A Separate Peace

Moving through the soaked, coarse grass I began to examine each one closely, and finally identified the tree I was looking for by means of certain small scars rising along its trunk, and by a limb extending over the river, and another thi

The tree was not only stripped by the cold season, it seemed weary from age, enfeebled, dry. I was thankful, very thankful that I had seen it. So the more things remain the same, the more they change after all—plusc'est la même chose, plus ça change. Nothing endures, not a tree, not love, not even a death by violence.

Changed, I headed back through the mud. I was drenched; anybody could see it was time to come in out of the rain.

The tree was tremendous, an irate, steely black steeple beside the river. I was damned if I’d climb it. The hell with it. No one but Phineas could think up such a crazy idea.

He of course saw nothing the slightest bit intimidating about it. He wouldn’t, or wouldn’t admit it if he did. Not Phineas.

“What I like best about this tree,” he said in that voice of his, the equivalent in sound of a hypnotist’s eyes, “what I like is that it’s such a cinch!” He opened his green eyes wider and gave us his maniac look, and only the smirk on his wide mouth with its droll, slightly protruding upper lip reassured us that he wasn’t completely goofy.

“Is that what you like best?” I said sarcastically. I said a lot of things sarcastically that summer; that was my sarcastic summer, 1942.

“Aey-uh,” he said. This weird New England affirmative—maybe it is spelled “aie-huh”—always made me laugh, as Fi

There were three others with us—Phineas in those days almost always moved in groups the size of a hockey team—and they stood with me looking with masked apprehension from him to the tree. Its soaring black trunk was set with rough wooden pegs leading up to a substantial limb which extended farther toward the water. Standing on this limb, you could by a prodigious effort jump far enough out into the river for safety. So we had heard. At least the seventeen-year-old bunch could do it; but they had a crucial year’s advantage over us. No Upper Middler, which was the name for our class in the Devon School, had ever tried. Naturally Fi

We were not even Upper Middler exactly. For this was the Summer Session, just established to keep up with the pace of the war. We were in shaky transit that summer from the groveling status of Lower Middlers to the near-respectability of Upper Middlers. The class above, seniors, draft-bait, practically soldiers, rushed ahead of us toward the war. They were caught up in accelerated courses and first-aid programs and a physical hardening regimen, which included jumping from this tree. We were still calmly, numbly reading Virgil and playing tag in the river farther downstream. Until Fi

We stood looking up at it, four looks of consternation, one of excitement. “Do you want to go first?” Fi

He began scrambling up the wooden pegs nailed to the side of the tree, his back muscles working like a panther’s. The pegs didn’t seem strong enough to hold his weight. At last he stepped onto the branch which reached a little farther toward the water. “Is this the one they jump from?” None of us knew. “If I do it, you’re all going to do it, aren’t you?” We didn’t say anything very clearly. “Well,” he cried out, “here’s my contribution to the war effort!” and he sprang out, fell through the tops of some lower branches, and smashed into the water.

“Great!” he said, bobbing instantly to the surface again, his wet hair plastered in droll bangs on his forehead. “That’s the most fun I’ve had this week. Who’s next?”

I was. This tree flooded me with a sensation of alarm all the way to my tingling fingers. My head began to feel u

What was I doing up here anyway? Why did I let Fi

“Jump!”

With the sensation that I was throwing my life away, I jumped into space. Some tips of branches snapped past me and then I crashed into the water. My legs hit the soft mud of the bottom, and immediately I was on the surface being congratulated. I felt fine.

“I think that was better than Fi

“All right, pal,” Fi

Leper closed his mouth as though forever. He didn’t argue or refuse. He didn’t back away. He became inanimate. But the other two, Chet Douglass and Bobby Zane, were vocal enough, complaining shrilly about school regulations, the danger of stomach cramps, physical disabilities they had never mentioned before.

“It’s you, pal,” Fi

We were the best of friends at that moment.

“You were very good,” said Fi

“You didn’t shame anybody into anything.”

“Oh yes I did. I’m good for you that way. You have a tendency to back away from things otherwise.”

“I never backed away from anything in my life!” I cried, my indignation at this charge naturally stronger because it was so true. “You’re goofy!”

Phineas just walked serenely on, or rather flowed on, rolling forward in his white sneakers with such unthinking unity of movement that “walk” didn’t describe it.

I went along beside him across the enormous playing fields toward the gym. Underfoot the healthy green turf was brushed with dew, and ahead of us we could see a faint green haze hanging above the grass, shot through with the twilight sun. Phineas stopped talking for once, so that now I could hear cricket noises and bird cries of dusk, a gymnasium truck gu