I'd--I'd give anything to do it over again, three nights!
_Malvolio._ Me too. It's a pleasant little spot up here. (_They walk
to the campus in silence._)
¶ _Recent court lady and two young gentlemen, brothers of her friend,
the stage manager. Her eyes are underlined heavily, and she has not
gotten the rouge quite off her cheeks._
_Recent Court Lady._ Oh, _thank_ you, it would be _such_ a help!
Mollie is nearly wild, and these things must be got out to-night. If
you would take this and this and this, and oh, Father, would you
please carry this tankard and the cups? And could you take those two
swords? I'll take the distaff and the mandolin. Jack, have you room
for the moon? Will, here are more poppies, and I promised Ada that I'd
put that rubber-plant in her room to-night. You're so good! You're
sure you don't mind carrying them? Now don't get laughing, Father, and
drop the cups.
_A Recent Court Gentleman._ Good-night, dear! I knew you'd like it.
Oh, I think everybody seems to feel it's the best yet. Of course, last
year they had so much better opportunity, so much easier scenery. But
with four such stars--yes, indeed. It was so much harder to find
people to take--oh, she _did_! She thinks that just because it doesn't
all depend on one or two people, it's easier? Well, just find your
extra people, that's all!--Did you like it? Most people seemed to
think it _was_ a pretty dance. Well, we rehearsed enough, heaven
knows. Did you know Orsino's fiancé was there? She said she felt like
such an idiot. Too bad Sue got scared, wasn't it? Well, good-night.
¶ _Steps of the Dewey House. Three ushers propped against the pillars.
The night watchman approaches with lantern._
_Watchman._ Well, well, well! Want to get in? _Hi'll_ bet yer do!
(_First usher nods her head._) Are yer h'ushers? Fine play, wa'n't it?
(_Second usher nods her head._) Well, you do look tired! You pretty
tired, Miss Slater? (_Third usher murmurs something about sleeping
till noon, and second usher chuckles feebly and mentions
Baccalaureate. They stumble into the Dewey, and the watchman shuts the
door._)
II
IVY DAY
_The sun is glaring down on the campus. A crowd of parents and other
relatives is surging toward an awning near the steps of College Hall;
a stream of white-dressed seniors continually flows toward the
Hatfield House, where a procession is forming. Forty junior ushers
struggle with a rope wound with laurel, which is to encompass the
column of seniors. A few scattered members of the Faculty and a crowd
of alumnæ wander aimlessly about, obstructing traffic generally._
_Small imperious mother, dragging large good-humored father toward the
awning._ Hurry up, Father, hurry up!
_Father._ But Mother, I want to see 'em!
_Mother._ Well, you've got to take your choice of seeing 'em and not
hearing a word of the speech or--
_Father._ You go right along, Mother, and I'll get there on time. I
want to see Hattie marching.
¶ _A crowd of girls with cameras rushes up and lines both sides of
the walk. Two ushers sail up the path, clearing a way with
white-ribboned sticks. The crowd becomes unmanageable, torn by the
desire to watch the progress of the march and at the same time to
secure a good place at the exercises. People summon each other wildly
from various points of the campus._
_A group of strolling sophomores, dodging some ushers and wheedling
programmes from others, screws its way in a body to the best possible
position in the front, smiling at the efforts of the displaced to
reinstate themselves._
_First Sophomore._ There they come! There's Sue and Betty Twitchell!
My, what roses!
_Second Sophomore._ Roses? Did the ushers--
_Third Sophomore._ Oh, goodness, Win, haven't you heard that yet?
_Second Sophomore._ No--tell me!
_Third Sophomore._ Why, Miss Tomlinson's fiancé sent her fifteen dozen
American Beauties, and there wasn't any room for them in the house,
and she asked if the class would like to carry them, and first they
voted no and then they voted yes, and some of the girls don't like it,
but they are doing it just the same--Oh, isn't Helen Estabrook's gown
stunning! There's Wilhelmina--Hello, Will! Sue looks well, don't you
think?
_Second Sophomore._ Fifteen dozen American Beauties! Great heavens!
_First Sophomore._ I think it's perfectly absurd and bad taste, too.
The idea!
_Third Sophomore._ Well, she's not to blame, is she? They're certainly
lots prettier than laurel or daisies or odd flowers--Oh, girls, _I_
think Louise Hunter is too silly for anything! She feels too big to
live, leading the way! I'd try to look a little less like a poker if I
_was_ an usher!
¶ _The Ivy Procession marches to the steps two and two, each girl with
an enormous American Beauty in her hand. At every step the girls with
cameras snap and turn, so that the sound resembles a miniature volley
of cannon. There is a comparative silence during their progress._
_Mother and daughter standing on their seats under awning, clutching
at the heads of those near them for support._
_Mother._ Who is that with Susy, dear?
_Daughter._ That's the vice-president--I don't know her name. Sue
looks pale, doesn't she?
_Mother._ And that's Bess Twitchell next--with the tucks. She's Ivy
Orator, you know. I think Sue's dress drops too much in the back--Ah,
Miss Fosdick has stepped on it! Good heavens--right on that
Valenciennes! (_She sits down abruptly._)
¶ _The procession winds slowly up and groups itself on the steps. The
last third stands a long while before the awning and exchanges
somewhat conscious remarks with its friends outside the rope, which
the ushers endeavor to carry without straining or dropping: this
attempt puckers their foreheads and tilts their hats._
_A group of last year's graduates standing close to the enclosure._
_First Graduate._ Stunning gowns, aren't they?
_Second Graduate._ Awfully. Prettiest I ever saw. And so different,
too! And yet they're all alike--organdie over silk or satin, mostly.
Isn't Sue Jackson's lovely?
_Third Graduate._ I like Esther Brookes'; it's so plain, but there's
not a more artistic--
_Fourth Graduate._ How do you like Lena Bergstein's?
_Fifth Graduate._ What's that?
_Fourth Graduate._ My dear, haven't you seen that? It's solid
Valenciennes as far as I can see. I think it's altogether too
elaborate. But I tell you, it's stunning, all the same!
_Fifth Graduate._ Ah, I see it! Poor taste, I think.
_Fourth Graduate._ I know it. Betty Twitchell's is so simple--
_First Graduate._ Simple, yes! It's imported, I happen to know!
_Fourth Graduate._ Really! It _does_ hang beautifully! Oh, they're
moving: there's Sir Toby. You know nobody ever heard of her before,
girls. Isn't that funny? Wasn't she great, though?
_Second Graduate._ Well, they won't forget her in a hurry. I think
it's a mighty good thing that Dramatics brings out that kind of girl
and gives her a place in the class. It keeps two or three girls like
Sue Jackson and Twitchie and Mollie Van from running everything. Well,
going to stay here?
¶ _A Ubiquitous member of the Faculty suddenly dashes from her seat
and pushes through the crowd, which lets her out, under the impression
that she is faint._
_Ubiquitous Member of Faculty, to a scared usher._ Where is Dr.
Twitchell? Is he back there?
_Usher._ I--I don't know! Is he big?
_Ubiquitous Member of Faculty._ Big? Big? What do you mean? A pretty
thing--to have the father of the Ivy Orator have no seat! He must be
found!
_Usher._ I--I'll go see--
_Ubiquitous Member of Faculty._ Do you know him?
_Usher, helpless but optimistic._ No, but I'll--
_Ubiquitous Member of Faculty, suddenly dashing through the crowd into
a lilac clump and producing, to every one's amazement, a large and
amiable gentleman from its centre._ Well, well! Are you going to
remain here long, Dr. Twitchell? Why aren't you in your seat?
_Dr. Twitchell, somewhat embarrassed at his prominent position, but
beaming on every one._ Why, no--that is, yes, indeed! Certainly. I
only wanted to see Bessie march along with the rest. A very pretty
sight--remarkably so! All in white--I counted ninety couples, I think.
Has--has she begun? Is her mother--
_Ubiquitous Member of Faculty._ We're all in the front row, and
they've not begun. The class president will be making her speech in a
moment--there is plenty of time, but we were a little anxious--(_They
enter the enclosure._)
¶ _The class is crowded upon the steps and overflows before and behind
them. The sun is in their eyes, and they look strained and pale.
Under the awning a few hundred relatives fan themselves, and smile
expectantly._
_The class president makes an indistinguishable address, in which the
phrases "more glad than I can say," "unusual opportunity," "women's
education," "extends a hearty welcome," rise above the rest, and sinks
back into the crowd._
_The leader of the Glee Club frowns at her mates and leans forward:
the class sings "Fair Smith," with a great deal of contralto. The Ivy
Orator steps back and upward instinctively, with an idea of escaping
from the heads and shoulders that are packed like herring about her,
realizes that the audience is entirely out of her reach, steps down to
meet them, becomes lost to view, and with a despairing consciousness
that nothing can better the most futile position she has ever
occupied, steps back to her first place and shrieks out her opening
phrases._
_Two mothers sitting on a bench just behind the enclosure, looking
over the campus._
_First Mother._ So you didn't get a seat?
_Second Mother._ Well, I didn't try, to tell the truth. I'm interested
in the speech, but my daughter tells me that I can see it in the
_Monthly_ next fall, and as I got here so late, I couldn't possibly
hear it from the back.
_First Mother._ I was sorry to leave, for Kate wanted me to hear
Bessie so much; but after Miss Jackson's speech I had to go--the heat
made me rather faint. And as you say, one can read it.
_Second Mother._ That's what every one seems to think--see them all
walking up and down here. One of the old graduates--a friend of my
daughter's--told me that this was the chance for them to talk with the
professors!
_First Mother._ Well, I suppose if they _will_ have it outdoors, very
many people can't expect to hear. It's very hard to speak in the open
air.
_Second Mother._ Yes, indeed. What a fine-looking girl that Miss
Ackley is--the dark one--did you notice her?
_First Mother._ That is my daughter, so I've noticed her quite a
little!
_Second Mother._ Oh, indeed! I'm sure I didn't know--
_First Mother._ It isn't necessary to be told that _you_ have a
daughter here, Mrs. Fosdick!
_Second Mother._ No, everybody seems to think that the resemblance is
very strong indeed. Isn't it pleasant to meet people so strangely, and
without any ceremony, like this? It's a very pleasant place, anyway,
isn't it?
_First Mother._ Yes, indeed. It's beautiful all the spring, but
particularly beautiful now, I think, with all the girls in their
pretty dresses and the general holiday effect.
_Second Mother._ What I like so much is the spirit of the place. When
we found out from things in my daughter's letters and stories she
would tell us in the vacations that all her little set of friends were
very much richer than she and could afford luxuries and enjoyments
that she couldn't, Mr. Fosdick and I were quite worried for fear that
she would feel hurt, you know, or want to get into a style of living
that she could not possibly keep up. But, dear me, we needn't have
worried! It never made the least difference, just as she assured us.
We were very glad to find that she was the friend of some of the
leading girls in the class, when we saw that she went right along as
she had to, tutoring and selling blue prints and going about just as
contentedly as if her shirt-waists had been their organdies. Not that
that sort of thing _ought_ to make any difference, but sometimes it
_does_, you know. She was telling me about Bess Twitchell's
Commencement dress, and Sue Jackson's, and I grew quite alarmed, for I
thought that perhaps that was expected, and we couldn't possibly
afford anything like it. But, dear me, it was all the same to her!
She was perfectly satisfied with muslin, and when I asked her if she
was sure she'd prefer to walk with Bess, she actually made me feel
ashamed! Bess herself said that it wasn't every one who could have the
honor of walking with Malvolio, and she'd like to see herself lose it!
_First Mother._ Oh, of course! Why, I have always understood, both
from Kate and her cousin who graduated three years ago, that some of
the leading girls in every class were poor. The girls seemed prouder
of them, if anything. As you say, it's the spirit of the place. Now
Kate herself--well, it's a little thing, I suppose, but her father and
I--well, I suppose any one would think us silly, but we actually
cried, we were so touched. Her father gave her her dress--it was
really lovely. Not elaborate, but it was made over beautiful silk, and
he gave her a handsome string of those mock pearls they wear so much
now, you know. It was very becoming to her indeed, and she was
delighted with it.
Well, just three weeks ago I got a long letter from her saying that
Eleanor Hunt's father had lost every cent he had in the world and that
they were in a dreadful condition. Eleanor's mother had sold her
Commencement gown and Eleanor was going to wear an old white organdie
that she'd worn all the year to dances and plays. She said that
Eleanor was feeling very bad indeed about it and especially about
Commencement time. They had planned to walk together in all the
processions--they are great friends. So she asked me if I thought Papa
would mind if she wore her old organdie, too, to all the things,
because Eleanor seemed to feel it so. Her father offered to give
Eleanor one for a Commencement present from her, but she wouldn't have
that--she said Eleanor wouldn't like it--she was feeling very proud
about gifts, just now.
Well, her father was more pleased than I've seen him for years. You
see, Kate has always thought a great deal of her clothes, and she's
always had a good allowance, besides lots of presents from us and her
aunts. And being an only child, you know--well, I wouldn't say she was
_spoiled_ at all, but she certainly was a little thoughtless, perhaps
selfish, when she came up here. Her father and I feel that it has done
a great deal for her. He says that he'd call it a good investment if
she'd never learned anything in all the four years but just how to do
that one thing!
_Second Mother._ Yes, indeed! We feel, Mr. Fosdick and I, that my
daughter's friends have been almost as good for her as what she
learned, though that comes first, as she must teach, now. She was
always so solitary and reserved and never cared for the girls at home,
but here she has such good friends and loves them all so--she's grown
more natural, more like other girls; and we lay it all to her having
been thrown in from the beginning with such pleasant, nice girls as
these. You know them, I suppose--Bessie and Sue and Bertha Kitts--
¶ _Two alumnæ strolling between the houses and the enclosure, chatting
with friends and spying out acquaintances._
_First Alumna._ Good gracious, isn't she through yet? I pity the poor
girls, standing all this while!
_Second Alumna._ Yes, that's just it! Arrange the oration to suit the
girls, do!--If they're tired, let them sit down! It's absurd to
criticise the one really academic exercise of the whole affair
entirely on the basis of the girls' comfort, I say!
_First Alumna._ But, my dear, the poor things have done so much and
stood so much anyhow--and I should think Miss Maria would be tired
herself.
_Second Alumna._ Then it's her own lookout. She should have dropped
one or the other. They try to do too much. I can tell you that we were
proud enough to stand twenty minutes when Ethel Richardson talked, and
she didn't feel that it was beneath her notice to devote all her time
and attention to that one thing, either. We didn't make so much of
these universal geniuses then, but I doubt if we had poorer results
from the less widely gifted. It's too much strain; one simply can't do
everything.
_First Alumna._ No. They're 'way ahead of us in lots of things, but
I'm glad I came when I did. Don't you remember what a good time we
used to have spring term? Dear old last spring term! Do you know there
isn't any, now? Don't you remember how we dropped ev--well, a good
deal, and lay in the hammocks in the orchard and mooned about and took
a long, comprehensive farewell to all our greatness? We'd made or lost
our reputations by then, and we just took it all in and--oh, I suppose
we did sentimentalize a little, but it all meant more to us
apparently.... Well, it's all gone now. They begin on the play so
early, and it's all rehearsing, and then they can't let their work
drop, so they keep everything right up to the pitch--according to
their story. And there are six societies to our one, you know. And all
the houses give receptions to them right in a bunch, and every one is
so bored at them--at least Kitty says they are. But you can't always
tell by that, I suppose.
¶ _Applause from the enclosure and a general scurry as the ushers
crowd up to surround the class, who begin their Ivy Song--a piece of
musical composition something between a Gregorian chant and a Strauss
waltz, with a great deal of modulation, in which the words "hopes and
fears," "coming years," "plant our vine," and "still entwine" occur at
suitable intervals. They wander away in a bunch, frantically
surrounded by the ushers and the chain, to another side of College
Hall, where the Ivy is interred. A general break-up then begins, the
orator and the president join their admiring families, and people
begin to stroll home, the prominent members of the class pausing at
every sentence to have their pictures taken._
_Two members of the class and one of the Faculty._
_First Member of Class._ It was the funniest thing I've heard this
year, really! You know the girls simply _slave_ for her--they
_slave_. They can't help it, you know, for she thinks that's all there
is in the world and if you don't have your note-book made out she
looks at you in such a way--oh, well, it makes Mollie's spine cold,
she says. Mollie's done splendid work for her--not that she doesn't do
it for everybody--but she was determined to make her see that she
could be at all the rehearsals and take the observations, too. The
only thing she didn't do was to go the last two or three nights, but
gracious, she'd more than made that up! I thought I did pretty well
when I put in five hours of Lab., but those girls have done eight and
ten hours a week some weeks, note-books and observations and all. Just
to satisfy her, you know--they love to work for her. And what do you
think she said the last time they met? Do you know about Astronomy,
Mr. Brooke? If you do, I shall spoil the story for you, for I don't
know the first thing. But I think it was the parallax of the sun.
"Now, I should think you could just step out between the acts," said
she, calmly, "if you couldn't get out for all the evening, and take
your note-book with you, Miss Vanderveer, and just take it--it's a
beautiful observation! And you've taken one, and it will be a great
thing to tell your children that you've gotten the parallaxes of the
sun yourself!"
_Second Member of Class._ And when we thought of Mollie dancing about
there with her collar undone, trying to make those idiotic men
understand something and being everywhere at once--between the acts,
you know, being a fairly occupied time for her--when we imagined her
walking out of the garden scene or Orsino's house to take the
what-do-you-call-it of the sun (though I don't see how she could take
it of the sun at night--it must have been the moon, Ethel).
_Member of Faculty._ And what did Miss Vanderveer say?
_First Member of Class._ I'm sure it was the sun, Teddie, Mollie said
sun--why, she coughed and said, "I certainly will, if I get time, Miss
Drake!"
_Member of Faculty._ Great presence of mind, I'm sure.
¶ _Group of relatives and three members of the class._
_First Member._ Mamma, this is Miss Twitchell and Miss Fosdick--Maria
and Malvolio, you know.
_Mother._ I am pleased to meet you both. I want to tell you how much I
enjoyed, _etc._
_Misses Twitchell and Fosdick._ We're so glad if you did, _etc._
_Mother._ I was not able to catch much of your speech, but Ellen tells
me we can have the pleasure of reading it later.
_Miss Twitchell, moving away._ I'm afraid you will have the
opportunity--but I tried to make it as short as I could!
_Mother._ And now I suppose you're going home to sleep all day? I
should think you'd need it.
_Miss Twitchell._ Oh, dear, no! I'm going to the Alpha on the back
campus this afternoon, and I want to look in at Colloquium, and then
there's the Glee Club to-night, you know. I've no more worry now,
nothing to do but enjoy myself.
_Aunt._ What is this, Ellen? The Glee Club--
_Ellen._ Why, Aunt Grace, the Glee Club promenade, don't you know?
That's when the lanterns are all over, and they give a concert, and we
all walk about, and it's so pretty--don't you remember I told you?
_Aunt._ Well, then, I'll go right home and take my nap, if I'm to go
out to-night. Are you going to all these things, too, Ellen?
_Ellen._ Well, practically. Only I'm going to Phi Kapp and Biological
instead. But I _am_ going to lie down--I'm so tired, I can't think
straight, and you know I'm on the Banjo Club, and we have to have a
short rehearsal--
¶ _The crowd gradually disperses, and the campus is practically
deserted; men begin to put up poles and wires for lanterns; others
gather and arrange scattered chairs. Stray relatives hunt for each
other and their boarding-places or inquire with interest which is the
Science Building and the Dewey House. Belated members of the class
wander homewards or patiently seek out their families, whose temporary
guardians are thus relieved._
_Abstracted member of the class and large, domineering woman in black
satin, before the Morris House gate._
_Large Woman._ This is the Hatfield, is it not?
_Member of Class._ Oh! I beg your pardon? No, it's the Morris.
_Large Woman._ Ah! I was told it was the Hatfield.
_Member of Class, simply._ Well, it's not.
_Large Woman._ And that over there (_pointing to the Observatory_),
that is the Lilly House?
_Member of Class._ No, that's the Observatory. Lilly Hall is up
farther. It's just beyond the Dickinson--no, the Lawrence--I mean the
_Hubbard House_!
_Large Woman._ And where is the Hubbard House?
_Member of Class._ Oh, dear! (_pulls herself together with an effort_)
it's up in a line, the one, two, three, third from here.
_Large Woman._ Thank you. And I wish to see the Botanical Gardens,
too. Where are they? (_Member of Class points out their position._)
_Large Woman._ And where is the Landscape Garden?
_Member of Class, vaguely._ Why, I suppose it's over there, too. I
don't exactly--it's all landscape garden, I suppose--it's not big--
_Large Woman, severely._ I was told there was a fine landscape and
botanical garden--are you a member of the college?
_Member of Class, leaning against the post._ Why, yes, but it's all
botanical garden, for that matter. (_Catches sight of a tree with a
tin label tied to it and points luminously at it._) _That's_
botanical, you know--all the trees and shrubs!
_Large Woman, with irritation._ I am quite aware that it is--I--
_Member of Class, despairingly._ Oh, excuse me, I mean it's--it's--_I
mean they all have labels!_ (_Large Woman stalks majestically away;
Member of Class makes a few incoherent gestures in the air, murmurs_,
"I am _such_ a fool, but I'm _so_ tired!" _Throws out her hands
wearily and trails into the Morris House._)
THE TENTH STORY
_THE END OF IT_
X
THE END OF IT