Four years ago this month, in the days following the announcement of the departure of former Dean of the Faculty Jeremy R. Knowles, The Crimson printed dozens of news stories and editorials eulogizing the “diplomatic” dean and predicting how the Faculty of Arts and Sciences (FAS) might continue in his conspicuous absence.

But last Tuesday, just weeks after news broke that Dean of the Faculty William C. Kirby had been forced from his post, Kirby’s name had all but disappeared from the front page of this paper, as tensions between the Faculty and President Lawrence H. Summers violently resurfaced, culminating with Summers’ resignation. Kirby once again was lost in the fracas, upstaged by a crisis of leadership more profound than his own imminent departure.

It is only fitting. Kirby has always been eclipsed by Summers, his tenure as dean judged in light of his relationship with the president, his ability to lead compromised by Summers’ heavy hand. The mild-mannered Kirby, who has always been more likely to speak in Chinese proverbs than in arrogant absolutes, has not been a lightning rod for Faculty criticism, but he has been the subject of much grumbling, often accused of inefficacy, and blamed—perhaps rightly so—for FAS stumblings.

More often a scapegoat than a leader, Kirby has borne the brunt of the strains between the Faculty and Summers.

But in his departure, Kirby has managed to make more waves at the University than he was able to during his tortured tenure as dean. While Kirby received a standing ovation at both the last Faculty Council meeting and the last Faculty meeting, Summers faced a second vote of no confidence.

Kirby’s legacy will not be one of a visionary or one of steady progress. Instead, despite his occasional successes, such as the growth of the Faculty and FAS construction projects, and his visible failures—the shaky oversight of the curricular review, his haplessness in the face of Faculty unrest—he will most likely be remembered as a necessary sacrifice whose departure precipitated the final undoing of Larry Summers.

When I first met Kirby as a freshman reporter at The Crimson, University Hall was a very different place, and Kirby—then in his second year as dean—seemed energetic and enthusiastic. But as the curricular review and the restructuring of University Hall went underway, Kirby seemed to close himself off from reporters, his tone marked by tight-lipped reticence, even weariness. The dean began to rely increasingly on FAS Director of Communications Robert Mitchell—who became a frequent fixture at interviews with high-level administrators—to provide reporters with packaged comments and to carefully monitor and control the flow of information.

Kirby’s reserve—perhaps learned, perhaps forced, perhaps mistaken too often for spinelessness—not only frustrated reporters but also members of the Faculty, who looked to their dean to provide leadership during the curricular review and support as their conflict with the president escalated.

Examples of Faculty discontent with Kirby are manifold. From his failed endorsement of pre-registration to the faculty hiring slowdown this fall, Kirby incurred the wrath of the Faculty on a range of budgetary and leadership issues. The private minutes of the informal meetings of department chairs, obtained by The Crimson, called for more transparency in the dean’s decision making.

Last January, I was slated to write one final piece on Kirby reflecting on developments during the last two years. Our interview was January 20, 2005, three days after word of Summers’ incendiary speech at the NBER conference hit the presses. Already, the school was abuzz, but for the first time in months, Kirby showed signs of his former candor and capacity for reflection.

“There are different styles of leadership,” Kirby said, Mitchell at his side, “and I would probably characterize myself as one who aims to move and direct and lead a faculty…very possibly in a more reserved way.” Kirby said he thought of himself as a colleague rather than a leader. “I think of [the Faculty] as shareholders in planning our collective future,” he said. “I believe that if you want to make an institution change, there are a variety of ways to do that.”

It goes without saying that, in the mayhem that ensued, my notes—and Kirby’s articulation of his role as dean—were left to gather dust.

In different circumstances, Kirby might have proved an effective dean. It could be argued, however, that that Kirby never wanted this job. In fact, when I ran into him in University Hall shortly after he announced his resignation, Kirby appeared relaxed, as if a great weight had been taken off his shoulders. Who could blame him?

Kirby’s legacy may be marred by a halting curricular review, fiscal struggles, and an inability to provide meaningful leadership to FAS, but it is more likely—for better or worse—that he will once again be viewed only in the context of Summers. In the end, this could be a case of ironic justice: the legacy of the man always in Summers’ shadow will be defined by his own ouster, the final nail in Summers’ coffin.

Is it not a Chinese proverb that he who laughs last, laughs best?

Rebecca D. O’Brien ’06 is a history and literature concentrator in Kirkland House. Her column appears on alternate Fridays.