Chapter 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_