was seen to have an allegorical meaning in terms of Christian beliefs. We must keep this in mind when reading even histories of the period.”

     Staple’s “introductory remarks” had lasted close to 45 minutes. Some 15 students sat in a small classroom in this first session of Staples’ course focusing on the late Middle Ages in England and France. Frank had scribbled a few notes, but much of the material he was already familiar with, having read Staple’s writings.

     Instead of writing, he had spent part of the time lost in the sound of the professor’s voice - a knowing baritone with just a trace of British boredom.

     Staples had obviously delivered this lecture many times before.

     Frank was not particularly interested in the subject - he hoped to focus on American, not European history, for his degree – but the opportunity to take a course from one of the world’s most famous historians was one he did not want to miss.

     Besides, he thought, the man looks sick. This might be my only chance.

     A portly, dark-haired student raised his hand. Staples nodded.

     “How are you defining allegory?” the student asked. “Does historical allegory, if I may call it that, correspond to the literary device of that name?”

     “Ah, yes,” Staples began, nodding. “It comes from the same source.

     “Allegory is a mode of thought. It is a way to represent in images what is essentially not material in nature. In a sense, to the allegorical imagination, the material, visible world copies the invisible, immaterial world.

     “In literature, bright sunlight might convey a sense of goodness, of joy. In histories, the arrival of the leader might coincide with the sun bursting through the clouds. When reading a history written in this mode, we must keep in mind that that detail about the sun is likely a fabrication.”

     He paused, then added, “And I see by the sun that it is time for break. Be back in half an hour.”

     He snapped his notebook shut before any of the students could move.

     “He’s a creep,” one student said.

     “Nah,” another replied. “Just one of those British types.”

     Whatever he was, Frank was certain of one thing: He had never had a professor who so obviously knew so much about so many things.

     He joined the rush of students to the commons. He bought a coffee and sat with a couple of other students, including the portly student who’d asked the last question.

     “Might as well get to know each other,” a young, slender, blond-haired man began. “Bohden Dadlez. People call me Stas.”

“Irish, eh?” Frank said. “Frank McCarthy.”

“Did you say `Stash?’” the portly student asked. “By the way, I’m Joe Paolotto.”

“Stas – as in Stawsh,” Stas said. “It’s a nickname. Easier to say than ‘Bohden.’ Wish they’d let you smoke here.”

“Political correctness,” Joe said.

“So why are you guys in the class?” Frank asked.

“Need it for my doctorate,” Stas said. “When I heard Staples was teaching this summer, I figured I’d better take him before he dies.”

“Dies?” Frank asked.

“Cancer,” Joe said. “They said he only has a year or so.”

“I’ve read some of his stuff,” Frank said. “I didn’t know he was sick.”

“I’ve read everything he’s written that I could get my hands on,” Joe said.

“A true believer,” Stas snorted.

“Why not? He’s got good things to say.”

“When it comes to straight history, yeah,” Stas retorted. “But all that faith and culture war stuff – crock.”

Joe looked like he was about to argue. Frank, used to interveing in family fights, jumped in.

“I’m just trying to get my master’s for certification. I’m a high school history teacher.”

Stas gave him a look of disdain.

“Tough program for a `high school history teacher,’” he said.

           “It was near, and I have a friend here,” Frank began.

           “Ooo, male bonding already.”

           All three turned to see Liza standing there.

          “Hey Liza,” Frank said. “This is Joe and Stas.”

          “Hello Joe and Stas,” Liza said with a slight smile. “Be nice to Frank, boys.”

          At that moment, Staples entered the room, crossing to the hall to where the class was. Liza spotted him.

          “You poor babies with Staples?” Liza said, her voice flat.

“Medieval history,” Frank said.

“That’s where he belongs,” she said with an edge of anger.

Then she smiled. “I have my own babies waiting for me in class. See you Friday, she said to Frank.”

She left.

“Nice `friend,’” Stas said.

“I just met her,” Frank explained.

“Available,” Stas said, rubbing his hands.

“We’d better get back to class,” Joe said. “She seemed not to like the professor.”

“Yeah, I don’t know why.”

“He’s a widower,” Stas said. “Maybe he had the hots for her and she turned him down.”

They shuffled into the classroom.

Staples quickly looked at Frank, Stas and Joe.

“Allegory,” he began. “That’s where we left off.”

And that is where he began. The lecture wandered on, eventually veering into actual history. Frank kept a few notes, but much of the material was still review. Finally, the class ended, with Staples passing out a list of readings for each day.

Frank groaned inwardly. 200 pages by the next day.

He hurried out of the room, wondering if he could find a quiet corner in the library to start reading. Then he realized he’d left his bag of books in the room.

He returned. Staples was sitting in a chair, breathing with some difficulty.

“Professor?” Frank said rushing to his side.

Staples waved his hand.

“Just need a breath,” he said, somewhat hoarsely. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

“Let me carry you bag back to your office,” Frank offered.

“No, no …,” Staples began. Then he nodded.

They walked down the hall slowly, passing through the commons, then into the office hall. Professor Staples’ office was open. Staples heavily sat in his chair. Frank put the bag on top of the desk.

“Thank you, Mr. …” Staples said.

“McMann, Frank.”

“Thank you, Frank. I hadn’t talked that much in a while. Took my breath.”

“If we all do our reading tonight we can do some of the talking tomorrow,” Frank said, smiling.

“Yes. Was that Ms. Lotechewski I saw you with during the break?”

“Yeah, you know her?”

“We’ve met. Interesting woman. A friend?”

“More of a friend of a friend. Jack Plantir. On the radio.”

“Rarely listen,” Staples said, taking out a handkerchief and blowing his nose. “Ahem. She has some interesting ideas. You might want to be careful not to be influenced.”

 Frank gave him a puzzled look, but Staples did not explain. He coughed.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Frank said. “See you tomorrow.”

Then he added with a smile, “For some reason, I have a lot of reading to do tonight.”

He left the office and went out into the commons. Joe approached  him.

“Was that you with the professor,” Joe said.

“Yeah, he seemed sick, so I helped him back to his office.”

“Too bad. He’s real sick. Only a year or two to live, maybe.”

“Yeah, too bad. Hey, what was all that stuff about Staples Stas was talking about?”

“You don’t know about Staples? He’s a real big in religious circles, fighting against all sorts of things. He’s written as many books about culture and morals as he has histories.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I’ve got them all, if you’d like to borrow some.”

“Thanks. Maybe if he didn’t assign so much history I could start tonight.”

Joe smiled in a hopeful way.

Frank turned and remembered Stas’ comment. A true believer.

Well, don’t try to convert me.

Pax et bonum