course! Who else?"
"But how?" Biscuits persisted. "Now Evelyn made up to everybody
so--she earned her way, heaven knows! And Kate Ackley was a sort of
legacy--her sister's reputation started her and she was rushed so
freshman year that you couldn't blame her for failing to realize what
a fool she really is. And the Underhills' coming in with the crowd
they did, explains them. But nobody rushes Evangeline particularly--"
"_C'est bien dommage!_" Suzanne interrupted with mock sympathy.
"_Seule au monde!_ Don't be an idiot, Biscuits, we _all_ rush her, and
we shall--till she begins to see what a bluff she's making! The beauty
of Evangeline is, that she fools herself--_mais parfaitement_! She
really thinks she's somebody--_voilà tout!_"
"I suppose that's it," assented Biscuits, thoughtfully.
"Ursula," Suzanne remarked oracularly, "is so anxious to please that
sometimes she doesn't, and even Susan the Great has her little
plans--_mais oui!_ But Mlle. Potts doesn't care a _sou_. It's all one
to her, _vous savez_, she agrees with all; and what's the result?
_Tout le monde l'admire! C'est toujours comme ça!_"
For some reason or other her large and shapely figure was the most
prominent feature of Biscuits' Commencement. She was a junior usher,
of course, and in aisles or under lanterns, at Phi Kappa Farewell or
Glee Club promenade, her calm, heavy face and deliberate movements
attracted Biscuits' eye.
The mob had not appealed to Miss Kitts as a desirable method of
dramatic début, and she was, consequently, one of the few seniors in
the audience on the night of her class dramatics. Between the acts she
wandered down to the door, and caught a bit of conversation among a
group of ushers.
"And all Ursula's friends were in the middle aisle, and she begged
Evangeline to change, but she wouldn't. Ursula could have had a seat
then, with Dick Fosdick's people, and she was frightfully tired, but
Evangeline wouldn't."
"Pooh! did you expect she would?"
"Oh, no! She's terribly selfish, of course, but you'd think,
considering how nice Ursula's been to her--"
"Oh, my dear! As if _that_ made any difference to Evange--sh, here she
is!--What stunning violets, Evangeline! That's your Prom dress, isn't
it? It's terribly sweet!"
Evangeline smiled and sank into the seat a little freshman promptly
and adoringly vacated for her, and Biscuits went back to her place.
Suzanne stopped in America that summer, and with the promise of five
subsequent years in Paris, prolonged her stay till the following June.
She went so far as to come up to Northampton to her class reunion,
assuring her friends that she had forgotten a few opprobrious epithets
in her final anathema and had returned to deliver them in person.
As they stood in the crowd on Ivy Day, watching the snowy procession,
the cameras suddenly snapped rapidly all about them and an excited
voice murmured: "There she is! Isn't she grand? My dear, she had
eleven invitations for the junior entertainment! Martha Sutton took
her--" Evangeline Potts walked slowly by.
"And you ought to have seen her Commencement flowers! She had a
bathtub full--literally! She wouldn't take 'em out and the tub
couldn't be used--"
"She's president of Phi Kapp, I hear," said Biscuits.
"Oh, yes," replied Suzanne, "and on the dramatics committee, you know.
She has lots of friends."
"I wonder why," said Biscuits, absently.
"_'Sais pas!_ They're clever girls, too. She knows the pick of the
class--but then, she always did, you know."
"I suppose she'll marry money," mused Biscuits, the student of human
nature.
"_Du tout!_" Suzanne returned, "she won't care about that. It's clever
people she wants--she always went with the clever ones: _elle aime les
gens d'esprit_. She's got money enough; she'll marry some clever man
who knows the best people and will make her one of them--_vous
l'verrez!_"
And the prophecy was fulfilled, for Evangeline very shortly married
Walter Endicott, the well-known artist, whose portrait of her in white
and gold attracted so much attention at a very recent _Salon_.
THE NINTH STORY
_AT COMMENCEMENT_
IX
AT COMMENCEMENT
I
DRAMATICS
_It is the Saturday night performance of the senior play. The curtain
is about to rise. The aisles and back of the house are packed with
people struggling for seats; alumnæ and under-class girls who have
admission tickets only, are preparing to sit on all the steps; the
junior ushers are hopelessly trying to keep back the press. It is to
be supposed that the orchestra is playing, judging from the motion of
arms and instruments. The lights are suddenly lowered and the curtain
rises. The struggle for seats at the back, the expostulations of the
ushers, and the comments of the alumnæ and students, who have seen the
play twice before and consequently do not feel the need of close
attention, completely drown the first words of the scene._
_Back of house. Large and fussy mother, looking daggers at the
sophomores squatting beside her, giggling at the useless efforts of a
small worried usher to prevent a determined woman, escorted by her
apologetic husband, from prancing down into the orchestra circle; and
unimportant senior._
_Mother._ What? What? Who is this, Emma? Where are we?
_Emma._ That's Viola, Mother. She's just been shipwrecked, you know.
_Mother._ Oh, she's the heroine. She's the best actor, then?
_Emma._ Dear me, no. Malvolio's 'way by the best. And then Sir Toby
and Maria--they're awfully good--you'll see them pretty soon now. I
don't care for Viola much. She tries to imitate Ada Rehan--
_Curtain drops on First Scene._
¶ _Orchestra Circle. Handsome, portly father, exceptionally well set
up, his wife, and head of department._
_Father, with enthusiasm._ By Jove! Is that a girl, really? You don't
say so! Well, well! Sir Toby, eh? Well, well! And who's the little
girl? Maria? Did you ever see anything much prettier than she is,
Alice?
_His Wife._ She's very charming, certainly.
_Head of Department._ She's about the best of them. A very clever
girl. But you ought to see Malvolio! I don't care for Sir Andrew--
_Father._ Alice, look at him! Did you ever see anything so odd? Now I
call that clever--I must say I call that clever! To think that's a
girl--well, well! See him shiver, Alice! Capital, capital! Do they do
this themselves--costumes and acting and ideas and all?
_Head of Department._ They make the costumes, I believe, most of them.
Then they have a trainer at the last. It's amazing to me, but as a
matter of fact their men's parts are as a rule, considering the
proportionate difficulty, you know, much better than their women's.
Comedy parts, at that. I've never seen but one woman's part really
well done.
_Father._ Really? Now why do you suppose, sir, that is so?
_Head of Department._ I can't say. But they're very artificial women,
as a rule. Overtrained, perhaps.
¶ _A group of last year's graduates and two ushers on the platform of
the fire-escape upstairs._
_First Graduate._ I suppose you're nearly dead, poor child?
_First Usher._ Heavens! I never slaved so in my life! Did you see
Ethel Williams' mother _insist_ on going down into her seat? I don't
see how people can be so rude.
_First Graduate._ Going better, to-night, isn't it?
_First Usher._ Goodness, yes! I think it's fine. Don't you? Isn't Dick
_simply fine_! There she is! (_A burst of applause as Malvolio and
Olivia enter._)
_Second Usher._ Do you know, they say that Kate Ackley thinks it's
half for her!
_Second Graduate._ Not really?
_Second Usher._ Yes, really. She is stunning, there's no doubt.
_Second Graduate._ Oh, yes, she's stunning. Is that her own dress?
_Second Usher._ Yes. Her aunt gave it to her. It's liberty satin. But
she's a stick, just the same. Do you like Viola?
_Second Graduate, parrying._ She looks very well. I was rather
surprised she got it, though.
_Second Usher._ You know Mr. Clark wanted her for Sir Andrew, and she
wouldn't. He was very angry, and so was the class. They don't care for
Ethel at all. But it was Viola or nothing. She's seen it four times
and she thinks she knows it all, they say. I _do_ think she does some
parts very well indeed.
_First Usher._ Oh, Miss Underhill, isn't Viola grand? Don't you think
she's fine?
_Second Graduate, sweetly._ Yes, indeed. She looks so cunning in that
short skirt!
_Curtain falls on First Act._
¶ _Two fathers standing at back._
_First Father, smiling affably._ A great sight, I assure you, sir! All
these young girls, and parents, and friends--a proud moment for them!
And how well they do! That one that takes the part of Malvolio, now,
that Miss Fosdick--pretty smart girl, now, isn't she?
_Second Father._ That's my daughter, sir.
_First Father._ Well, well! I expect you're pretty pleased. You ought
to be.
_Second Father, confidentially._ I tell you, sir, I never believed she had
it in her, never! Her mother and I were perfectly dumfounded--perfectly.
I don't know where she got it from; certainly not from me. And her
mother couldn't take part in tableaux, even, she got so nervous.
_First Father._ Just so, just so! Now, I want to tell you something,
Mr.--Mr. Fosdick. These colleges for women are a great thing, sir, a
great thing! You take my daughter. When she came up here, she was as
shy and bashful and helpless as a girl that's an only child could
possibly be. Couldn't trust herself an inch alone. Never went away
from home alone in her life. Look at her now! She's head of this whole
committee: you may have noticed their names on the back of the
programme. Costumes, scenery, music, lights, stage properties, scene
shifting--all in her hands, as you might say! I slipped up to the
stage door, and I begged the young woman there to let me step in and
see her a moment. Girls do it all, you know! She was on policeman duty
there. But she let me in and I just peeked at Mary, bossing the whole
job, as you might say! It was "put this here" and "put that there" and
taking hold of the end and dragging it herself, and answering this
one's questions and giving that one orders--I tell you, I couldn't
believe it! Short skirt and shirt-waist, note-book in her hand--Lord!
I wished I had her up at the office with me!
_Second Father._ Then you're Miss Mollie Vanderveer's father?
_First Father._ Yes, sir, James L. Vanderveer.
_Second Father._ Pleased to meet you. 'Lida often speaks of her. She
said to her mother and me to-night just as she went down to "be made
up," as they call it, that Mollie was a brick and no mistake. It seems
she's doing two girls' work to-night.
_First Father._ Yes, one of the committee is sick. After all, it's a
pretty hard strain, it seems to me. Mary's pretty strong, but she
said to me yesterday that if there had been another performance--
_Curtain rises on Second Act._
¶ _Lobby. College physician and junior usher._
_Physician._ Will you just step over to the drug store across the
street and get me some brandy--quickly, please?
_Usher._ Oh, certainly, Dr. Leach!
_Physician._ Here, child, stop! Put on a cloak--are you crazy?
_Usher._ But I'm quite warm, Dr. Leach!
_Physician._ Put on a cloak! With your neck and arms bare! It's damp
as a well outside. (_Usher runs out._)
_A ubiquitous member of the faculty suddenly appears._ What's the
matter? Anybody sick?
_Physician._ Oh, no! Not much. Miss Jackson was resting in her
dressing-room and somebody leaned over the sill and spoke to her--you
know she's on the ground floor. She's quite nervous, and she got a
little hysterical--slight chill. My brandy was all out, so I--Oh,
thank you! (_Usher disappears breathless._)
_Ubiquitous Member of Faculty, gloomily._ I've always said there
should be understudies--always. What will they do without their
Viola? It's a ridiculous risk--
_Physician, hastily._ But Miss Jackson is all right, or will be as
soon as I get--yes, I'm coming! Oh, nonsense!--She's all right:
there's no need for an understudy, I assure you!--No, keep them all
out! No, she has enough flowers in there now! Yes, keep people away
from the window!
¶ _Curtain rises on Third Scene._
_Group of ushers collapsed on stairs leading to gallery._
_Nan._ (_White organdie over rose pink silk; rose ribbons._) Oh,
girls, I'm nearly dead!
_Ursula._ (_Black net over electric blue satin; silver belt and high
silver comb; black gloves._) There's one good thing, we're downstairs
to-night. Last night I got so dizzy hopping up and down those steps--
_Leonora._ (_Yellow liberty silk cut very low; gold fillet; somewhat
striking Greek effect._) Oh, what do you think I just did? I was so
tired I stumbled just behind the orchestra circle (after I'd shooed
that funny woman out of three seats) and I fell almost flat! And the
nicest man helped me up and made me take his seat, and who do you
think it was? It was Mr. Fosdick. He went and stood back, and I sat a
long time then. Wasn't he ducky?
_Sally._ (_White dimity with green ribbons; a yard or more of red-gold
hair; babyish face._) Where's your own seat, dear?
_Esther._ (_Pale blue silk with long rope of mock pearls._) Oh,
Piggy's given it to her little friend, as usual! It's a great thing to
have--(_The door swings open, and the actors' voices are heard_:
"There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!" _Another usher comes
out._)
_Nan._ How'd the song go? Better?
_Usher._ Oh, grand! They made her do the second verse again. Miss
Selbourne says that she's the best all 'round clown they've ever had.
_Sally._ Oh, does she? I heard her tell Dr. Lyman that the plays
deteriorated every year--(_Enter another usher._)
_Second Usher._ Girls, you _must_ be quiet! That woman at the back
says she can't hear a word--
¶ _Curtain rises on Fourth Scene; applause, as audience takes in stage
setting. Row of enthusiastic alumnæ in upper box._
_First Alumna._ (_Happy mother of three; head of sewing circle; leader
of the most advanced set in her college days; president of the
Anti-Engagement League, junior year._) Oh, girls, did you ever see
anything so lovely? How _do_ they manage it? We never imagined
anything like it, I'm perfectly willing to admit. Aren't those lords
and ladies fine? Why, look at them--there must be forty or fifty! And
aren't the costumes beautiful? How handsome Orsino is!
_Second Alumna._ (_Rising journalist; very well dressed; knows all the
people of note in the audience; affects a society manner; was known as
the Gloomy Genius in her college days, and never talked with any one
who didn't read Browning._) Quite professional, really! How that Miss
Jackson reminds one of Rehan! I wonder if Daly sends the trainer? That
little Maria, now--she's quite unusual. Lovely figure, hasn't she?
Elizabeth Quentin Twitchell. Dr. Twitchell of Cambridge, I wonder? Do
they set that stage alone?
_Third Alumna._ (_Blonde and gushing; sister in the cast._) You know,
that Miss Twitchell was the best Viola, too, they say. Peggy tells me
Mr. Clark says he wished she could play them both. She's very popular
with the class. But Miss Jackson does everything. Writes, acts, plays
basket-ball, beautiful class work--Oh, isn't that sweet! (_Clown and
chorus of ladies with mandolins and guitars sing to wild applause._)
_Fourth Alumna._ (_Tall, thin, dark, and dowdy; very humble in manner;
high-principled; worth two millions in her own right; slaved
throughout her entire college course._) I don't see how anybody can
say that girls can't do anything in the world they set out to. Isn't
it wonderful? You can say what you please, but it's just as Ella
says--they do ten times what we did and do it better too. I think
they're prettier than they used to be, don't you? And they're just
like real actors--I'm sure it's prettier than any play I ever saw!
They make such wonderful men! Would you ever know that Sir Toby was a
girl? And Malvolio--he's just too good for anything!
_Curtain falls on Fourth Scene._
¶ _There is a long wait in total darkness. The audience smiles, then
settles down to be amused. Somebody faints and is restored with
shuffling, apologies, and salts._
_Slender, dark-eyed, gray-haired man, with non-committal expression,
uncle of one of the Mob; with his wife, who grows more frankly puzzled
as the play advances._
_Uncle._ I suppose they've outdone themselves in this garden scene.
_Aunt._ Yes, Bertha says they've worked tremendously over it. Henry,
what _do_ you think of it?
_Uncle._ Very ingenious, my dear.
_Aunt._ But Henry, their voices--
_Uncle._ They _are_ a little destructive to the illusion, but you hear
the gentleman behind me. He assures us that he thinks they are men!
_Aunt._ Oh, _Henry_!
_Uncle._ It's a pity they haven't more like Maria. Viola could take a
few points from her.
_Aunt._ But Bertha says that they adore Viola. She writes, and plays
basket-ball, and stands high in her classes, and--
_Uncle._ But she isn't an actress, that's all. She shouldn't grasp all
the arts! She's too melodramatic--she rants.
_Aunt._ Bertha says the trainer admires her very much--he wants her to
go on the stage.
_Uncle._ Oh! does he?
_Aunt._ Did you know that even the mobs are trained very carefully?
Bertha says she goes to rehearsals all the time. And the principal
parts--Malvolio worked six hours with Mr. Clark one day and eight the
next. And Viola had to do more. And the stage committee _slave_,
Henry, they simply slave. Little Esther Brookes is worn to a
shadow--not but what they love to do it.
_Uncle._ And when did Malvolio and Viola and the stage committee do
their studying?
_Aunt._ Oh, they keep up with their work. It's a point of honor with
them, Bertha says. Of course they can't do _quite_ so much, I
suppose--
_Uncle._ I suppose not.
_Aunt._ But Bertha says that they would give up anything in college
sooner than that. Viola and Malvolio, both of them, say that they
regard it as the most valuable training they've gotten up here. They
say it's quite the equal of any of their courses.
_Uncle._ Ah! do they?
¶ _Curtain rises on a very elaborate garden scene of arbors and
flowers; frantic applause, doubled at the entrance of Sir Toby and Sir
Andrew._
_Group of cynical alumnæ on fire-escape._
_First Alumna._ As for that Sir Toby--
_Second Alumna._ Hush, my dear, that may be the bosom of her family
forninst us!
_First Alumna, lowering her voice._ I think he's indecent and
ridiculous.
_Second Alumna._ He'll be the pride of the class, my little cousin
says. They're raving over him.
_First Alumna._ Then they're idiots. My dear, we may have had our
faults, but we were seldom vulgar, if we weren't remarkable!
_Third Alumna._ What I mind so much is that all the papers are filled
with that trash about gracefulness and womanliness and girlish
delicacy and the great gulf between us and the coarse professionals,
and as far as I can see, we are filling in that gulf as fast as
possible. We seem to be striving after the very thing--
_First Alumna._ Precisely. In a word, it's Daly, not Shakespeare. And
they don't see that Dalyism takes money--we haven't the scenery and
costumes for it.
_Second Alumna._ That horrible Sir Andrew!
_Fourth Alumna._ But Malvolio--
_First Alumna._ Oh, Malvolio's all right. As far as a girl can do it.
The question is, _can_ a girl do it? I think she can't.
_Third Alumna._ And as for allowing that Miss Jackson to imitate all
Ada Rehan's bad points, when she naturally fails of her good ones--
_Fourth Alumna._ But, my dear, the men like it. They're all pleased to
death. They think it's the cleverest thing they ever saw. They say
Viola's magnetic--
_Third Alumna._ Hgh! She's coarse, if that's what you mean! The whole
tone of the thing is lowered. I think that way she acted the duel
scene last night was simply vulgar. But the girls all howled with
laughter.
_Fourth Alumna._ Well, if they're pleased--
_First Alumna._ They shouldn't be pleased!
_Fourth Alumna._ Surely, Annie, you think this garden scene is funny!
_First Alumna._ Why, I laughed. It's a good acting play. But I wish
the Literature department had more to do with it and the trainer
confined himself to--
_Usher interrupts._ If you please, I must ask you to make less noise.
You are disturbing the people near the door!
¶ _The curtain has fallen on the Fourth Act. A group of last year's
graduates standing at the back in party-cloaks, with a few of the Mob
in shirt-waists and make-up._
_Recent Court Lady, tentatively._ Did you like the dance?
_First Graduate._ Oh, it was fine! It was terribly pretty, Ellen, the
whole thing!
_Recent Court Lady, relieved._ I'm so glad you liked it. Wasn't Sue
grand!
_First Graduate._ Yes, indeed, but I liked Malvolio so much!
_Court Gentleman._ Good old Dick! My, don't we love her! Orsino's
going to do him at class supper, you know. And Olivia's going to be
Sir Toby.
_Second Graduate._ How noble! Sir Toby is about the best I ever saw,
May.
_Court Gentleman._ Isn't she that? She's going to be Viola. She
squirms and twists just like her--
_Court Lady._ Oh, come on, May Lucy, and get to bed! (_They go out
whistling airs from the play and are violently suppressed by a group
of ushers, whose excited remonstrances are loudly criticised by a
large and nervous lady in the rear, greatly delighting the contingent
from the Mob._)
_First Graduate._ Now, Katharine, just tell me, perfectly impartially
of course, how you think it compares with ours.
_Second Graduate._ Well, girls, frankly I must say I'm a little
disappointed. (_Nods from the others._)
_Third Graduate._ It's not that it's not well done, for it is, but
it's such a fine play it ought to have been well done by anybody. And
for all that Sue Jackson's such a wonder, I must say--
_Fourth Graduate._ Yes, exactly. She's too heavy for the part, I
think.
_Second Graduate._ Of course Toby was fine and Malvolio and Maria--
_Fifth Graduate._ Well, then, with three fine ones I should think--
_Second Graduate._ But Olivia and Sebastian and Orsino were such
sticks--
_Fourth Graduate._ Still, those third and fourth and fifth scenes in
the second act were beautiful.
_Second Graduate._ But the others were so plain. They just stacked on
the good ones. Still, I suppose they did the best they could. Mary
Vanderveer has just _slaved_ over it.
_Fifth Graduate._ We know what _that_ is!
_Second Graduate._ Well, honestly, I think this is a _prettier_ play
than ours, but I do feel that ours was a little _better done_! Here,
let's see Sue in this. I think she's pretty good.
¶ _The curtain has fallen on the Fifth Act. Malvolio and Viola come
out of their dressing-room to the street, and slip out of a crowd of
ushers and under-class girls. A general flutter of congratulation and
sympathy follows them._
Oh, Miss Jackson, it was great! Simply fine! Susy, my child, say what
you'd like and it's yours!--Where's Lida Fosdick?--Lida! Dick! She's
gone long ago. Where's Toby? Gone, too. Somebody has some flowers for
her. Oh, take 'em up to the Wallace!--Well, good-night! Wasn't it
grand!--Grand! There's Betty! Hi, Betty! Oh, Miss Twitchell, it was
so--
_Miss Twitchell, mechanically._ So glad, so glad you liked it--we
loved to do it! Oh, yes! Oh, dear, no! Just a little, yes. The
making-up was so long. Mother--thank you, _thank_ you--Mother, where
_is_ the carriage? Oh, thank you _so_ much!
_Mrs. Twitchell, nervously._ Yes, indeed, she's tired to death. I'm
very glad, I'm sure, if you liked it. Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Waite?
Yes, here she is. Bessie, here is Mrs. Waite. You see she sat in the
Opera House since five o'clock to be made up, and only sandwiches and
all the strain--yes, indeed. Fanny looked very pretty, I thought. In
the dance, wasn't she? Yes, so pretty. I'm sure I wish Bessie had only
been in the dance--Oh, here's the carriage, dear!
¶ _Malvolio and Viola, slipping quietly past the crowd; make-up not
off; arms on each other's shoulders._
_Malvolio._ I suppose Dad's holding that carriage somewhere.
_Viola._ Well, I can't help it. I simply can't talk to everybody.
_Malvolio._ Do you know your speech?
_Viola._ I think so. It's so short, you know. I hate to have the
president's speech long. (_A pause._)
_Malvolio._ Well, it's over, Susy Revere! No more glory for little
Lide and Sue!