Candy
Terry Southern and Mason Hoffenberg
To
Hadj and Zoon
Elle ne savait pas combien elle était
vertueuse dans le crime qu’elle se reprochait.
VOLTAIRE
“I
’VE READ
MANY
BOOKS,”
said Professor Mephesto, with an odd finality, wearily flattening his hands on the podium, addressing the seventy-six sophomores who sat in easy reverence, immortalizing his every phrase with their pads and pens, and now, as always, giving him the confidence to slowly, artfully dramatize his words, to pause, shrug, frown, gaze abstractly at the ceiling, allow a wan wistful smile to play at his lips, and repeat quietly,
“many
books . . .” A grave nod of his magnificent head, and he continued: “Yes, and in my time I’ve traveled widely. They say travel broadens one—and I’ve . . . no doubt that it does.” Here he pretended to drop some of his lecture notes and, in retrieving them, showed his backside to the class, which laughed appreciatively. Professor Mephesto’s course,
Contemporary Ethics,
was one of the most popular in the school. In addition to being so highly intellectual and abstract, the professor was a regular guy, not just a simple armchair crackpot. “Yes, I’ve no doubt that it does,” he said softly, keeping a straight face as he adjusted his notes, and now letting a slight edge enter his voice—because, having given them the laugh at that point, he was now setting them up for the high seriousness to follow—this being his formula: one part tomfoolery, two parts high seriousness. “And in my travels, I’ve seen . . .
beauty
in every form. I’ve seen the rainbow on Mont Blanc, and I’ve seen the illuminated manuscripts of the Flemish monks where every page took seven monks two years to produce! God, they’re lovely! Yes, I’ve strolled through the dew-sparkling Gardens of Babylon in the dawn of a summer morning, and I’ve seen the birds of paradise stand at eventide against the white glittering marble of the Taj Mahal. God, what a
sight!”
He paused to touch his temple, as though nearly overwhelmed. “Yes, I’ve seen the . . .
wonders of the world
. . . I’ve seen the
beauty
. . . of the world . . . the Pyramids in the thunderous blood-colored dawn, and the Tower of Pisa, and the paintings of the Great Masters . . . I’ve seen them all. I have seen
beauty
. . . in every form. I’ve stood on the ancient bridge in a snow-falling morn and heard the winter peal of the silver bells, from the high towers, over the dark stone and mysterious waters of old Heidelberg. And I’ve seen the Great Northern Lights . . . and the
flowers of the field!”
And he leaned toward them, touching one hand, as though absently, to his hair, and he spoke with a soft, terse defiance, so that
everyone
knew how very serious he was now, “. . . and I’ve seen the SUN! The glorious, glorious
sun! Beauty,
I say to you,
in every form.
BUT . . .
but .
. . I’ll tell you
this”:
and his lip curled in a strange, almost angry way, and a tremor came into his voice, while in the lecture hall, not even a breath was heard, “I have never seen
anything
. . . to
compare .
. . with the
beauty . . .
of the . . .
human face!”
The bell sounded at precisely that instant, for it was another curious feature of Professor Mephesto’s lectures that they reached a dramatic high point at the exact second of the bell.
In the fifth row center, Candy Christian slowly closed her notebook and dropped her pen into her purse. She was sitting on the edge of her chair, holding her breath; then she gave a soft sigh and sat back limply. She felt utterly exhausted, yet exhilarated too. A great man, she thought, a truly great man. I’m in the presence of a truly great man.
She gathered up her things and filed out slowly with the others. At the door she had a glimpse of Professor Mephesto walking down the hall toward his office, clasping his notes up to his chest, talking amiably to one of the students, his arm around the boy’s shoulder—a very young boy with wild hair and a sullen face. She wondered what they were saying. She wondered what
she
would say. How she would love to be a part of the conversation! Yet, what could she say? She decided to go straight to the library and read for the rest of the afternoon, then she remembered that she had promised her father she would come directly home after class and go with him to Aunt Ida’s. “Darn Daddy anyway!” she said to herself.
Candy was born on Valentine’s Day. Perhaps this was why she was so beautiful—or so her father often remarked, at least in the presence of others; when they were alone, however, he was inclined to be a bit strict with her—not strict so much as insensitive to her needs, or possessively solicitous. But he was, after all, only a simpleminded businessman. At any rate though, there
was
something like a Valentine about Candy—one of the expensive ones, all frills and lace, and fragrance of lavender. But she was sometimes petulant, and perhaps it was this, her
petulance,
more than her virginity, which was her flaw and her undoing.
Mr. Christian was waiting in his armchair when Candy arrived. “Hi!” he said, glancing at his watch and only half lowering the paper. “Learn anything today?” She came over and gave him a perfunctory kiss. She wanted so much to tell him about Professor Mephesto and the human face, but of course he could never understand, not in a billion billion years. “Yes, I think so,” she said quietly.
“Anything wrong?” asked Mr. Christian. He didn’t like to see her face in repose, or perhaps thoughtful.
“No,” she sighed and gave him a tired smile as she put down her books, “just that things are a little hectic with exams coming on.”
“Hmm,” said her father, getting up, brushing some tobacco from his lap, looking at his watch again. “Well, we’d better get started, if we’re going,” he said. “I don’t want to be tied up there all afternoon. I’ll get the car out.”
Candy went into the bathroom and quickly brushed her hair and freshened her makeup. It did so please her father for her to look nice at Aunt Ida’s. Still holding the brush she stood gazing at herself in the glass. “And I’ve seen the glorious
sun,”
she said softly, “. . . but I’ve never seen beauty to compare—”
Two short sharp burps from the horn of her father’s new Plymouth made her start slightly and put down the brush. She turned out the bathroom light.
“Darn
Daddy anyway!” she said to herself as she hurried for the car.
P
ROFESSOR
M
EPHESTO WAS
a pacifist, and today’s lecture had been about War. Since he did not have a regular question-and-answer period in his lectures, he very often posed knotty problems to himself and then proceeded to answer them, as he was doing today in his closing remarks.
“I spent last summer in Stillwater, Maine, with a friend of mine, Tab Hutchins . . . it’s a place of incredible beauty, Stillwater, you’ll want to go there sometime. Well, Tab isn’t by
our
pompous standards, an ‘educated’ man . . . I mean he doesn’t have the robe and the scrolls, and he doesn’t speak in polysyllables, but I can tell you
this:
Tab Hutchins has one of the finest minds of our time. An auto mechanic by trade, a positivist-humanist by choice, and a scholar of the classics by inclination. I always get a little thrill somehow to see old Tab crawling under one of the dilapidated trucks that the farmers around Stillwater bring for him to fix—crawling under, a volume of Plato sticking out of one pocket, a volume of Aristotle out of the other.
“Well, one day Tab and I were talking and he said to me, in that serious way of his: ‘Meph, you say you’re against War. You say that War never accomplished anything.’
“I said, ‘That’s what I say, Tab.’
“He drew on his old briar, thoughtful for a moment, and then he said:
“‘Will you answer me one question, Meph?’
“‘I’ll answer it if I can, Tab,’ I said.
“Tab said, ‘Then what about the
American Revolution?
Do you mean to say
that
didn’t accomplish anything?’
“I said, ‘Do you know who it was we fought that war against, Tab?’
“‘Of course, I do,’ he said, ‘the British.’
“Well, I didn’t say anything more for a while, and I think Tab felt that he had me all right, the way he was watching me out of the corner of his eye, and drawing on his old briar. I was looking at the truck he had been working on all morning.
“‘How’s that truck running now, Tab?’ I asked him.
“‘She’s running fine now, Meph,’ he said, ‘had to tear down the differential a little, and clean a few cogs: and now she’s running fine—but I
don’t
believe that answers my question.’
“‘I’ll answer your question, Tab,’ I said, ‘but let’s take a drive first. I think we ought to give that truck a pragmatic test before returning it to its owner. I’ll drive,’ I said.
“Well, we got in and pretty soon I had the feel of the old bus, and we were going along at a great rate, down country roads, and across, and back, along the highway for a while. It’s beautiful countryside around there, and I remarked on it to Tab.
“He said, ‘Yes, it is.’
“I said, ‘Do you know where we are, Tab?’
“He said, ‘Sure I do.’
“I said, ‘All right,’ and we drove on for a while, and pretty soon I asked him again, ‘How do things look out there now, Tab?’
“‘Pretty much the same as they did when you asked before,’ he said.
“I said, ‘Do you know where we are?’
“Tab said, ‘Of course, I do.’
“I said, “Where are we, Tab?’
“He said, ‘Do you want a technical answer?’
“I said, ‘Yes, I do.’
“He said, ‘We’re on the planet World, of Solar System number one, Western Hemisphere, North American Continent, U.S.A., and I should say about seven miles northeast of Stillwater, Maine.’
“I said, ‘You’re wrong, Tab. We’re not in the U.S.A. now; we crossed the border into
Canada
about ten minutes ago. Canada is still a British protectorate, Tab, and it’s exactly what we
didn’t
accomplish by the American Revolution—and yet
you
can’t tell the difference! I guess that answers your question, doesn’t it, Tab?’”
Clang
went the bell as, with the last word, Professor Mephesto gathered up his papers and started for the door.
In the fifth row center, Candy had just written, “What about the American Revolution?” and was drawing a very heavy line under “about,” when she looked up to see the young boy she had seen with the professor yesterday, coming down the aisle, unmistakably toward her.
“Are you Candy Christian?” he asked when he reached her.
“Yes.”
“Meph wants to see you,” he said, with a disgruntled expression, “in his office.”
“What—Professor Mephesto?”
“Yes,” said the boy almost with a sneer,
“Professor
Mephesto.” Then he turned abruptly to leave.
“What on earth—” Candy began, but the boy stalked away.
She gathered her things and left in a hurry—and, at the doorway, she looked up and down the hall, trying to catch sight of him again, but he was not to be seen.
“Good Grief,”
said Candy, and walked rapidly to the girl’s lounge, where she put down her books and got out her comb and makeup. “What on earth—” she kept saying, combing her hair briskly, and finally spending an unusual amount of time putting on lipstick. She was very cross now about not having gone to the library yesterday.
“Darn
Daddy!” she said, and she decided to put on a bit of eyeshadow to make her look older, more mature. Since she hadn’t been able to read, or learn anything yesterday, she reasoned, the least she could do would be to
try
to look a little more intelligent. So she decided to darken her lashes a bit too—just for balance—pinched some more color into her cheeks, and tucked her blouse in tightly. Thank goodness for that at least, that she was wearing one of her smartest blouses, fresh and sweet, with her most lavishly embroidered slip peeking over the top through the V-neck, or V-breast, one might say, it being rather low.
At last she was ready and left the lounge, and walked primly down the hall to the professor’s office. At the door, she knocked very lightly, and heard almost at once the voice which she so admired.
“Come in, come in,” it said grandly.
Candy pushed open the door slowly, as though she thought there might be so many books in the room it would be partially blocked.
“Come in, my dear, come in,” said Professor Mephesto, standing and ushering her in with a flourish. “I was just having my afternoon drop of sherry. I hope you’ll join me.
