Chapter VII: School Days (2)

Brimming with youth and hope, each girl graduate flutters before the audience and from out the glamour of this never-to-be-forgotten time announces confidently her hopes, her solemn beliefs, her freely bestowed advice. It is all beautiful. The youths and maidens seem lifted just a bit above the earth; but underneath the rosy glow solemn thoughts force their way; sobs and tears are near the smiles; the earnest students, touched by the remembrance of the love and sacrifice of their parents, are moved to high resolve--they will yet justify this faith in them!

Meadow daisies are massed in profusion around altar and platform; a paper canoe covered with daisies is suspended above--its paddle bearing the word “Knowledge.” The class motto (translated)--“The love of knowledge impels us”--is outlined on the wall.

Roses, roses, everywhere. How the breath of June roses always brings up that scene when I stood on the platform of the Methodist church that night in June and looked down upon a sea of faces! Behind me, on the platform, sat the dear teachers, doubly dear now that we were to go from under their tuition; below me, close at hand, were the classmates, so soon to “trust their parting feet to separate ways.” What a flood of thoughts rushed through me as, standing there, in a voice that I did not know, so loud and clear it rang (as though apart from myself), I delivered the class valedictory!

Looking down to our pew I saw Father and Mother beaming with pride and joy; saw my sister and all the friends and neighbours of our little village. How the expressions and the various faces stand out even to-day! But am I dreaming? Is it really true? Yes, there sits my own grandfather, dressed in unaccustomed black clothes, with a rapt expression on his dear old face, the unheeded tears streaming down his cheeks. The surprise and delight at seeing him there is one of the keenest of my girlhood’s happy recollections.

“Now, Eugenia!” my beloved teacher had encouragingly whispered when I had passed him on the way to the centre of the platform; and afterward, “I didn’t know you could do it,” he said exultantly, grasping my hand. Then I knew I had done well. In school, as a rule, I had trembled and mumbled when reading my essays; and although we had been drilled for this momentous occasion, I had sadly faltered at rehearsals, and I knew that “Prof.” had, as I had, grave misgivings as to my ability to get through with it at all creditably.

“You were inspired,” said an admiring classmate extravagantly; “we could hardly believe our eyes and ears!”

My essay, called “Sailing,” portrayed allegorically the voyage of school life. By cables our little boats were fastened to a large ship on which was the Captain who guided our course near home and foreign shores, where we learned of the earth and the air, the rocks and the reefs, and the mysteries of the deep; we studied the stars overhead, the banks along the shores, the _fauna_ and _flora_, as well as the peoples of the various climes--their language and literature. And this is how my wonderful essay ended, as dropping the allegory, I addressed the class:

Classmates, we have now come to that part of our voyage where we
must separate. We have long been fellow-voyagers, sailing side by
side, upon the Sea of Knowledge; we have had one ship, one voyage,
and one Captain, but henceforth our course must change; and as
we end the voyage of school life, and begin the greater one on
Life’s vast sea, may He who walked upon the waters be your Pilot,
guarding against shipwreck, and guiding your course until your
boats shall near the shining shore, and anchor in the peaceful
haven of Eternal Rest.

For two or more years I had had grave doubts about the truth of certain orthodox teachings previously accepted unquestioningly. Our studies in geology and astronomy had set me thinking for myself. I was groping about for a reconciliation of opposing teachings. Our principal, too, had often raised questions in class that he made no pretense of answering, doubtless merely to awaken thought. Some essays of Huxley’s and Spencer’s had contributed to my unsettled state of mind. In a veritable chaos, impatient with certain teachings I now knew could not be true, but too unschooled and dependent to reach a satisfactory solution, I was a most unhappy being. With an ingrained tenderness for the old paths, yet was I morally sure that there were broader ones, with wider, truer vistas. Pulled this way and that, remorse because of my doubts and uncertainties alternated with defiance; for I felt that, since my reason was meant for use, there was a higher Right that sanctioned my attempts to get at the truth.

I revert to all this now because it comes to me how I struggled with myself, when writing those last words of my essay, as to whether I would say what I did, knowing in my heart that, in the ordinary acceptation of the words, it was almost hypocrisy for me so to use them--“May He who walked upon the waters be your Pilot”--and yet feeling that they were needed to carry out my figure, and to make a suitable ending to conform to orthodox beliefs. Besides, what had I to offer instead? I did not believe that He actually walked upon the waters, but I did believe that He would make a good Pilot, so, weighing both sides, stood by what I had written. A lot of talk about one clause in a schoolgirl’s graduating essay, but it indicates the spiritual struggle which to recall even now makes me sorry for that girl I used to know. I think I must have been more conscientious about these things than most of the girls, for I never heard them hint at such problems, and never discussed these things with them, though I did with my friend, Walter. Had I attempted to explain my difficulties to my elders, I should only have blundered and bungled. Yet, in spite of these scruples, I sacrificed my dawning convictions that I might attain what I considered an apt and artistic ending to my allegory! I remember, though, that after deciding to make this concession to established opinions, I nudged myself with a congratulatory nudge at the innocent-looking but non-committal “peaceful haven of Eternal Rest.” I had not read “The Light of Asia” then, and knew nothing of what Nirvana meant--the ending merely pleased me by its cadence, and its figurative fitness; it did no violence to my budding doubts, yet would, I was sure, be accepted as a pious and fitting ending to my clever allegory!

Self-centred and self-conscious though I was, I was aware that no one would give the attention to my little composition that I gave--the general effect only would be noted; but I wanted to justify myself to myself; I wanted also to be approved by the public--two opposing trends of character that have robbed me of peace of mind at many a crucial moment. In this early crisis, after weighing it all, I decided upon the expedient course, taking care, however, to be as sincere as I could be in conforming to the exigencies of the case. Looking back over my life, I wonder if this has not been the course I have most generally pursued. It seems to have been typical of much of my conduct.

The above-named was not my original graduating essay but was one I had written for our Class Day exercises under the emotional stir-up felt at leaving school. My real essay, written for Commencement, I considered a much finer production (I blush to think of it now); but my instructors had persuaded me to read my allegory at Commencement. I felt aggrieved that the other should be buried in oblivion. It was an absurd affair--“What is Woman?”--which started out attempting to answer in a facetious way some of the arguments in Walter’s essay--“Man’s Place in Nature”--after which I launched forth in a revolt against the prevailing ideas about woman’s inferior place in nature and in society. It was a kind of miniature woman’s rights plea, weak and unoriginal, and with my special thunder directed toward those who would prevent woman from seeking to “heal the sick world that leans on her.” This was “Lucile’s” influence, combined with reading “Eminent Women of the Age,” plus a little Huxley and Spencer. The hodge-podge wound up with a poetical passage probably inspired by parts of “Paradise Lost,” and by a poem of Emma C. Embury’s--“The Mother.” Concerning the ending, I was not aware of its being anything but smooth in expression till, on reading it aloud to one of the girls, she exclaimed, “Why, Eugenie, that isn’t prose--that is poetry!” a verdict which naturally made me feel more keenly than ever the disappointment at not being able to read my masterpiece at Commencement.

After graduation I pieced out a summer term in a district school, the regular teacher falling ill. As it was in one of the same schools where my mother had taught as a girl, I tried to imagine what her life and thoughts and hopes had been in those days when she did not know Father, and when I was--nothing.

Besides giving me the opportunity to earn money, teaching was a profitable experience: I found it strange to be the mistress of anything. At first when standing up before the little people, it seemed queer to have them obey; it took me some time to get over the surprise of it; had they rebelled I should not have thought it strange. But one quickly learns to rule when he knows it is expected. I was learning for the first time what prestige goes with the mere office. It was soon a delight to direct and sway this little world. I then appreciated what a trial my teachers had had with me. Encountering occasional opposition in my pupils, and feeling the consequent disappointment, I had my first realization of the trouble I had given my own teachers, and felt a wave of tenderness, especially for “Prof.,” as I marvelled at his forbearance.

Some of my little charges were amusing and interesting; one or two repelled me; to others I was strongly drawn. One little boy of five or six was quaint and original: when I asked him who God was he sighed and said, “That’s more than _I_ know.” He defined the stomach as “a kind of bread-basket, ain’t it?” A bare-footed, brown-eyed boy of perhaps twelve found a warm place in my heart. It was hard work not to pet him. I grew almost sentimental over him, and made occasions for him to raise his eyes, just to look into their brown depths. I remember thinking, “Those eyes will make some girl’s heart ache some day.” They almost made mine ache then. He seemed indifferent to my poorly veiled preference for him, and evidently had no ambition to become “‘teacher’s pet.’” One boy much older than the others grew insubordinate and I told him he must apologize for his impudence or leave the school. As he was to attend the Academy in a few weeks, he felt independent and refused. Having to stand my ground for the sake of discipline, I let him pack up his books and leave, but it was hard work to keep from calling him back. I knew he was sorry, but couldn’t say so.

The winter school which I taught was in another district--Johnny Cake Hollow--in a little red schoolhouse in the same neighbourhood where the youth lived to whom I had written notes in school. Although I had then recovered from my early fancy, I was still sentimental enough to wish I knew which of the battered old desks had been his.

Boarding about half a mile from the schoolhouse in a family with a lot of children, some of the elder ones of whom had attended the Academy with me, I carried my dinner in a two-quart pail, and trudged through the snow in all kinds of weather, all of which helped to make me more hardy than I had been before. The bigger boys went ahead to break the paths and open the stove, and “the teacher” followed surrounded by a little group of red-hooded girls and sturdy urchins, their caps with ear-laps pulled down low over their faces, their dinner pails gleaming in the sunshine.

I would have been happy that winter with its rugged pleasures and the consciousness that I was earning money but for my perpetual anxiety over the arithmetic lessons. It was easy enough with the B-class, but with the A-class I was in continual hot water. Studying harder out of school than any of my pupils did in school, I was always apprehensive lest something come up that I could not explain. I knew that some of the older boys and girls understood their lessons better than I did--or would, if we advanced much farther in the book. Always promptly dismissing the arithmetic class, I let the others run overtime. I am afraid I kept the pupils back lest they get to that _terra incognita_ (the back part of the book) where I was so lamentably weak. In other respects I think I was a good teacher; in that I know there could scarcely have been a poorer.

The demonstrative _pater familias_ where I boarded gave me some trying times: he was always putting his arms around me in a jolly, teasing way that was hard to resist; it offended my dignity, yet I could not manifest my full displeasure for fear of hurting the feelings of his daughters, my friends; I thought it would be painful to them to see their father rebuffed, so, evading him when I could, when I couldn’t, I bore it with poor grace. Besides, I was displeased to have these demonstrations before the children, my pupils--the demure young teacher was very jealous of her dignity.

One of the sons, about my own age, was a fine-grained youth; we and his sisters had good times together, but something happened one evening which made me furious: I was lying down, half asleep, dimly conscious of the light and voices in the adjoining room, when I was startled by a light kiss on my cheek. Thinking it was one of the girls, or one of the little boys who was very affectionate, I lazily opened my eyes and saw the guilty young man standing there, shaking with laughter. His merriment was short-lived. Whatever I said made him feel sheepish and contrite, for I felt that he had done me an irreparable wrong. There was no pose in this: it seemed a real violation. No one, since when in childhood I had stopped playing kissing-games--no boy or man, except my relatives--had kissed me, and now this was done and couldn’t be undone! I was a long time outgrowing my futile regret. Thereafter the reprimanded youth was properly respectful to the Offended Being who grudgingly pardoned him.

At the time of Commencement I had formed a friendship with a girl from Ithaca who, with her brother, visited in our village, and later engaged in an active correspondence with both of them. They were several years my senior; they had the charm of the unknown; they had read much and wrote interesting letters; they were both religious, and in his letters the young man laboured to bring me back into the old paths, or, rather, into the Episcopalian fold. He was the nearest to a “beau” I ever had, and a year later came to town, shortly before I started for college, just to visit me. Full of my approaching departure and the new life before me, his coming impressed me less than it might otherwise have done. I have since wondered if he did not intend something more than merely looking very soulful things had he met with any response from me. I recall the thrill in his voice which stirred me a little when we took a certain afternoon walk. But I found him much less interesting than I had found his letters; and whenever I looked at the lower part of his face, thought what a pity it was that such fine eyes should be offset by such a mouth and chin. I knew I could never love a man with a mouth and chin like his. He was then studying for the ministry, and, I think, was tuberculous. His lack of physical strength and vigour probably repelled me without my realizing what did it. At any rate, he said no word to indicate anything but warm friendship. After his visit he sent me Keats’s poems. Our correspondence continued throughout a part of the college course. I have forgotten how it was dropped. During one of my vacations I remember hearing him conduct religious services in the little chapel in our village, but could not endure his intoning and his priestly ways; his voice was weak, and the clerical garb only accentuated his masculine deficiencies. I thanked my stars that I had not been infatuated at the earlier period when he probably was a shy adorer. Had he been healthy and good-looking, I might have succumbed, for he pleased my mind at the time.

My sister had left school without graduating, which had greatly disappointed me. But, more practical than I, and less studious, and confronted by our growing needs and straitened means, seeing a way in which she could help, she had taken matters in her own hands, and a year or more before I left school had begun to learn dress-making. I used to marvel to see her take the big shears and cut into new material--such skill and daring, and she such a slip of a girl! What pretty gowns she made for herself and me, talking me out of my “old maidish notions,” and making me wear things that were “stylish” in spite of myself, for I often objected strenuously to prevailing modes. I can see now that it was individuality in dress that I was striving for; but, though failing to achieve it to any extent, I habitually dissented from conformity. How lovingly she worked on my graduation gown, and how pretty she looked in the old-rose silk which she earned and made for herself and first wore on that occasion!--the same old-rose that played so prominent a part in our wardrobe for several subsequent years. For she let me take it during my college course (when she needed it herself); then when she married she remodelled it for her trousseau. Again, when I was practising, and money was scarce, she made it over for me--the gown going back and forth between us like a shuttlecock; and every change in its form, and every scrap of the silk I see to-day, tells its tale of love and devotion and self-sacrifice, inseparably linked with our girlish hopes and trials and experiences.

I remember with delight the gowns I had to start with to college (no bride ever enjoyed her trousseau more), and I recall with tenderness the hours Sister spent on them, planning how she could accomplish what she wished with as little outlay as possible. The new world I was entering, the novel experiences, all come back to me now when I see bits of the old garments--my brown travelling suit that I wore to lectures; my plaid one that was made over, even prettier than when first made; my “best dress”; my red “wrapper”; my gymnasium suit--how much they meant to me, and how impossible they would have been but for Sister’s love and efficiency!

You may rip and remodel old gowns as you will,
But the scent of old memories clings round them still.