The Scholar’s Disciple by Walter Tevis

Story originally published in College English in 1969.

He appeared to be no more than twenty-five, and his eyes were bright orange. Except for these he would have looked like a very ordinary, somewhat handsome young man. He stood in the center of the chalked diagram on Webley’s kitchen linoleum and shifted his weight embarrassedly from one small foot to the other. He was dressed impeccably in an Oxford gray suit and he wore a “peace” button in his lapel.

Webley sat motionless on the kitchen stool for a moment, not knowing exactly what to say. This sort of ... person was not at all what he had expected. His guest glanced uneasily at the two plastic mixing bowls that sat just inside the chalked lines. Finally he blinked his orange eyes and looked at Webley.

“Well?” Webley said.

“Yes sir?” The fellow’s voice was very polite; it had the controlled tone of a proper young graduate student’s.

Webley cleared his throat. “Aren’t you going to drink the blood?” he said, “Or do something with the… ah… entrails?”

The other shuddered. “No sir.”

Webley began to feel irritated; it had taken a great deal of work to gather the things. “Then why in Heaven’s name are they in the… invocation?”

“In whose name, sir?” The young fellow blushed, averting his eyes.

“Sorry. In the name of Hell, then.”

“Yes.” The fellow smiled engagingly, and, apparently more at ease, withdrew a bright red cigarette case from his pocket, offering one to his host, who declined it. The cigarettes were very long, and coal black. “I don’t really know, sir, why some versions of the procedure call for such things as…” he glanced hesitatingly towards the bowls again, “those. Impure texts, possibly. Actually it’s all in the words, you know. One has to say them right. Apparently you mastered the feat well.” He pressed the end of a well-manicured forefinger against the tip of his cigarette, casually, and it lit in a tiny burst of flame. When he exhaled, the smoke had a faintly perfumed odor.

Webley was somewhat placated by the compliment, although it had taken a year of searching to dig up those “impure texts.” “Well,” he said, “You are a demon, anyway, aren’t you?”

“Oh hell yes,” the fellow said, with feeling. “By all means.”

“And your name?”

“Makuka… It’s hard to pronounce, sir… Makukabuzzeeliam. In Hell our clients generally call me Robert.”

“And you can serve me?”

“Ah… after a fashion, yes. Of course, I have a good many other duties.”

Webley poured himself a drink, offering one to the demon, who refused. “I don’t think I would overwork you, Robert. What I want you to do, primarily, is to write a dissertation for me. And, perhaps, a few scholarly articles.”

The demon seemed to think this over a moment. Then he said, “What field, sir?”

“English. English Literature.”

The demon smiled abruptly, revealing even, white teeth. “That might be very interesting, sir,” he said, “We have a good many of your English writers… available, so to speak.” His orange eyes seemed to twinkle, “And a fine bunch too, sir, I might add. But why,” he said, “would you ever call up a demon to write your dissertation for you?”

“Well,” Webley said, “I am one of the few people who know how; that’s one consideration – the basic one, you might say. I have my first Ph.D. in Folklore, you see. Done a lot of research in Folklore. After twelve years of it I began to realize that most of the lore worked out very well. I cure a little asthma here and there, with black-eyed peas, practice a little Voodoo – nothing important, just to amuse my friends.”

“Voodoo never has been very effective.” Robert said, understandingly. “Overrated.”

“I fear so. Anyway, I began to realize that I’d never get anywhere in the academic world with a Folklore degree – just isn’t recognized by enough schools. The logical thing was to get into a parallel but more respected field. And, with a few good articles, I might be able to swing a professorship.” Webley finished his drink and shuffled, ponderously, over to the sink, where he began fixing another. “Trouble is, Robert, I hate writing – especially scholarly writing. Consequently, I thought I’d try invoking a demon to do it for me.” He settled back in his chair, smiling, and began sipping the drink, “I think it’s going to work out very well.”

The demon smiled engagingly. “I hope so,” he said. “I’ll go check with the legal department – about a contract.” He blinked his eyes and vanished….

When Robert returned, after more than an hour, he had with him an estimate on the value of Webley’s immortal soul. They haggled for a good while before agreeing on the terms, but Webley was quite pleased with them; he had done better than he had expected to. The young demon seemed to bluff very easily.

Webley would, of course, go to Hell upon his death; but he would have a suite there, a mistress – to be changed yearly – air conditioning – Robert tried to explain to him that Hell was not in the least bit hot; but Webley stuck to his guns on this point – weekly valet service, and ready access to his landlord should any inconvenience develop. He would be roasted over the coals for one day out of every month; but he was guaranteed that there would be no harmful aftereffects from this. “In fact,” Robert said, “some of our clients look forward to that part of the life in Hell, since the possibilities for pain among the dead are so few, and the senses are so dulled by the extraordinary amount of pleasure we have to offer.”

“Then why do you have this roasting business at all, if Hell is such a pleasant place?” Webley asked, pouring himself a drink.

“Well, we are under orders from the opposition. We can’t make Him out to be a liar, you know. And then those coals are rather unpleasant.”

“I see. But what, then do they do in Heaven?”

Robert thought a moment. “It’s been a long time since I was there, of course. They sing, mostly, I think. And do exercises or something.”

In return for his agreeing to the damnation Webley would receive the services of Robert for one year, in which time an acceptable dissertation must be written, as well as at least ten publishable scholarly articles. Webley had with him a razor blade to open a vein for signing the contract; he was mildly piqued when the demon brought out a ball point pen, even though the ink was bright red. It dried brown, however.

Immediately after he finished signing there came the sound of a very small and very dry little voice, from somewhere, it seemed, in the basement. The voice said only one word, which it enunciated with great precision. “Agreed.”

“Who the devil is that?” Webley said.

Robert blushed again, momentarily. “Our… legal department, sir,” he said. He folded the contract and then vanished gently….

He appeared for work the next morning. Webley had already prepared an office for him in a disused upstairs bedroom, complete with typewriter, The MLA Style Sheet, and a small library of learned journals. He worked methodically and well, seemed to take a certain pleasure in his writing, and within only three months had produced a monumental, definitive work, titled “The Lyric Cry in Colley Cibber: A Reappraisal.” When this was finished, Robert suggested that he show it to Mr. Cibber, who, he said, had a small walk-up apartment in a suburban part of Hell; but Webley would not hear of it. “Just stick to the scholarship, young man.”

The dissertation, upon acceptance and publication by the University Press, created a considerable stir among a great many academic people, few of whom read it. Webley soon found himself in possession of a very congenial job, with a low salary and few duties. A month later he received a large fellowship from a foundation; and upon his first PMLA publication, the controversy-stirring article “Threads of Francophilism in John Webster’s The White Devil,” found himself with an Associate Professorship and even fewer duties.

The demon’s work was virtually inspired. His style managed to be ornate and terse at one and the same time; he was greatly sardonic about everyone and everything except a handful of third-rate poets, he displayed an astonishing prowess at ignoring the obvious and seizing upon the manifestly impossible; and his footnotes were awe inspiring. Within a year Webley’s name had become an unshakeable star in the academic firmament.

And the demon improved. He took a strong interest in his work and even occasionally, after the sixth or seventh paper, took time out to read a poem or two. Once, he started reading a novel; although, finding no threads of Nordic thought, influences of Vedic literature, or mythic content, he soon tired of it and did not finish.

When he handed the tenth paper to his employer he seemed actually sad that this would be the last of his scholarly work. He had grown to love his job.

Webley, interpreting Robert’s hesitancy rightly, was immediately struck by an idea. He explained it to the demon. He, Webley, would apply for a year’s leave of absence with pay, so that he might write a book. He had been feeling oppressed, of late, by the restrictions of his teaching schedule, however light; and, besides, there was a graduate assistant, a certain Miss Hopkins, with whom he was much taken. Miss Hopkins had already expressed a deep seated wish to visit Acapulco. As for himself, he enjoyed spear fishing as well as the next fellow. Now, as for the book…. He would be glad to sign a new contract.

Robert’s face showed doubt, although Webley could tell that he was pleased with the idea. “I don’t know, sir,” he said, “I do have my other duties; and my supervisor doesn’t generally like to alter a contract. People are always accusing him of coercion when he does something like that. He’s very scrupulous, you know.”

“Well, see what you can do,” Webley said, “And remember, you can write the book any way you want to.”

“Well…”

“You can name your own subject.”

The demon smiled sheepishly, “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, and vanished in a puff of perfumed smoke.

It was three days later that Robert returned with the new contract. The terms were fairly hard, but this time Webley was unable to talk them down. Robert said that this was the least his legal department would allow. There would now be three days per month on the coals, together with one day of boils, from sole to crown. Also he would have to share the bath in his suite, and his choice of mistresses would be limited to brunettes. But, in return, Robert promised to produce the finest, most significant and monumental work of English Literary Criticism ever written.

After four hours of bickering, Webley finally threw his hands in the air, “All right,” he said, “I’ll sign. After all, a man ought to produce one good book in a lifetime. And Miss Hopkins is growing impatient.”

Robert smiled, “I’m certain you won’t be disappointed in the book, sir.” He blushed slightly, “Nor in Miss Hopkins either. I took the liberty of checking on her file, and found her… promising.”

“That’s interesting…” Webley said, smiling thoughtfully and taking the ball point pen from the demon’s outstretched hand.

As before, there came the precise, weak little voice, saying, “Agreed….”

* * * * *

Miss Hopkins was not disappointing, not in the least. Nor was Acapulco, nor spearfishing, nor tequila. But especially not Miss Hopkins. When the year ended and Robert appeared, Webley was lying in bed in a small adobe hut, with a mild headache and with Miss Hopkins, who was fortunately sound asleep. The demon, appearing from Hell with a very thick book under his arm, found him there.

During the past year Webley’s face had taken on a certain bloated haughtiness; and his tone now with Robert was patronizing. “What’s the title, Robert?” he said, making no move to get up from the bed.

“The English Literary Tradition: A Re-evaluation.” There was a tiny hint of pride in Robert’s voice.

Webley frowned. “That’s a little general, Robert,” he said, “But I suppose it’ll do. How long is it?”

“Seventeen hundred pages, sir.”

“Yes. Well, that ought to impress them well enough.” He leaned over on one elbow, “Tell you what you do, Robert. You pack that manuscript off to my editor for me; and then I want you to take a message to the University. Tell them I’m delayed and won’t be back for about three or four weeks. Tell them I’m working on the index or something.” He reached a chubby hand over and gave Miss Hopkins a gentle pat on the rump. She stirred and giggled softly in her sleep. “Now do that for me, Robert, and it’ll be all wrapped up between us.”

There seemed to be a hurt look in the demon’s eyes. “You’re not going to read the book, sir?”

Webley waved a hand royally. “When it comes out in print, man,” he said, “Right now I’m busy.”

“Yes sir.” Robert said, vanishing.

* * * * *

It was six weeks later that Webley was mailed a copy of the book by his publisher. Since he was well absorbed at the time with other pursuits, it was another two weeks before he read it. Or he did not read it exactly – not entirely. He was two-thirds of the way through when, red in the face and eyes glaring, he shrieked the proper incantation and Robert appeared.

“What in the name of Hell do you mean by this – this asininity, this patent absurdity?” Webley said. “Any half-baked scholar with a quarter of a brain could demolish this, rip it to shreds! This is tripe, Robert. Fraudulent, unscholarly, unforgiveable tripe. You’ve made an ass of yourself and of me.”

Robert seemed dumbfounded; his entire face was an enormous blush. “But, Professor Webley,” he said, “I… I thought you would like it, sir. Thought it would be… just the thing.”

Webley seemed to explode. “Just the thing!” He slammed the book on his desk, “Good lord, Robert, if I couldn’t write a more accurate work of literary criticism in six months’ time I’d… I’d let you roast me in Hell. Seven days a week.”

From somewhere beneath the floor came a little voice, saying “Agreed.”

Webley stopped in the middle of a breath. Then he said, “Now wait a minute, Robert. You can’t… surely you…”

The demon’s face showed embarrassment, and his tone was extremely polite, apologetic. “I’m afraid we can, sir,” he said, “Verbal contract, you know. Hold up in any court.”

For a moment Webley’s eyes searched frantically around the room. Finally they landed on the book, which lay now on the table, and immediately the glance of uncertainty was replaced with a look of triumph. “All right,” he said, “All right. You think you’ve got me, don’t you? Think you’ve trapped me into a bad contract. The only thing you’ve neglected is that I can write a better book than this one.” He picked up the book, flipping through it again, “Look at this. More than two hundred pages of Shakespeare analysis – not to mention the rest, from The Pearl Poet to Oscar Wilde – and not one genuine, scholarly idea in the lot. Well written, possibly. But any graduate student knows that Shakespeare didn’t model Cleopatra on his mother – the idea’s absurd. And an idiot would know that the textual problem is the only clue to Hamlet.”

“But…” Robert said.

“But nothing!” Webley slammed the book back on his desk, “It’s not merely your insidious way of trying to steal my soul that infuriates me – It’s this fool book you’re trying to do it with. Who in Hell ever gave you these stupid notions about Literature?”

Robert seemed uneasy. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Mr. Webley,” he said. “It was a great many people in Hell. You see, I didn’t exactly write the book myself, sir.”

“Then who… who wrote this nonsense about Shakespeare?”

“Shakespeare, sir. I sobered him up and…”

Abruptly, Webley’s voice took on the tone of a small man speaking from the bottom of a well. “And Milton. Who…?”

The demon managed a weak smile. “John had some revealing things to say about Comus, didn’t he, sir?”

Webley’s eyes were taking on a strange, hunted look. “And Beowulf… Surely you didn’t…”

“I’m afraid I did, Mr. Webley. We have the author of that one too – he slipped up once on the Fourth Commandment. Fellow named Seothang the Imbiber. Drinks mead.”

Webley stood in stony silence for several minutes, holding the heavy book in a limp hand. His eyes were closed.

After a few minutes he opened them. Robert had, tastefully, vanished. In his place was a small, black table. On this were arranged neatly a typewriter, a stack of white paper, and a calendar.