USA > New York > Onondaga County > Syracuse > Sixty-odd, a personal history > Part 31
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Smaller things were far more annoying. My bitterness was aug- mented by having to rise when the Star-Spangled Banner was sung, on all occasions, for my ears revolted at every note, as they had protested fifty years before. And when Karl Muck was dismissed
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by the Boston Symphony orchestra directors, and Fritz Kreisler banned in many cities from playing his violin, even musical patriots revolted, so that we could find consolation in their company.
The other children were not with me, though I found my pleasantest recreation in visiting them. Nan had finished her courses at the school for Social Work in Boston, and had been sent by the S.P.C.C., after special training at its Boston office, to Berk- shire as its representative. I heard with pride from the Judge of the District Court, that she was doing especially fine court work in Pittsfield. Her younger brother John was at St. Paul's, Concord, and enjoying outdoor sports with a schoolboy's keenness. He grad. uated from there in 1917, handing me rather shamefacedly a silver medal which signified the highest honor which could be bestowed by the school, with the observation that it was the sort of thing mothers liked to have, and I might keep it if I wanted to. He en- tered Harvard the next autumn, and was given an honorary scholar- ship that winter by the class of 1920, then sophomores, for being an "all-round freshman." He particularly liked people, of all sorts and kinds. It was less a Fine Art with him, however, than a natural instinct, not too selective to be wide in its application.
News from abroad was bringing Russia and its distractions to the fore. The hopes aroused by the Kerensky revolution were lost when it was followed by the Kornilov rebellion and the Bolshevist uprising. Madame Breshkovsky, "the little grandmother of the Russian Revolution" as she was called, had been brought back from exile by the government and acclaimed by thousands as she drove through the streets of Moscow. The account of it had stirred the people of America, for she had visited this country in 1904, in an interim of her persecution under the Czarist regime, and had made many friends. She came to this country after our own war, un- der the protection I believe of returning Y. M. C. A. workers, and made a stop in Northampton, staying a night at our house, and ad- dressing the student body in the large auditorium. But from a strong woman with a faultless physique and an inextinguishable flame of purpose, she had become an enfeebled figure, still alert in mind, yet timid. She wore the Russian headdress, a black square of
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soft cloth, over her white hair. It was such a great event, that visit, that a very large assembly gathered to see and hear her; for the moment we were carried out of our absorption in the nation's en- tanglements. Yet when she faced a thousand people in the audi- torium of Smith College, all of them eager for the tale of persecution and struggle which they expected to hear from her, she was sud- denly seized with an emotion which seemed to drive the subject- matter out of her head. She said a few words about the Russian crisis, with an assurance of her confidence in her own people and country and belief that some day right would triumph; then she be- gan an impassioned description of the impression which the great college had made upon her, and told her audience of the thousands of Russian girls to whom education was at last a hope for the future, explaining what such an opportunity would mean to them, and to the life of the nation.
Later Leonora O'Reilly also came. She spent a week-end with us, gave a talk at our Northampton Monday Club, and spoke to my own girls on a Sunday evening. It was the younger generation that listened most understandingly; I did not feel that the women of my own age were sympathetic with what she told them of the Ameri- can working-woman's struggle for better conditions, and need for fairer wages: to the girls she talked, as Madame Breshkovsky had done, of the opportunities given them as privileged children of an era of wealth, begging them to use their education thankfully, and wisely, in acquiring a deeper knowledge of economic and social conditions. She was deeply interested in the Woman's Trade Union movement then, and I know that she aroused the interest of her audience.
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In the autumn of 1917 came another change at Smith College. President Burton was called to a western university, and it was a disappointment to his many friends to lose him from Smith. He had contributed much to its progress. He had enlarged its curricu- lum; had shown discernment in grasping new truths and opportu- nities. But even warm adherents had been aware of a certain lack of depth in his administration, as compared with the widening of other dimensions. The scholarly element, the conservation of foun- dations built upon treasures of past accumulation, the dignity of authoritative wisdom, seemed, although venerated, to be no longer perpetuated in the government and life of the college. The one man to restore these things it was felt, was William Allen Neilson of the Harvard faculty, who was not only recognized as a man of pro- found learning, the recipient of degrees from the universities of England and master of the English language, but a liberal in thought and spirit, a gentleman and a scholar and a canny Scotsman as well; the type of character best fitted to become the President of a New England institution, and to assume that office with calm and poise in the face of national upheaval and distraction. The town itself accepted him as counsellor. Even opposing factions listened to him when he was settled within our gates.
It was a time of questioning and criticism; changes, not only in our universities but in the whole fabric of civilization, were coming upon us with such swiftness that dissenting voices found few listen- ers. Both apathy and objection were left behind in the trend toward new standards. The trustees were proud of their choice, and the younger generation accepted the regime. We who felt all this
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through the students and through friends on the faculty, became aware that in any move toward peace, any increase in international fellowship, President Neilson's sympathy would be warm and re- sponsive. His counsels to young men, of whom my oldest son was one, helped them to maintain a balance of liberal thought even while feeling conscientious objections to military service.
We had an event in the family during the first winter of the American participation in the war-a military wedding. Nan was marrying Paul Andrews, the son of our friends in Syracuse, whose father, an eminent Justice of the New York Court of Appeals, had been the stripling at our early games of Prisoners' Base in Syracuse. The engagement was already a year old, and Paul was expecting to be sent to France in the spring. Roger played the march, and I an accompaniment to a violin obbligato, by a student in the music department, while an old English wedding-hymn was sung and the married pair knelt after the benediction; it was very reverent and lovely. Then, as they rose from their knees came the dramatic fea- ture of the occasion. Roger sounded the strains of The Star-Span- gled Banner from the large trumpet, the tones of which filled the hall. The guests were already standing and smiling-bringing the affair to a triumphant climax at which I might well have felt moved. But the spectacle of the musician, his cheeks full and tense as he solemnly pumped air into the unaccustomed instrument, brought a fit of amusement which I could hardly control. This supreme sacrifice of our pacifist predilections and agonized musical sensi- bilities upon the altars of Hymen and Mars was too much for pent- up emotions. I dared not look round at my husband, who was standing decorously beside me with every outward indication of sympathy; he was a perfectly consistent patriot and even his own sensitive ear endured the trumpeting. But I did give him a slight jog of the elbow-and primmed my unruly lips into an expression of respect. Our son mopped his perspiring brow as he eased his lungs, with a twinkle in his eyes that met mine. Even if the "brass" was a trifle off key, however, the finale had made a great impression. It is only fair to own that thereafter I found myself looking upon our national anthem with less aversion. As an instrumental solo
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divorced from the explosive text which rasped one's peace-time pride, I could bear to listen to its tones.
The year 1918 was a strenuous one from its very beginning. The departure for France of the Smith unit, made undergraduates eager to give their services in intensive work for the army and the wounded. At home there were exigencies to be met which ap- pealed to all the local charities. The Children's Aid (which a group of friends had founded some years before) took on new problems; now we had unmarried mothers and war-babies to care for. Private resources were drained to meet these needs; prejudices had to be revised in the name of patriotism. And there was always the endless discussion and argument over patriotism itself; how far external observances of it should be enforced, how severely dissenters should be punished.
For me it was always a comfort to get away with Lucy Watson to conferences of the Fellowship of Reconciliation, where Rufus Jones and an carnest group of peace-men kept the spirit of its gatherings at a high level. We found the Quaker meetings not only restful but intensely devotional. The Friends" Society was carrying on in Europe with an unobtrusive persistence which made its work more truly a copy of Christ's own ministrations than any other undertaking. There was no ban on its care for the wounded and starving, of whatever nation; but the American Red Cross, taken over by our Government, could no longer labor impartially, though its accomplishment was superb. Everywhere, at home and abroad, it was manned by fine leaders and organizers and devoted nurses. I was glad, too, to get away to Boston for an occasional visit at Denison House, with Helena Dudley and Euphemia Mackintosh. Helena was bravely outspoken in her condemnation of war, and sometimes alarmed her friends thereby; but she came to no harm, and her courage heartened us all. At Wellesley Alice Brown and Vida Scudder gave their prayers to the peace cause. Vida's vision was strong and clear, her stand convincing. Yet not all our Com- panions were absolutely at one in their shades of feeling about America's entrance into the war, and the attitude of the House of Bishops in the Episcopal Church, over which I had frequent argu-
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ment with my brother, was then discouraging to many of us. At Adelynrood there was spiritual unity if not always complete una- nimity, and we gained from our effort to maintain it.
In the spring of that year, I traveled to Syracuse, to visit my two sisters. We were very anxious about Arria. She had been closely identified with the life of the city and with the great national issues at stake. All manner of causes looked to her for support; she had been made the first woman member of the Chamber of Commerce; was called in council by benefactors of public charities, and build- ings, even, were named for her; her work for girls had widened out into larger circles. But now, after fifty years of intensive usefulness, she was suffering from a nervous breakdown and great despondency. At the end of the summer she was taken, by her own wish, to a quiet private sanitarium near Syracuse. For my sister Molly this was a crushing blow. It meant giving up the pleasant apartment they had shared, and leaving the church people by whom she had been dearly loved; an uprooting of much that was precious to her. She came back to us at the farm each summer, but not with the old joy and zest. The empty cabin on the hill-top, its doors and windows nailed, remained for succeeding years a place of sad remembrance.
After the 1918 Commencement, I managed to slip away from home for a little visit with my daughter, who, with her husband and another couple, had taken a pleasant old house at Harvard, near Camp Devens. Its pillared porch overlooked the camp from a hill some two miles to the east, and it was reached by lovely country byways. Roger was working at the Soldiers' Club at Ayer, and had met me at the station when I arrived. I was aware, however, of a certain reserve in his greeting. "Nan's out there in the car," he whispered. "I think Paul's gone. I went over to camp this morning and the Brigade headquarters were empty, the General's and all. I haven't asked her any questions and she hasn't said a word; I imagine she isn't supposed to let out anything for a certain number of hours; maybe till after the transport has sailed. But I'm sure they must have left in the night; they always do."
Nan was very bright, looking festive in her white afternoon gown. We stopped to chat with various people on the way to her
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house, and later some of the officers' wives came in for tea. All seemed in good spirits, but their eyes looked weary. After supper, as we sat watching the sunset, Nan said unemotionally,
"Mother, I can tell you now. Paul's Brigade left last night." It was a moving story, told with calm. The boys had received sud- den orders to leave, and the two husbands were allowed a few hours at home for packing up and bidding farewell to their wives.
"We knew we shouldn't crack," said my daughter, "for we've been keeping ready all these last weeks."
At half past nine the men left, with an everyday goodnight; no sign given servants, or other witnesses, of an unusual parting. The two were fellow-officers on the General's staff. After that the wives had sat on the dark verandah, hour after hour, watching the distant camp lights. Excitement kept them buoyed up during the last dragging moments of their vigil. At one in the morning they could see that lights were extinguished; then there was stillness, for the tread of softly marching feet did not reach their ears. A train of empty cars had waited on a siding for days. By and by came a faint sound of grinding wheels, a few light puffs from an engine; the train pulled silently out, unheard by a sleeping community. What its destination was, the narrator did not say, but I imagined that the transport had sailed from Boston. I think mothers take lessons from their children with better grace than from their parents; at any rate mine had given me an example of fortitude, which I counted among the salutary, if somewhat racking, experiences of the war.
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"COOK AND HOUSEWORKER"
Life at our own farm was increasingly complicated. All country communities were feeling the lack of masculine workers. A trying experience with a manager who turned out to be a draft-dodger and was retired from his job in disgrace, forced us to call upon the younger generation for help, and four boys in their teens, headed by my own younger son, took up the task with remarkable capa- bility. They whistled and sang as they drove the cows home from pasture and tossed hay into the mangers. Seated on a three-legged stool, John trolled out college choruses in his hearty baritone, ac- companied by the rhythmic tinkle of milk as it flowed into the pails. Lec, a lad who had grown up among us, carried on the milk-route and the work in our still primitive dairy; Albert and Arthur looked out for the chores; all four, on shifts, put through the digging of a drain from the barnyard to the east ditch, as practice for work in the trenches later on. They accomplished the harvesting of rowen- crops and, with help from the village carpenter, built a long tool- shed against the barn ell and painted it. Their straight young bodies and tanned skins were good to see.
I was cook and houseworker, and one of my 1922 freshmen, a nicce of General McNair, came to work with us for a week or so, since many of her friends were going out as "farmerettes." She walked the six miles over from Northampton carrying her overalls in an appropriate bundle. An old man in a wagon picked her up on the North Hadley road, and upon being told where to leave her in- quired,
"Be ye Mis' Sessions' hired gal?" that delighted her greatly and caused her to adopt the title. She wanted to try every species
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of farm labor, and trundled a wheelbarrow with buckets of "swill" for the pigs, curried the horses, or borrowed the paint-brush and mounted the ladder which stood against the shed-walls. After our lively evenings she was apt to sleep late, and remembers being called in the morning by a recital of the breakfast menu, as "Betty, muffins!" or; "Omelette, Betty; hurry and get down before it falls!" I see her, a slim, bright-haired creature, standing in the doorway of the barn with head erect, and hands clasped behind her back, or poised upon a load of green sword-bladed cornstalks with long hanging tassels, headed for the silo-filler, which kept up its metallic din for hours together. Overhead brooded the blue September sky, faintly misty and dreamy, and our wooded hill, bedecked with scarlet branches, made a background for the picture.
I was proud of my young son's managerial achievement, and now and then indulged a secret hope, developed from my own love of the soil, that I might one day see him squire of Phelps Farm. But no vision was bright enough to dispel a foreboding sadness; he was going on leave from Harvard to spend a terni at the Yale Artillery School, his choice of a military training-place; he was keen for an acquaintance with the guns. Once more I buried resentments, thinking of the thousands of braver mothers who through all time had been called upon to sacrifice their sons, and meditated upon that curious quality of the maternal mind which can maintain a calm front at the agonizing moment of parting, but succumbs to tears over the darning of stockings or packing of kits.
It was during the war years that I became aware of a change which had come over the American girl since the beginning of the century; she, too, had taken on poise and judgment. We could see it in her assumption of collegiate responsibilities. Most mothers no longer felt it necessary to bring their daughters to college, or in- troduce them to teachers and housemothers. Undoubtedly the ini- provement of preparatory schools had something to do with the change; certainly the average freshman no longer needed protec- tion. She could settle herself intelligently in new quarters, with a fairly clear idea of the aims and objects to be pursued during the four years ahead of her. One heard less about the advantages of The
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Life; the whole of life, and its interwoven pattern was little by little opening to her contemplation; she was listening more soberly in class and lecture-room. One noted a trend toward occasional re- flection, and I recollect some of the talks we had. Often when I came upon a group of debaters they would reach out a hand and draw me in with the question, "What do you think, Mother Ses- sions?" or would call to me as I passed a door and make a place for me among their sofa-pillows in a moonlit room. Youth was begin- ning to surmise that with the return of the army there would be problems to meet; there were already happenings to be sober about. Yet neither my college children nor I could have prophesied how tremendous a claim that return and its aftermath would make on traditions which society had hitherto taken for granted.
Calamity was close upon us at that moment, in the fall of 1918. The influenza epidemic, brought to this country on the transports from European war-centres, swept the United States, spreading from camps to populations, and attacking the college with special virulence, it seemed, when it reached Northampton. Every house, on or off campus, was quarantined. We had fourteen cases at our house in the first ten days, and some of them were obliged to wait for entrance into the emergency-infirmaries, which were set up after the city's hospital was filled. We turned one of our rooms into a ward, and took care of patients as best we might till that could be regulated. I found I could stand night-duty, and there were no nurses to be had. Most convalescents were sent home; some twenty, mostly immune, remained with us. After that our cook and assistant cook and one waitress were sent to the hospital with severe cases lasting several weeks. Minnie, a gentle elderly soul who had been like a family nurse to the girls for twelve years, carried on upstairs with one helper; in the kitchen I took over the cooking, with the help of the remaining waitress, a rosy brown-eyed German girl, vivacious and briskly capable. Rose and I worked shoulder to shoulder; wakened at five, and descended to the kitchen to bake a hundred breakfast-cakes or half a dozen big loaves of cornbread, and pack luncheons for seventeen uninfected girls who were al- lowed to do farm-work for the sake of life in the open. We gave them
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an early breakfast, and at seven, three or four dusty old cars would draw up in front of the house, ready to transport them to neighbor- ing villages. After the cars drove away we had a quiet day, with light luncheon-duties and time to prepare a hearty night meal. Do- ing up table-linen, making butter-balls and cleaning silver were some of my duties beside marketing. Minnie and her assistant swept twenty rooms and made beds, while Rose set tables, washed dishes, scrubbed the kitchen and sang folksongs the while in a clear soprano which supplied rhythm for our activities. I always thought of such adventures as happy opportunities which gave one the sense of the solidarity of human endeavor, and the joy of labor among singing workers.
The girls came out triumphantly with their field-work. One group cutting and stacking it, harvested the corn-crop for an old man whose sons were in the war; all of them escaped the "flu," and returned each night tanned and toughened and ready for sound sleep. The epidemic subsided almost as quickly as it had descended upon us. Classes resumed work, and we forgot the interruption. Stirring events in Europe were filling the public mind with alter- nate hope and fear; the French soldiers were still shouting; à Berlin! Roger ran in early and late with news to which our household had no other access. One morning soon after six, we were wakened by a blare of factory whistles. Sonorous tones from our own nearby mills, an answering blast from Easthampton, echoes from Holyoke and Springfield, made a volume of sound that told of some stupendous event. I sprang to the telephone to ask what had happened, and the answer came back; "Treaty of Peace with Austria!" Trembling with excitement I dashed out into the halls, knocking at every door and cried, "Children, wake up! Peace is coming; this is something for you to remember all your lives long!"
"Only Austria?" they asked.
"Yes, but Germany will come next. The war is almost over!" We had already learned of the surrender of Bulgaria and Turkey. And only a week passed, in fact, before the whistles wakened us once more, and this time the church-bells followed; newsboys were shout- ing in the streets. "Armistice! Armistice!" The word echoed on
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every side. Flags were going up, the telephone-lines were crowded. Our house was alive with calling voices, hurrying footsteps, windows flung open to hear the sound from without. Some girls came to my room after breakfast, asking;
"Mother Sessions, can't we have a service? Will you say some prayers, thanksgivings, you know, and can we sing hymns in the Hilarium? We must do something."
I was delighted to fall in with this plan, and set them at once to looking up hymns, but prayers were harder to find; I was most un- skilful at extemporaneous praying, and my Prayerbook seemed only to contain expressions of gratitude for good harvests and re- coveries from illness. I thought fretfully that the church ought to have anticipated a celebration of this sort. Certainly we were not singing the praises of military conquest like the Old Testament war- riors. But I was shamed into dropping self-consciousness; eloquence was not needed for spontaneous and simple thanksgiving.
Roger turned up just then, all excitement.
"Rodge, you must play something! What can you play to celebrate?"
"The Ninth Symphony, of course," he responded promptly. "There couldn't be anything better; wait and I'll run over and get it while you do the singing and praying." He did fetch it, and played it completely through, adagio and all, the girls moving about mean- while in restless excitement. When he came to the Joy Hymn, how- ever, they stood about the piano and beat time with hands and feet. In a corner, I was hearing the Gewandhaus chorus, all sound shut out except the orchestra and voices, as I had heard it thirty-six years before. My hands were over my eyes;
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