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Authors: Ralph McInerny
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probably discussing how to handle the lad who spoiled halftime for them.”
“What will they do?”
“Have him prosecuted, I suppose.”
The scowl gave way to a smile. “Do you think so?”
“Do you know who I am?”
“No.”
“President of the faculty senate. Leif Quinlan.”
The small eyes focused and seemed to recognize a friend.
“Are you one of them?” Leif asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“The senate intends to back him all the way.”
“Good!”
“What’s your name?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
Pros and cons took serial possession of the little eyes. “Plant.”
“Just Plant?”
“Orion.”
Quinlan put out his hand and, after hesitating, Orion Plant took it. Thus their solidarity was expressed.
13
ON MONDAY, BEFORE SEEK ing out Professor Ranke’s now former graduate student, Roger Knight stopped by the university archives to consult with Greg Whelan. The archivist was at work in his cubbyhole and Roger paused in the door, not wanting to disturb his friend. They had not spoken for some time and he realized how he missed their conversations. Whelan was replete with lore about the university and he knew the archives like the back of his hand. Once he might have lamented the fact that his stammer had closed off the avenues his doctorate and his later law degree qualified him to travel, but his handicap had stood athwart both paths and he had resigned himself to becoming a librarian. This had landed him in the archives and from the first day there he felt he had come home.
He turned, startled, then smiled. “Roger.” It was a blessing of their friendship that Whelan did not stammer when they talked, his handicap neutralized by Roger’s obesity.
“You’re busy.”
Whelan rose from his computer as if to indicate the relative unimportance of his task. They moved to one of the closed rooms where visiting scholars worked but which this morning was empty so they could converse without danger of disturbing some important research.
“Recent events have made me curious about the university’s title to its land.”
Whelan smiled.
“Moi aussi
. I have been creating a list of relevant items.”
“I should like to see it.”
“I’ll print it out for you.”
“Any surprises?”
The archives were a treasure house of surprises and even Whelan, with his encyclopedic grasp of their contents, was constantly coming upon the unexpected. He had no need of his recent assembled list of items to recall what he had found. Roger listened enthralled. He was no longer surprised by Whelan’s memory: it would have rivaled that of a medieval master who had to hold in store hundreds of texts seen once and then no more.
Father Badin’s 1832 purchase of the land from the government was well documented and had been told in all the standard works. He had spent only a few years at the mission he established there, building the log chapel and several sheds, and ministering to the Potowatomi. In 1835, he was off again, after deeding the land to the diocese of Vincennes. Father Petit was one of the priests who succeeded him at Ste.-Marie-des-Lacs, as Badin called the mission. This was the property offered to Edward Sorin by the bishop of Vincennes. A few years later, Badin took up residence at what was now the University of Notre Dame, receiving an annuity from Father Sorin, a species of retirement plan that would make his many years lie less heavily on his shoulders. But there had been misunderstanding almost from the beginning. Badin was a shrewd bargainer but he had more than met his match in Sorin. Whelan gave a swiftprecis of this oft-told story and then stopped. His expression was promissory.
“What then?”
“Attention is then drawn to legitimacy of the transfer to Sorin of title to the land.”
“Ah.”
This story was unknown to Roger and he listened attentively. Whelan looped back to the saga of Father Petit, who had identified himself with the dispossessed natives and
“What will they do?”
“Have him prosecuted, I suppose.”
The scowl gave way to a smile. “Do you think so?”
“Do you know who I am?”
“No.”
“President of the faculty senate. Leif Quinlan.”
The small eyes focused and seemed to recognize a friend.
“Are you one of them?” Leif asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“The senate intends to back him all the way.”
“Good!”
“What’s your name?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
Pros and cons took serial possession of the little eyes. “Plant.”
“Just Plant?”
“Orion.”
Quinlan put out his hand and, after hesitating, Orion Plant took it. Thus their solidarity was expressed.
13
ON MONDAY, BEFORE SEEK ing out Professor Ranke’s now former graduate student, Roger Knight stopped by the university archives to consult with Greg Whelan. The archivist was at work in his cubbyhole and Roger paused in the door, not wanting to disturb his friend. They had not spoken for some time and he realized how he missed their conversations. Whelan was replete with lore about the university and he knew the archives like the back of his hand. Once he might have lamented the fact that his stammer had closed off the avenues his doctorate and his later law degree qualified him to travel, but his handicap had stood athwart both paths and he had resigned himself to becoming a librarian. This had landed him in the archives and from the first day there he felt he had come home.
He turned, startled, then smiled. “Roger.” It was a blessing of their friendship that Whelan did not stammer when they talked, his handicap neutralized by Roger’s obesity.
“You’re busy.”
Whelan rose from his computer as if to indicate the relative unimportance of his task. They moved to one of the closed rooms where visiting scholars worked but which this morning was empty so they could converse without danger of disturbing some important research.
“Recent events have made me curious about the university’s title to its land.”
Whelan smiled.
“Moi aussi
. I have been creating a list of relevant items.”
“I should like to see it.”
“I’ll print it out for you.”
“Any surprises?”
The archives were a treasure house of surprises and even Whelan, with his encyclopedic grasp of their contents, was constantly coming upon the unexpected. He had no need of his recent assembled list of items to recall what he had found. Roger listened enthralled. He was no longer surprised by Whelan’s memory: it would have rivaled that of a medieval master who had to hold in store hundreds of texts seen once and then no more.
Father Badin’s 1832 purchase of the land from the government was well documented and had been told in all the standard works. He had spent only a few years at the mission he established there, building the log chapel and several sheds, and ministering to the Potowatomi. In 1835, he was off again, after deeding the land to the diocese of Vincennes. Father Petit was one of the priests who succeeded him at Ste.-Marie-des-Lacs, as Badin called the mission. This was the property offered to Edward Sorin by the bishop of Vincennes. A few years later, Badin took up residence at what was now the University of Notre Dame, receiving an annuity from Father Sorin, a species of retirement plan that would make his many years lie less heavily on his shoulders. But there had been misunderstanding almost from the beginning. Badin was a shrewd bargainer but he had more than met his match in Sorin. Whelan gave a swiftprecis of this oft-told story and then stopped. His expression was promissory.
“What then?”
“Attention is then drawn to legitimacy of the transfer to Sorin of title to the land.”
“Ah.”
This story was unknown to Roger and he listened attentively. Whelan looped back to the saga of Father Petit, who had identified himself with the dispossessed natives and
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