Spence School - Yearbook (New York, NY)

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EACH AGE IS A DREAM (Prize Essay) There is an inexpressible joy in dreaming of the past. The evils of our tumultuous time sink from the mind when one ponders civilization alive only in the memory of history. For although we feel that our troubles are serious and world- shaking, the troubles of the past are simply the substance for study and romance. Therefore, when we escape into dreams of ancient times, there is a satisfaction and a certain fulfilment in finding qualities and ideals that we lack today ruling all men’s hearts and lives. But is this escape ignoble, is it cowardly? Perhaps, but do not, do not ques- tion it! These dreams are too dear a delight. Come, I shall show you what this delight is, and together we shall peek into my dreams. But you must forget all the duty, all the useless energy, and all the vain hope of the present as we sink into the misty past. Half-obscured by the magical gray mist, there is, on the right, a graceful Greek temple with slender marble columns. I can dimly hear and see a group of white-robed men standing on the porch of this temple, discussing the meaning and value of life with an ability and understanding un- equalled by any succeeding generation. To the left, a shimmering fountain leaps to the air, then falls with tinkling laughter and a shower of changing gray and white colors. A swift, graceful figure suddenly darts from behind the fountain. After standing before me a second with hand upraised, the nymph turns and chases the blue-green brook that winds from the fountain deep into the woods. Oh, that the serene peace, the lofty contemplation, and the worship of nature that existed in those calm classical times existed in this world today! How much we are missing in this age of rush and noise! And how—but stop; before we once more become confused with the hard thoughts of real- ity, let us hastily escape into the glorious time of the Renaissance. Here is Venice, with its great palaces, sliding streets of water, and riches gathered from both the West and the Orient. The city throbs with the bustle of trade and the color of magnificent pag- eants. All this vibrant life is surrounded by the clear beauty of the crystal air, the deep reflecting streams, and the glowing wealth of many lands. And there are still more visions of Italy’s Renais- sance. Before me stretch rich green fields and thick purple vineyards, while on the swelling hills grim castles frown upon the earth and reach towards heaven. And then there is also beauty- 60 loving Florence, turbulent and sinful, yet a city filled with more loveliness, more lasting art than even this day-dream can picture. Such vitality, such delight in life as I have seen in these dreams! Would we not know true happiness if in reality we could see as much color and warmth, and have as much love of beauty and love of life as in those visions ? In my next day dream there is peace and nobility and loveliness. In a long white ruffled dress I am sitting on the steps of a porch waiting for a party to begin. It is in the days of the South before the Civil War; warmth and pleasure seem to fill the earth. From the carefully tended garden comes the mingled fragrance of roses and magnolias. The wide lawn is splashed with sun and shadow- patterns of the trees. The breeze whispers drowsily in the warm stillness as I wait for the guests to arrive and the dance to begin. I know it will be light-hearted and lovely, and that there will be gay conversation about the chivalry and nobility of our dear South. Yes, the romance and indolence of those days are truly enviable. Why do we not place the emphasis in this age on loveliness and nobility instead of business and industry? Indeed, how very beautiful was the old South, and how we all secretly yearn for its peace and its romance! These dreams that we have seen have been an escape, for in the past we have found the quali- ties that we need today—the serence contempla- tion of classical Greece, the vibrancy and beauty of the Renaissance, and the peace and chivalry of the old South. Can we possibly reach into these dreams and bring the greatness of the past into the present? Are my dreams of any use? No; for I must remember that “each age is a dream that is dying or one that is coming to birth.” And the past is made up of dreams that are dead, while this present reality is “a dream that is coming to birth.” If I cannot find the romance of olden times in this life, I must realize that this age too will one day be but a dream of the past, that I am now living in a part of history, and that it too has its beauty and greatness. O yes, I know how foolish I am! I know how much time I waste in in these vain dreams. And I wonder . . . I wonder if I shall ever turn to reality with hope and de- light. I wonder if I shall ever cease longing for the useless beauty of the past. Yes, often I have wondered that, but never, never have I wished it. Joan Wickman, XII

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eT a ERIE ET THE VOICE WITHOUT A SMILE I've always been afraid of telephones. Not that they mystify me, for my only pleasant contact with telephones came at a time when I had a crush on a lineman and used to pull out the wires in our phone so he would come and fix it. (That's probably where my idiosyn- crasy of unscrewing the mouthpiece while I talk origi- nated.) My hatred of Alexander Graham Bell’s inven- tion stems from my early childhood when my mother instructed me to cultivate a voice with a smile. My voice not only lacks a smile; it possesses a definite leer. I have never learned to talk naturally into a telephone, but instead shriek and bellow at the obstinate instru- ment, and if the conversation becomes too difficult or complicated, I yield to temptation and slam down the receiver. The process involved in reaching someone via the telephone completely floors me. I approach the vile apparatus deliberately and spend as much time as pos- I regularly make several sible looking up the number. mistakes in dialing and am forced to start again. Then I wait, terrified, secretly hoping that no one will answer. It’s usually a wrong number, anyway. Answering doesn't present problems, as a cule. I simply say “Hello.” There was a time when I used to respond with a cheery “Dr. Sullivan's residence,’ but, as my midwestern monotone cannot be understood by any- one, this only resulted in confusion, and I was forced to abandon it. (Anyway, Emily Post frowns on it.) ] envy characters in the movies who are allowed to growl “yeah?” or “For whom does the bell toll?” I even wish I was in England so I could say “Go ahead,” “Are you there?” (or whatever it is they say in England.) “Hello” sounds so prosaic. Any previous troubles I may have had with the telephone seem tame compared to what | endured this summer. I was working in a summer theatre, and my particular job was to call up all sorts of peculiar peo- ple to ask if the theatre might borrow various articles. As these articles were unusual, I frequently had trouble making myself understood. Once we received a small eagle (stuffed) when I had asked for a minature easel. There was alsc the horrible time I had convincing the Danbury Railway, Station that I only wanted to borrow a signal bell and not the entice engine. | still have nightmares when I imagine the astonishment displayed by the manager of a dry-cleaning establishment when, on the hottest day of the summer, he heard a small voice entreating, “Hello! I wonder if you can tell me how to make steam!” My antipathy to phones is intensified a thousand times by a pay phone. The idea that the monstrous ma- chine is consuming my money with a never-ceasing ap- petite, combined with an inability to get along with the operator, makes a booth a virtual chamber of horrors. However, I can point with pride to the fact that once I caused an operator to lose her voice-with-a-smiule. That was the day I called every furniture store in Con- necticut for garden furniture, and used so many nickels that no more would go in. ‘Deposit five cents, please,” said the operator. This was virtually impossible, and I screamed in ter- ror, thinking the awful machine might blow up. ‘It won't go in!” “Deposit five cents, please,” said the operator, a trifle more firmly. ‘T tell you it won't go in!” I shouted in a roar that could be heard throughout the entire building. ‘Then use dimes!’ The operator shouted back, losing her composure. We finally reached an agreement w hereby I was to receive two calls for a dime. But it never worked. They still owe me forty cents. What really conditioned me against telephones for the rest of my unnatural life was the incident of the antique dealers. In the space of one hour, on a day when I was particularly distressed—since it had been discovered that -half the props for the coming show were in the car of a fellow who had left the day before to be married—three antique dealers called up and threatened to take legal action against the theatre. It fell upon me to placate them. To the first I was polite and full of remorse; I listened vaguely to the second; and I informed the third that “That girl who went around borrowing things and not returning them’? wasn't in and was not expected to return. As a result of this appalling experience I still have to be convinced that it isn’t an antique dealer before I will come to the phone. Maybe it was all good for me—who knows? But, from now on, I'll put my faith in the pony express. Anne Sullivan, XII MAKE MINE VERSES The place that I shall write about Is ‘cross a magic SCa— Where pure prose blooms on every bush And every verse is free— The houses all are pink and white, The sky is always blue; At sunrise every golden day, Trochaics sing to you. And all the little children You meet along the street, They speak to you in couplets And never miss a beat. If I could linger there awhile, A month or two at most, You'd think I was inhabited By William Shakespeare’s ghost. Lucy Blount, XII

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LADY CORISANDE TO LADY SILVANA Cornwall Terrace, 12 May I have just met the most eccentric person in London, Lady Anaplan. No doubt you have heard of her exaggerated love for those ancient Greeks and their philosophy, but I shall tell you more about her now since I know her. My Lord William Dandilion accompanied me to make this most ex- traordinary visit. I am sure that you must be quite shocked since I mention him to you so often in our correspondence, but, dear Silvana, he is the handsomest young man I have ever met, his ties and his perfumes are enough to make any girl's heart feel faint, and every time we pass together in the streets of Pall Mall and see that silly Lady Pinewood, she turns green with envy. She also cherished him avidly, but my charms drew him away from her clinging affection in the space of the big London ball. Returning to Lady Anaplan, darling William (you should hear his ‘‘plaisantries’’: always min- gled with the right amount of sarcasm and pique! ) and I arrived at a large mansion on Queen Anne's Street. Instead of being ushered into the usual morning-room, we were taken to a large ballroom. William whispered, very close to my ear, that this chamber reminded Lady Anaplan of a Peristyle. I don’t think so in the least—not my conception of a Peristyle, but of course there was the right number of Greek statues. It was rather a lovely room, with ornate ceilings of Greek design in gold, and two Corinthian columns, near the simple door, also painted finely with gold. However, I must say that the countenance of Lady Anaplan spoiled it all. My dear, she was reading a book in Greek! I almost had a fit of laughter, but Lord William, with a very ‘“degagé”’ air and a ready smile, rushed off into a stream of most lovely compliments— almost as lovely as the ones he pays me. I must tell you here that I found Lady Anaplan not only strange because she has a predilection for Greek, but especially because she also, in our time, adores the exact opposite of what I have heard the Greeks to be: to have an affection for Lord William, for instance—no Greek would ever have looked, much less talked with such wit, such sarcasm, such charm, such boldness—such foppish- ness. I have also heard it said that Greeks prized moderation; well, my Lady Anaplan is quite exag- gerated, and for well-known reasons. Tis said 61 that, like our beloved Queen, she loves her food to a more than rational extent. Likewise, she is very illogical—does not all this prove it? She should have been born in the Eliza- bethans’ time! Silvana, dear, having naturally en- gaged upon a discourse about Greek art (the like you know me to be rather badly educated in, having a more thorough “connaissance” with the Ace of Spades), I was making a charming com- ment upon how Cicero surpassed Praxiteles in his groupings, and my Lord William was smiling, a twinkle in his eyes, at my knowledge, when her little nephew came in, breathless, asking for the hour, “for the clock, my lady, is broken; my brother aimed the darts at it and the glass splin- tered.”” Lady Anaplan, like a queen, sitting in her much decorated French fauteuil, gold with petit point, her rich, scarlet damask robe glittering in the sunlight, said: “Richard, my man, Socrates said, ‘Know thyself!’ Now the clock knows that it should avoid Thomas’ darts because its glass breaks when hit. Do you apply the same to your- self!’ With this, Richard, his eyes rolling, fled. Poor little rascal, instead of telling him the time, she had to make him feel that he was quite un- wanted, with this continual outburst of Greek Anafkn! That is the only Greek word I know— my brother had me embroider it on a half dozen of his fine handkerchiefs. After more than an hour of such learned conversation (every young lady in London is dying to become Lady Dandilion, and to think that maybe I. . .), Lady Anaplan rose, and, pointing to a beautiful statue of Amphytrion, said to me: ‘“My dear, remember, this is art, this is the kind of man I should like to meet nowadays, not bursting cockerels like Walpole—excepting of course my Lord Dandilion,”’ she smiled graciously. I again almost fell into a fit of laughter, thinking about how Lady Anaplan would look, surrounded by a crowd of Amphytrions. William took my arm so that I should not slip on the shiny, uncarpeted floor, and thereupon we left. Do not write back to me, dear Silvana, that you know a more ec- centric person than my Lady Anaplan, or I shall again flood you with letters exposing her ever- increasing pretensions. Ever and affectionately yours, Your friend, Claude Goffart, XI