Produced by David Widger
A REVERSION TO TYPE
By Josephine Daskam
Copyright, 1903, by Charles Scribner's Sons
She had never felt so tired of it all, it seemed to her. The sunstreamed hot across the backs of the shining seats into her eyes, butshe was too tired to get the window-pole. She watched the incoming classlistlessly, wondering whether it would be worth while to ask one ofthem to close the shutter. They chattered and giggled and bustledin, rattling the chairs about, and begging one another's pardonvociferously, with that insistent politeness which marks a sharplydefined stage in the social evolution of the young girl. They irritatedher excessively--these little airs and graces. She opened her book witha snap, and began to call the roll sharply.
Midway up the room sat a tall, dark girl, not handsome, but noticeablywell dressed. She looked politely at her questioner when spoken to, butseemed as far in spirit as the distant trees toward which she directedher attention when not particularly addressed. She seemed to have acertain personality, a self-possession, a source of interest other thancollegiate; and this held her apart from the others in the mind of thewoman who sat before the desk.
What was that girl thinking of, she wondered, as she called anothername and glanced at the book to gather material for a question. What aperfect taste had combined that dark, brocaded vest with the dull, roughcloth of the suit--and she dressed her hair so well! She had a beautifulband of pearls on one finger: was it an engagement-ring? No, that wouldbe a solitaire.
And all this time she called names from the interminable list, andmechanically corrected the mistakes of their owners. Her eyes went backto the girl in the middle row, who turned her head and yawned a little.They took their education very easily, these maidens.
How she had saved and denied herself, and even consented to theindebtedness she so hated, to gain that coveted German winter! And howdelightful it had been!
Almost she saw again the dear home of that blessed year: the kindlyhousemother; the chubby _Maedchen_ who knitted her a silk purse, andcried when she left; the father with his beloved 'cello and his deep,honest voice.
How cunning the little Bertha had been! How pleasant it was to hear hergay little voice when one came down the shady street!"_Da ist sie, ja!_"she would call to her mother, and then Hermann would come up to her withhis hands outstretched. Had she had a hard day? Was the lecture good?How brown his beard was, and how deep and faithful his brown eyeswere! And he used to sing--why were there no bass voices in theStates?"_Kennst du das Land_" he used to sing, and his mother criedsoftly to herself for pleasure. And once she herself had cried a little.
"No," she said to the girl who was reciting, "no, it takes the dative.I cannot seem to impress sufficiently on your minds the necessity forlearning that list thoroughly. You may translate now."
And they translated. How they drawled it over, the beautiful, richGerman. Hermann had begged so, but she had felt differently then. Shehad loved her work in anticipation. To marry and settle down--she wasnot ready. It would be so good to be independent. And now--But itwas too late. That was years ago. Hermann must have found someyellow-braided, blue-eyed Dorothea by this--some _Maedchen_ who cared notfor calculus and Hebrew, but only to be what her mother had been, wifeand house-mother. But this was treason. Our grandmothers had thoughtthat.
She looked at the girl in the middle row. What beautiful hair she had!What an idiot she was to give up four years of her life to this round ofwork and play and pretence of living! Oh, to go back to Germany--to seeBertha and her mother again, and hear the father's 'cello! Hermann hadloved her so! He had said, so quietly and yet so surely: "But thou wiltcome back, my heart's own. And always I wait here for thee. Make menot wait long!" He had seemed too quiet then--too slow and too easilycontent. She had wanted quicker, busier, more individual life. And nowher heart said, "O fool!"
Was it too late? Suppose she should go, after all? Suppose she shouldgo, and all should be as it had been, only a little older, a little morequiet and peaceful? The very fancy filled her heart with sudden calm.A love so deep and sure, so broad and sweet--could it not dignify anywoman's life? And she had been thought worthy and had refused this love!O fool!
Suppose she went and found--her heart beat too quickly, and her faceflushed. She called on the bright girl in the front row.
"And what have _you_ learned?" she said.
The girl coughed importantly. "It is a poem of Goethe's," she announcedin her high, satisfied voice. "_Kennst du das Land_"
"That will do," said the German assistant. "I fear we shall not havetime for it to-day. The hour is up. You may go on with the translationfor to-morrow." And as the class rose with a growing clamor she realizedthat though she had been thinking steadily in German, she had beentalking in English. So that was why they had comprehended so well andanswered so readily! And yet she was too glad to be annoyed at the slip.There were other things: her life was not a German class!
As the girls crowded out, one stopped by the desk. She laid her handwith the pearl band on the third finger on the teacher's arm. "You looktired," she said. "I hope you're not ill?"
"Ill?" said the woman at the desk. "I never felt better. I've beenneglecting my classes, I fear, in the study of your green gown. It is sovery pretty."
The girl smiled and colored a little.
"I'm glad you like it," she said. "I like it, too." Then, with a suddenfeeling of friendship, an odd sense of intimacy, a quick impulse ofcommon femininity, she added:
"I've had some good times in this dress. Wearing it up here makes meremember them very strangely. It's queer, what a difference it makes--"She stopped and looked questioningly at the older woman.
But the German assistant smiled at her. "Yes," she said, "it is. Andwhen you have been teaching seven years the difference becomes veryapparent." She gathered up her books, still smiling in a reminiscentway. And as she went out of the door, she looked back at the glaring,sunny room as if already it were far behind her, as if already she feltthe house-mother's kiss, and heard the 'cello, and saw Klara's tinydaughter standing by the door, throwing kisses, calling, "_Da ist sie,ja!_"
Lost in the dream, her eyes fixed absently, she stumbled against herfellow-assistant, who was making for the room she had just left.
"I beg your pardon--I wasn't looking. Oh, it's you!" she murmuredvaguely. Her fellow-assistant had a headache, and forty-five writtenpapers to correct. She had just heard, too, a cutting criticism ofher work made by the self-appointed faculty critic; the criticism wascleverly worded, and had just enough truth to fly quickly and hurt herwith the head of her department. So she was not in the best of tempers.
"Yes, it's I," she said crossly. "If you had knocked these papers aninch farther, I should have invited you to correct them. If you go aboutin that abstracted way much longer, my dear, Miss Selbourne will informthe world (on the very best authority) that you're in love."
"I? What nonsense!"
It was a ridiculous thing to say, and she flushed angrily at herself. Itwas only a joke, of course.
The other woman laughed shortly.
"Dear me! I really believe you are!" she exclaimed. "The girls weresaying at breakfast that Professor Tredick was ruining himselfin violets yesterday--so it was for you!" and she went into thelecture-room.
A chattering crowd of girls closed in behind her. One voice rose abovethe rest:
"Well, I don't know what you call it, then. He skated with her all thewinter, and at the Dickinson party they sat on one sofa for an hour andtalked steadily!"
"Oh, nonsense! She skates beautifully, that's all."
"She sits on a sofa beautifully, too." A burst of laughter, and the doorclosed.
The German assistant smiled satiric
ally. It was all of a piece. Atleast, the younger women were perfectly frank about it: they did notfeel themselves forced to employ sarcasm in their references; it wasnot necessary for them to appear to have definitely chosen this lifein preference to any other. Four years was little to lend to such anexperiment. But the older women, who sat on those prim little platformsyear after year--a sudden curiosity possessed her to know how many ofthem were really satisfied.
Could it be that they had preferred--actually preferred--But she had,herself, three years ago. She shook her head decidedly. "Not for nineyears, not for nine!" she murmured, as she caught through the heavy doora familiar voice raised to emphasize some French phrase.
And yet, somebody must teach them. They could not be born