Part 14

_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!