My essay, called “Sailing,” portrayed allegorically the voyage of school life. By cables our little boats were fastened to a large ship on which was the Captain who guided our course near home and foreign shores, where we learned of the earth and the air, the rocks and the reefs, and the mysteries of the deep; we studied the stars overhead, the banks along the shores, the fauna and flora, as well as the peoples of the various climes—their language and literature. And this is how my wonderful essay ended, as dropping the allegory, I addressed the class:
Classmates, we have now come to that part of our voyage where we must separate. We have long been fellow-voyagers, sailing side by side, upon the Sea of Knowledge; we have had one ship, one voyage, and one Captain, but henceforth our course must change; and as we end the voyage of school life, and begin the greater one on Life’s vast sea, may He who walked upon the waters be your Pilot, guarding against shipwreck, and guiding your course until your boats shall near the shining shore, and anchor in the peaceful haven of Eternal Rest.
For two or more years I had had grave doubts about the truth of certain orthodox teachings previously accepted unquestioningly. Our studies in geology and astronomy had set me thinking for myself. I was groping about for a reconciliation of opposing teachings. Our principal, too, had often raised questions in class that he made no pretense of answering, doubtless merely to awaken thought. Some essays of Huxley’s and Spencer’s had contributed to my unsettled state of mind. In a veritable chaos, impatient with certain teachings I now knew could not be true, but too unschooled and dependent to reach a satisfactory solution, I was a most unhappy being. With an ingrained tenderness for the old paths, yet was I morally sure that there were broader ones, with wider, truer vistas. Pulled this way and that, remorse because of my doubts and uncertainties alternated with defiance; for I felt that, since my reason was meant for use, there was a higher Right that sanctioned my attempts to get at the truth.
I revert to all this now because it comes to me how I struggled with myself, when writing those last words of my essay, as to whether I would say what I did, knowing in my heart that, in the ordinary acceptation of the words, it was almost hypocrisy for me so to use them—“May He who walked upon the waters be your Pilot”—and yet feeling that they were needed to carry out my figure, and to make a suitable ending to conform to orthodox beliefs. Besides, what had I to offer instead? I did not believe that He actually walked upon the waters, but I did believe that He would make a good Pilot, so, weighing both sides, stood by what I had written. A lot of talk about one clause in a schoolgirl’s graduating essay, but it indicates the spiritual struggle which to recall even now makes me sorry for that girl I used to know. I think I must have been more conscientious about these things than most of the girls, for I never heard them hint at such problems, and never discussed these things with them, though I did with my friend, Walter. Had I attempted to explain my difficulties to my elders, I should only have blundered and bungled. Yet, in spite of these scruples, I sacrificed my dawning convictions that I might attain what I considered an apt and artistic ending to my allegory! I remember, though, that after deciding to make this concession to established opinions, I nudged myself with a congratulatory nudge at the innocent-looking but non-committal “peaceful haven of Eternal Rest.” I had not read “The Light of Asia” then, and knew nothing of what Nirvana meant—the ending merely pleased me by its cadence, and its figurative fitness; it did no violence to my budding doubts, yet would, I was sure, be accepted as a pious and fitting ending to my clever allegory!
Self-centred and self-conscious though I was, I was aware that no one would give the attention to my little composition that I gave—the general effect only would be noted; but I wanted to justify myself to myself; I wanted also to be approved by the public—two opposing trends of character that have robbed me of peace of mind at many a crucial moment. In this early crisis, after weighing it all, I decided upon the expedient course, taking care, however, to be as sincere as I could be in conforming to the exigencies of the case. Looking back over my life, I wonder if this has not been the course I have most generally pursued. It seems to have been typical of much of my conduct.
The above-named was not my original graduating essay but was one I had written for our Class Day exercises under the emotional stir-up felt at leaving school. My real essay, written for Commencement, I considered a much finer production (I blush to think of it now); but my instructors had persuaded me to read my allegory at Commencement. I felt aggrieved that the other should be buried in oblivion. It was an absurd affair—“What is Woman?”—which started out attempting to answer in a facetious way some of the arguments in Walter’s essay—“Man’s Place in Nature”—after which I launched forth in a revolt against the prevailing ideas about woman’s inferior place in nature and in society. It was a kind of miniature woman’s rights plea, weak and unoriginal, and with my special thunder directed toward those who would prevent woman from seeking to “heal the sick world that leans on her.” This was “Lucile’s” influence, combined with reading “Eminent Women of the Age,” plus a little Huxley and Spencer. The hodge-podge wound up with a poetical passage probably inspired by parts of “Paradise Lost,” and by a poem of Emma C. Embury’s—“The Mother.” Concerning the ending, I was not aware of its being anything but smooth in expression till, on reading it aloud to one of the girls, she exclaimed, “Why, Eugenie, that isn’t prose—that is poetry!” a verdict which naturally made me feel more keenly than ever the disappointment at not being able to read my masterpiece at Commencement.
After graduation I pieced out a summer term in a district school, the regular teacher falling ill. As it was in one of the same schools where my mother had taught as a girl, I tried to imagine what her life and thoughts and hopes had been in those days when she did not know Father, and when I was—nothing.
Besides giving me the opportunity to earn money, teaching was a profitable experience: I found it strange to be the mistress of anything. At first when standing up before the little people, it seemed queer to have them obey; it took me some time to get over the surprise of it; had they rebelled I should not have thought it strange. But one quickly learns to rule when he knows it is expected. I was learning for the first time what prestige goes with the mere office. It was soon a delight to direct and sway this little world. I then appreciated what a trial my teachers had had with me. Encountering occasional opposition in my pupils, and feeling the consequent disappointment, I had my first realization of the trouble I had given my own teachers, and felt a wave of tenderness, especially for “Prof.,” as I marvelled at his forbearance.
Some of my little charges were amusing and interesting; one or two repelled me; to others I was strongly drawn. One little boy of five or six was quaint and original: when I asked him who God was he sighed and said, “That’s more than I know.” He defined the stomach as “a kind of bread-basket, ain’t it?” A bare-footed, brown-eyed boy of perhaps twelve found a warm place in my heart. It was hard work not to pet him. I grew almost sentimental over him, and made occasions for him to raise his eyes, just to look into their brown depths. I remember thinking, “Those eyes will make some girl’s heart ache some day.” They almost made mine ache then. He seemed indifferent to my poorly veiled preference for him, and evidently had no ambition to become “‘teacher’s pet.’” One boy much older than the others grew insubordinate and I told him he must apologize for his impudence or leave the school. As he was to attend the Academy in a few weeks, he felt independent and refused. Having to stand my ground for the sake of discipline, I let him pack up his books and leave, but it was hard work to keep from calling him back. I knew he was sorry, but couldn’t say so.
The winter school which I taught was in another district—Johnny Cake Hollow—in a little red schoolhouse in the same neighbourhood where the youth lived to whom I had written notes in school. Although I had then recovered from my early fancy, I was still sentimental enough to wish I knew which of the battered old desks had been his.