Baldwin School - Prism Yearbook (Bryn Mawr, PA)

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“One of the most beautiful souls stood still, aghast and ashamed because she could not play the music she felt. “Poor, wonderful, beautiful soul, I love you. What else matters? You, who are as beautiful the music played, live a life as clean and pure as the feelings that are produced by this music. Why, oh why stand with bowed head before that of which you are a part? Let not discontent whisper in your ear and tempt you, but be yourself, for you are life, you are music, you are beauty.” Or, like the same Roumanian, they plead for beauty. “The violin was playing and some with bowed heads were praying. “For universal unity of mind and heart “Where words and action would be more than a mere blot on mankind’s history. “The blot of blood and rage, passion for individual conquest has existed long enough. “Let us have the turn of music. “For such moments, I believe, “Link hearts and minds of men “And liberate their souls from long, long sleep.” Or they are like the restless young person who could not study in peace at the school until she had done something to rectify unfortunate conditions among the servants; who this past winter has been earning her living and at the same time has managed to take courses in Physics, Ameri- can History and French, and has finally won her way to a school where she is training to become a teacher of workers’ classes. Many, many of them are just girls longing, as you do, for the color and thrills, for dancing, basketball, swimming, days of freedom outdoors, and often contributing from their savings to a camp where they and their fellow-workers can go for week-ends or their short vacations. To know them is to realize the burning problems of our twentieth century life; but it is also to feel the lift of their passionate longing for beauty, their indomitable faith in the dawn of the brotherhood of man, their will to bring it about by understanding themselves and the needs of others around them. One longs as never before, to put no obstacle in their way by failure to comprehend them; and above all to be sure that one uses one’s owi multitudinous opportunities as fully, as courageously and as generously as they use their few, and to join them, wherever one is, in making the life of the world an expression of justice and beauty. Helen Drusilla Lockwood 13

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sincerity, wrote about a luncheon which she had attended at one of the estates near here, “When we arrived at the house, a butler dressed in white opened the door and showed us to the garden. On the lawn in front of the house were tables and on them all kinds of fruit and most expensive dishes; waiters waited on every table Sitting by the table one could see nature’s beauty—meadows with tall grass, flowers of all kinds, and in the far distance a ridge of hills and forests; the trees along the hills, well-grown, wealthy in leaf, and touched by the rays of the setting sun, gave strong, luminous colors. Perceiving all this beauty, I thought with horror of the people who must dwell in the cities in small rooms and congregate on the steps or sidewalks, where children have not a place even to stand. I thought of our neighbor who could not find any work for eighteen weeks; of his little girl who had to stay home from school for not having shoes to wear; of Mrs. Simon, who lives on the fourth floor and has no water, for the plumbing is so poor. Thinking about all these things, I felt so depressed that when I heard the music which was also on the program, I heard cries of thousands of people deprived of all that makes life worth while living.” Their minds are constantly searching for the remedies that will free human life from this tragedy, and the best of them, not content with cease- less group activity, challenge the depths of individual hearts. I recall especially one paper with its awkward foreign turn of phrase: “Who are you, you who advocate tolerance without knowing what it means to be tolerant, you who advocate freedom and are the first to enslave everyone about you? All, all of us are a part of this whirlpool where we are dragged down and where we drag others down. In our moments of unselfishness have we ever stopped to count toward how many we are unselfish? Take the mother for instance, who loves her child but would sacrifice every other child of other mothers for the benefit of hers. A father would make millions of others slaves in order that he may give his children comfort. A sister would lose part of her life if she heard that her brother was betrayed, yet she would not be very scrupulous in bringing lovers to her feet, and sending them off with an “I don’t love you” after she had encouraged them In all our splendor of beautiful words we forget to see that we are in this very tumult and we are the ones who create it Not until we free ourselves from the selfishness within ourselves can we be human beings ” Sometimes with quick sympathy, they throw out encouragement to a younger, less experienced girl, challenging her to her best, as when a Roumanian wrote: 12

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3 cene 3 [ 3isfj 3 Couio Paint How often I see things that I know will only last for a moment and will then become vague memories or forgotten dreams, yet at the time I know that they are the most beautiful things I shall ever see, for me the most beautiful things in the world. A lofty friendly mountain range, a brilliant, glowing sunset, a clear winter sky, a rippling lake, the booming ocean, a terrible, wonderful thunder storm, all at the moment almost hurt, they are so big, so glorious. They make me feel so small, so insignificant and yet so full of life. I want to hold them all, to keep them, to become a part of them or make them a part of me. An author can say them and an artist can paint them, but I can only feel them for the hour, then forget them in the whirl of living. If only I were an author or an artist and could express not alone what I see but the feeling that goes with it. A few days ago on a walk, after a long pull up from the river valley, we stopped to rest and look about. It was a clear, cool, living spring day. Everything was alive or coming to life. Across the background were the rolling hills on the other side of the river. A little village nestled between them looked polished white, and fields of green wheat, plowed earth and gh ground gave a neat checkerboard appearance. On almost every hillside there were orchards of blossoming peach, apple and cherry trees; even from where we stood they seemed to gleam—delicate tints of pink, cream and white. Far off in the valley we could see a blue, sparkling, rippling bend of the river. It reflected in every sparkle the atmosphere of the clean spring day. On a nearby hill, a man was plowing with a white and a dark chestnut horse. He seemed small in comparison to his sur- roundings, but I envied him his chance to kick aside the soft, brown, earthy clods and his chance to talk to his sturdy horses. He was part of it all and he lived it. I wonder if he knew how precious was his gift. The whole world was poignant with spring and reawakening life, and as 1 breathed it in and tried to fill myself with it, 1 prayed that I might keep something of it with me always, for it was God. How sordid even the most beautiful of city streets is beside this big, fresh, new, clean scene. At the time this view filled me and held me. It hurt because it was so lovely, but the hurt was in the realization that I could not have it forever. An author or artist is lucky; he not only never loses precious sights and feeling but gives them to the world. If only I could express in some lasting way, what means so much to me. 14