CLARA AT STONYBROOK COLLEGE.
“Stonybrook College” would have been more appropriately, as well as
more modestly, termed Stonybrook School at the time Clara entered it,
for it was hardly more than a high-school for girls, though it stood
well among institutions for the education of young ladies at a time when
the equal education of the sexes was deemed an utopian idea among most
people. It ranks much higher now that preparatory schools of a nobler
order have furnished a more advanced class of students, and so more
truly deserves the name, college. It stands upon the summit of a grand
swell of land overlooking a large provincial city. The grounds are
beautifully wooded, and laid out in handsome lawns, gardens, and groves.
It boasts a really promising botanical garden, and the practical
instruction of the young ladies in botany has always been well and
systematically conducted. Clara, after a short time, took the first
place in the botanical class, and in most of her studies.
There was one thing about this school which rendered it unpopular among
the superficial of society, who desire only that their daughters shall
secure the honor of graduating, quite independent of the fact of the
amount of culture that such honor should presuppose. Very many students
who entered Stonybrook College never graduated, and there was for a long
time a severe struggle between the president and certain of the board of
directors on the question of lowering the standard required for
graduation. The latter argued that the first requisite was to make the
school popular; while the former, a really learned and progressive
spirit, maintained that popularity secured by lowering the grade of
requirements would simply result in a primary school, by whatever
high-sounding name it might be called, and that this was not the object
of the founder, and moreover was the sure method to destroy the nobler
popularity that should be aimed at. The president and his friends
finally carried the day, and it was this fact that determined Dr. Forest
to choose this institution for his favorite child. She had now been a
student there two years.
It was June, and a Thursday afternoon holiday. Through the groves and
lawns the young girls promenaded in twos and threes, conversing with
that enthusiasm about nothing which none but girls are capable of. When
deeply enough penetrating into the grove to be out of sight of any
“stray teacher,” as they would somewhat disrespectfully say, they often
familiarly twined their arms about each others’ slender waists, and so
continued their walks, joining other groups from time to time. Their
conversation was of that lofty and learned order which girls from twelve
to seventeen, in female colleges, naturally assume. It may not be amiss
to take up a little time with a sample:
_Nettie._—“Still two whole months before vacation! I declare, I shall
die before the time comes.”
_Hattie._—“_I_ don’t think it seems so long. I do wish, Nettie, you had
taken geometry this term. You’ve no idea how nice it is.”
_Nettie._—“Thank you. Algebra is quite enough to drive me distracted.
You are one of the strong-minded, you know. You just cram a few of your
sines and cosines into my head, along with the surds and reciprocals
already there, if you want to see a raving, incomprehensible ‘idgeot,’
as you call it.”
_Hattie._—“I _never_ pronounced it so in my life. _You_ are the one to
mispronounce words, and to make mistakes too. Why, you’ve just been
talking of sines and cosines of geometry. Those are terms of
trigonometry. Don’t you know it?”
_Nettie._—“No; and what is more, I don’t care. If I had my way, I’d just
burn all the algebras in the college.”
_Carrie._—“I’m glad you haven’t your way, then. I think algebra
perfectly splendid.”
_Hattie._—“I like algebra too, but geometry is more interesting. I think
it perfectly lovely.”
_Nettie._—“I don’t believe either of you. Mathematics are a horrid bore
anyway.”
_Hattie._—“_Mathematics are!_ O shade of Goold Brown!”
_Nettie._—“Well, that ought to be correct. You wouldn’t say the
‘scissors is,’ would you?”
_Hattie._—“I would if I wanted to, _carissima mia_.”
_Carrie._—“You never call me _Carissima_, Hattie.”
_Hattie._—“You see, you are Carrie in the positive, not _cara_, so you
can’t be _carissima_ in the superlative. Why don’t you laugh at my pun,
you owls?”
_Nettie._—“You don’t give time enough. I was just bringing my powerful
mind to a focus on the punning point when you interrupted.”
_Carrie._—“I was thinking of the dear, kind, old Signore Pozzese.”
_Hattie._—“Mercy! Spare the adjectives. I had no idea you were so in
love with that precious Italian professor; but you need not set your cap
for him. He has no eyes but for one, and that is Signorina Clara.
Everybody can see he’s lost his heart to her.”
_Carrie._—“I can’t endure that Clara Forest. She puts on such airs of
dignity and general superiority. Why, here she comes! I hope she didn’t
hear me.”
Clara approached, reading aloud, but in a low monotone, from a little
book. She did not notice the trio until close upon them. They greeted
her kindly; and Carrie, who a moment before could not “endure” her, was
specially sweet in her manner. But we should not be too severe upon
Carrie’s hypocrisy. Most of us have been guilty of the same
inconsistency in one or another form. These were all nice girls, aye,
and bright girls too, naturally, despite their opinions upon algebra and
geometry. When we consider the paucity of conditions for high culture
that young women may command, we should wonder, not that they are so
frivolous, but that they so often rise above the petty ambitions of
fashionable life.
Clara passed on, after a few pleasant words, and sat down in a quiet
nook to finish her book. It was the _Jaques_ of George Sand; and as she
read on she was deeply moved by the masterly rendering of the hopeless
passion of the hero, and especially by his heroic sacrifice to his wife.
Being thoroughly absorbed by her reflections and emotions, she did not
hear the light step of Miss Marston, her favorite teacher, who came and
sat down beside her.
“My dear, what have you been reading?” she asked. Clara handed her the
book frankly, knowing well it would not be approved, for George Sand was
one of the tabooed authors in Stonybrook.
“I am grieved to find you reading such books, Miss Forest,” said the
teacher, looking very gravely at the pupil. Miss Marston’s home was in a
town near Oakdale, and she had known Dr. Forest by reputation quite
well. She knew of his omnivorous literary tastes, and was wondering if
his daughter had not possibly inherited them.
Clara answered, looking straight in Miss Marston’s clear brown eyes, “I
am sorry you are grieved—very sorry; but I cannot see why such a book as
this should be classed with those unfit to be read.” And she blushed
deeply, as girls will from a thousand different emotions.
“See how you blush while you say it,” said Miss Marston, in a tone of
real severity.
“I blush at everything,” replied Clara, angry at the weakness; “but I
would not say what I do not think—most certainly I would not to you.”
“Where did you obtain this book?”
“One of the students lent it to me.”
“Which one?”
“I must not say, because she asked me to not tell, and I promised. I
wish I had not, for I do not like to confess this promise to you.” Clara
was sorely troubled. She knew this teacher had a real affection for her,
as, indeed, all her teachers had, for she was frank and straightforward
always, never shirked any task, and was the life of all recitations in
which she took part. She asked questions and explanations innumerable,
and would never quit studying any difficult point until she had
thoroughly mastered it. Such pupils are ever the delight and the support
of the faithful teacher; and no matter whether personally sympathetic,
or charming in other ways, they are sure to be honored and treated with
great consideration by any teacher worthy of the name. There is no surer
test of a teacher’s utter incapacity than that his favorites are the
pretty, wheedling shirks of the classroom.
Miss Marston was silent for a little time after Clara’s expression of
regret, and then she said kindly, “That is well said, Clara. Of course,
you must keep your promise; but do you not see that you were wrong to
borrow a book which your fellow-student was ashamed to have known she
possessed?”
“I cannot say she was ashamed of having this book. I feel certain that
if she had read it as carefully as I have, she would not have made the
request. _I_ could never be ashamed to own such a book as this.”
“That is no argument. You are too young and inexperienced to judge of
books, and when your teachers forbid the reading of certain kinds of
literature, it is because they know that their influence is baneful.
Remember the old adage, ‘Touch pitch and be defiled.’”
“But I am sure this is not pitch,” Clara answered, spiritedly; “and I do
not think there is so much wisdom in that old saying—or at least it is
often misapplied. My mother used to make a great effort to keep Dan and
me from playing with certain children; but my father always declared
that we ought to play with poor, neglected children, who sought our
society; because, as he said, if our manners were more gentle than
theirs, the result would be a culture to them which we had no right to
withhold. When my mother quoted this adage, he used to say, ‘Pitch will
not stick to ice,’ meaning that the badness of these children would not
hurt us if we loved the good and the beautiful, and sought it
everywhere, as he had taught us to do.”
“Then you wish me to understand, I presume, that you set your judgment
against mine, and will read pernicious books if it pleases you to do
so?”
Clara looked hurt by this, and her faith in Miss Marston received a
shock. Why could not this good, wise teacher understand at once, without
so many words? By yielding graciously, Clara was sure of caressing words
and the old mutual trust. She was tempted to do so, because her love of
approval by those she admired was a strong passion. While different
motives struggled for control, she remembered certain words of Dr.
Forest, in his last conversation with her, in his study, the evening
before she left, when he had held her on his knees and talked to her
very seriously upon many matters, some of which he had never broached
before. “Be magnanimous always to those who fail,” he had said; but
Clara had never dreamed that one of her teachers would be “weighed in
the balance and found wanting.” She had at the time thought only of her
class-mates, who might fail in many ways. So when she spoke, as she did
after a little pause, she had determined to rise or fall in her
teacher’s estimation, as she must, by the expression only of the best
and most honest sentiments of her heart.
“You have been so good to me, Miss Marston,” she said, and her words
came with some difficulty—“you must know I am anxious to keep your good
opinion of me; but I must be true to myself, and I will. I _cannot_
think nor feel that this book is not good and moral. It has wakened my
best feelings. In the story the wife, Fernande, ceases to love her
husband, and loves some one else. The reader must feel the deepest
sympathy for poor Jaques, who dies that he may not stand in the way of
his wife’s happiness. I constantly felt, as I read, that if I were
Fernande, I would torture myself sooner than let myself grow cold to
such a grand, noble creature as Jaques. I am perfectly sure, if I were
ever in a like position, I should be much more careful to take the
wisest course from having read this book.”
“You are very different from other girls, Clara. It will not make you
vain to tell you that you are eminently superior to most of them; but I
fear you lack respect for your elders. You are self-willed; but I know
you wish to do right. We will say no more about it;” and she took the
young girl’s hand in both hers and caressed it softly. Love always won
Clara. She was a creature of tender emotions; to see Miss Marston
yielding touched her profoundly, and she said quickly, her eyes full of
tears, “I must do just right about this, or I shall be horridly unhappy.
You have known papa many years, and he spoke of you in the highest
praise; but I have found you nobler and better than even he could tell
me. You know he is what they call a liberal—a ‘free-thinker,’ as some
say—and he is so just and noble in all his words and acts that I believe
he must be right in his principles, though mamma does not think so. I
know that you too are a ‘liberal’”—Miss Marston started—“O, I know. I
have often heard you talking to other teachers, and I notice you take
the very views that my father does of many things. Now, I will tell you
what I will do. Will you promise me one little thing without asking what
it is?”
“That, I should say, is something for me to do instead of you.”
“Well, it is preliminary to what I am to do.”
“I never do that, Clara—well, yes, I promise you, provided always it is
not something absolutely absurd. What do you wish?”
“You said you had not read _Jaques_. I want you to read it carefully,
just as I have done, and then if, in your judgment, it is a bad book for
me to have read, I promise while I remain here to read nothing without
your permission.”
Miss Marston crammed the _brochure_ into her dress pocket, saying, “I
like your trust in me, but you will be disappointed. I shall be forced
to condemn, I know; but I will be fair; and now please to be careful how
you call me a _liberal_. It is a very equivocal compliment for a lady.”
“Are not angels liberals?” asked Clara, smiling, the little wrinkles
gathering about her pretty eyes as she spoke.
“I am not acquainted with the private opinions of that fraternity,” said
Miss Marston, wondering what next.
“Because if you are, I always call you a liberal.” Miss Marston smiled,
kissed Clara’s cheek, and walked on. She was a good little woman, who
had drank rather deeply at the bitter fountains of life. She was in a
safe haven now, and being a studious and conscientious teacher, did her
work nobly and well.