Free A New Life by Bernard Malamud Page A

in the cellar. She had, she sometimes said, nothing against the world, and Levin envied her a little. She actively cleaned, baked, canned and sewed; she cooked well and was generous with food although careful with a dime. The cat got scraps. Levin did better; more than once she insisted on adding something to his inexpensive meals. And to make things livelier she promised another roomer soon, a graduate student from Syria. She took in only a gentleman or two, she said; ladies were too hard on hot water, the telephone, and the gentlemen. She said she was a minister’s daughter and then remarked how nice it was to have a “scholar” in the house. For a full week she called him “Dr. Levin,” but he denied it until she reverted to “mister.” Once or twice, apropos of nothing, she said she knew Dr. Gilley quite well. Her husband had worked for him more than once and they had gone fishing together. She was not well acquainted with Mrs. Gilley but had heard about her from mutual friends.
    Levin enjoyed the run of the house; never before had he lived where inside was so close to out. In a tenement, each descent to the street was an expedition through dank caves and dreary tunnels. He enjoyed the cherry tree reaching its knotty, mildewed branches to his back window. At the side he had a view of the wooded hills, changing shape and color as the clouds did. He could see the mountains from three windows. Not locking doors when he went out was new to him and he worried things might be stolen but soon stopped locking his doors. He noticed bicycles and toys left on lawns overnight and was pleased this could be done.

    Levin’s large room, next to the smaller one awaiting the Syrian student, was lit in sunlight during the afternoon. It grew hot for a while but sea breezes cooled it at four. At night he slept under two blankets, another kindness of nature. His white metal bed was an old-fashioned double-he suspected it had been Mrs. Beaty’s marriage bed; he slept on its right side, on his right; he dreamed too often on his left. The desk he used was a good-sized walnut table built by the carpenter; it stood at the window with a view to the hills. Levin sat there often during the day writing in a thick hard-covered notebook he had used years ago as a commonplace book, and had recently revived. He wrote in it summaries of books he thought highly of, copying out passages. One section of the notebook was for “insights,” and a few pages in the middle detailed “plans.” He often read over sentences he had copied, such as “To change intention changes fortune”—Montaigne ; “Important principles may and must be inflexible” —A. Lincoln, and was lately writing them into short essays he tried his hand at. Among Levin’s “insights” were: “The new life hangs on an old soul,” and “I am one who creates his own peril.” Also, “The danger of the times is the betrayal of man” —S. Levin. He exhorted himself to “keep the circle broken.” He was a conscientious becomer but worried that it had taken him so long to get started. The future burned in his head. Time not converted to good use tormented him; he liked having his new alarm clock around because it helped, in a primitive way, to organize him. Sleep loosened the nuts and bolts of his defenses, but time used to good purpose tightened them. Sitting at his desk, he studied The Elements, did the workbook exercises, and read all the essays in Science in Technology, taking notes from which to develop class lessons. He wished there were a poem or two in the book.
    Levin warned himself to get out of the room more often. The warning was urgent so he walked. The country was conveniently fifteen minutes in any direction; if through downtown, then across a white plank bridge over the Sacajawea
River. He tramped for miles along dirt roads, wherever they led, usually from one farm to another. For weeks the blue sky was cloudless but lately huge white masses drifted in from