My college adviser was a man named Dr. B*****. He had snowy hair and a pointed little beard and a slight stoop to his shoulders. His eyes were fixed in a permanent half-squint, twinkling underneath his white brows, framed by wire-rimmed spectacles. From the first time I heard his name, I knew that we would be friends. I can’t say enough about the nice things he did and said, so I won’t try. His story has been much better told by people much more qualified to tell it. One of my happiest memories of college, however, involved this amazing man.

After class one day, as students shuffled out of the room, I went forward to talk to him about the book we were reading (Dante’s Inferno). I asked him about a piece of imagery that reminded me of something I had read in Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass.

“Oh! Don’t you just love Lewis Carroll?” he asked. “Especially the Jabberwocky! I know the whole thing by heart.” He brandished an invisible rapier.

Sighing heavily, he let his arm drop. “I’m so tired, or I would perform it for you now.” He looked at me, eyes twinkling. “The next time you walk into class looking sad, I’ll perform it. It’ll make you laugh.”

I smiled brightly–Dr. B is truly a kindred spirit, and at the time one of the few people with whom I freely spoke about struggling with depression. He and I have some very similar hurt in our past, and he taught me the great healing power of laughter. Whenever I walked into his office looking sad, he would sit me down and make me talk about Europe, or Austen (whom he hated), or Dickens until I was grinning or laughing hysterically.

“I won’t forget,” he assured me, as I left the classroom.

Three weeks later I was sitting in the bathroom across the hall from my classroom, my forehead pressed against the wall. I was too tired and sad to go to class, but I knew that I had to. I had been sick so many times that semester that I couldn’t afford to miss anymore classes. I splashed cool water on my face, fiddled with my hair and pulled the collar of my jacket up around my chin. When I sat down at a desk near the front of the room, Dr. B eyed me suspiciously.

“Before we move to our discussion of the Purgatorio today, I have an obligation to fulfill.”

He walked out from behind his desk and stood stock still in front of the class with his chest puffed out. In a low, rapid whisper he began to recite:

“‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!’

He took his vorpal sword in hand:“
Dr. B brandished his invisible sword again.

“Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!“

He jumped on top of his desk, quite nimbly for a man in his seventies, and continued to recite in a raspy cry:

“One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!“
One! two! three times he stabbed the invisible beast!
“He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

‘And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’
He chortled in his joy.

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.“

Breathing a little heavily from the activity, he raised his “sword” in triumph, and collapsed into his desk chair as the classroom burst into applause.

“Now, turn to page twenty-seven, please. What did you think about Dante’s use of …”

I swiped the happy little tears out of the corners of my eyes and turned my attention to my text book.

Sadly, an ongoing battle with a serious illness has fuzzied my beloved professor’s memory. The last time I saw him, in line at the post office, I walked forward with both hands extended. He looked at me very sadly.

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember you,” he said, after I had greeted him. He put a hand to his thin cheek and said, “I have a feeling I must have liked you a great deal, however.”

“It’s okay,” I assured him. “And whether or not you liked me, you mean a very great deal to me. You always made me laugh.”

A flicker of recognition passed over his face. “Oh, I see. Well, if I tried to make you laugh, I’m sure that I must have liked you a very great deal indeed.”

At that, we both began to tear up. He patted my hand and slowly walked away.

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