Vanities of the Bonfire

Once, when I was quite young, my corner of the Ozarks suffered from a protracted drought. My youth was one long drought, and the mere meteorological fact would probably be unmemorable were it not for an attendant circumstance. My favorite aunt prevailed upon my brother and me to accompany her to a religious meeting called for the special purpose of praying for rain. The venue was the Baxter County fairgrounds, where a surprisingly large crowd gathered at a large, open, wooden pavilion more commonly used for livestock shows. There were so many people that numerous late arrivals, including us, had to stand outside the building in the full late-morning sun.

At that stage of my experience there existed but two kinds of preachers: the marshmallow soft and the hickory-hided tough. This guy was definitely Category Two: the meanest-looking, sharpest featured, cleanest shaved, slickest haired, and most terrifyingly righteous specimen I had ever encountered. He closely resembled my idea of the indignant young Moses preparing to kill a few Egyptian slave drivers. He stood on a platform in the midst of this literal sheepfold sternly surveying his metaphorical sheep. He did this for a long time. It was very hot, without a breath of breeze. It was preternaturally quiet. I felt very awkward and uncomfortable.

At last he started talking, loudly, to God. This is what he said in angry tones: "Lord, these folks supposedly came here to pray for rain. But, Lord, I don't think I'll waste Your time or mine either. Because, Lord, I've surveyed this entire multi-tude, and there's not a one of them carryin' an umbrella!" At this instant from beyond the horizon of a cloudless sky came the slow rolling rumble of a thunderclap.

So great was my faith that Princeton would defeat Yale on Saturday that I had negotiated a unique deal with my editors, very risky on their part, to delay my copy deadline until Sunday. I wanted to be able to sweeten my "Bonfire Column" with vivid particularities of the victory that had authorized the conflagration. I would perform further public penance for my earlier public pessimism. The thing was more than half written in my mind. But if this was cliffhanging journalism for my editors, it was doubly so for me. For I was determined also to go also on Saturday to Verizon Hall at the Kimmel Center in Philadelphia to hear David Carpenter '08, Princeton's genius-violist, play Walton's "Viola Concerto" with the Philadelphia orchestra directed by Christoph Eschenbach. The concert began at 11:30 a.m., the Yale game at 1 p.m.

It was Youth Day at the Kimmel Center in every sense. In addition to Mr. Carpenter, who played brilliantly, the program featured a young soprano, gorgeous alike in voice and appearance, and a fourteen-year-old violinist! The vibe given off by too many audiences at classical concerts is of an outing from the Nursing Home. The vibe here was of the world's most imaginative Day Care Center, with little people squirming in every direction.

It was fabulous, and it was in a state of near-euphoria that I rushed from the chartered bus to the stadium, where the game was in the final minutes of the first half. On my way in I had the good luck to encounter my friend and colleague Karen Malatesta, also arriving late. Neither of us could believe our eyes. Princeton was ahead 14-0, deep in Yale territory, just about to score again. My cup runneth over.

The minute we sat down, by which I mean the very instant, the Tigers blundered into a turnover. I know a sign when I see one. And although the Bitch-Goddess Fortune teased us cruelly through the second half, delivering the coup de grace only in the final seconds, in my heart I heard that preacher's voice of doom. A detailed account of the second half would prove unbearable, and I say no more. Besides, so far as I could tell all of Princeton saw it for themselves. But medievalists have resources others may lack. We have the "Consolation of Philosophy" of Boethius. Walking gloomily home through the Barbeque Fields of reveling Yalies I meditated on the first meter of the second book, in which personified Fortuna mocks the vanity of human wishes—a subspecies of which is the vanity of the bonfires. "She shows her subjects an extraordinary sight," writes Boethius. She shows them a man who within a single hour moved from elation to utter dejection.

If not expecting water was once faithlessness, expecting fire was now apparently hubris. You can't win.

God gave Noah the rainbow sign —

No more rain, the fire next time! John V. Fleming is the Louis W. Fairchild '24 professor of English. He can be reached at jfleming@princeton.edu. His column appears on Mondays.