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!

Viola. All over! Well, we've had the time of our lives, Dick! 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