White Commencement

by JOSEPHINE YOUNG CASE

1

SOME of the seniors thought it would be a good plan not to have any Commencement at all. They were of the class of 1943 although they were to graduate in December of 1942, and in the general spirit of sacrifice and business-not-as-usual that swept the country as the first anniversary of Pearl Harbor came round, a petition was gotten up to urge upon the administration the sacrifice of Commencement too. It seemed a good idea and many signed. But later when the Dean, a veteran of World War I, talked to them, the majority decided that they might be cheating themselves and their fathers and mothers; so they voted to hold Commencement not as usual but in a simplified way.

The date was first set for December 20, but soon the college received notice that the boys who had enlisted in the Marines would be called before that time. In a hastily summoned meeting that provoked a warm debate, the Faculty decided that Commencement could and should be moved ahead to Sunday, December 13. After this announcement the telephone and telegraph offices were swamped with calls. Parents in fifteen states were notified by anxious sons that if they were coming to Commencement they would have to hurry.

At the Inn the few remaining maids who had not yet left for war jobs scurried to get the place ready and the rooms made up. The vacuum cleaner ran continuously. And all over the town housewives who rented rooms cleaned house in haste.

At schools, in sorority houses, in homes, girls tore open special-delivery letters and remade their plans for the weekend. Hairdressers were called to the phone for new appointments. The dress shops did a good business. And all through the many heads busied with these affairs ran the undercurrent of thought like a somber refrain: “This may be the last time I shall see him — for a long time, anyway.”— “This is the last of his college life, of peace, of youth.”— “This is the end.”— “This is the beginning.”

On Saturday the 12th, the seniors began to pack. The accumulations of three and a quarter years were thrown away or stuffed into the already gaping bags and trunks. The underclassmen were mostly gone for the holidays, and all over the campus hung the air of untidy desolation and impending finality that is usually associated with the warm air and still sunshine of June.

But on this day the snow fell lightly from fastmoving broken clouds. The yellow sun peered through, then disappeared. The wind carried the snow into little drifts at the corners of the fraternity houses, and the boys wore their ski boots as they clattered in and out.

At the President’s house the children had put up a Christmas tree and were hanging dozens of ornaments upon it. The older ones gave loud directions continually and the younger ones, in their eagerness to help, dropped ball after ball until the rug was covered with little glittering fragments. The daughter hung the mistletoe in the doorway and wondered secretly in her tenyear-old heart what the result would be. The President’s wife hurried about town collecting the food and drink, the paper napkins, the red candles necessary for the coming party, while in the kitchen the butler and cook exchanged a few sharp words.

The Dean and the President conferred in tfie latter’s office. There were fewer casualties than usual in the graduating class this year. Either the Faculty, impressed by the imminence of war’s demands upon their pupils, had been kind where kindness was possible, or the boys had earnestly applied themselves to their final civilian duties. There were some, however, upon whom neither grace had fallen, and no amount of re-adding could possibly bring their credits up to the necessary number. The Dean left unhappily to notify them, and the President went on signing the 185 diplomas of the more fortunate ones. The heavy parchment paper curled in waves over the desk as the India ink flowed from the pen above the engraved Praeses and the attentive secretary carefully removed each one to dry without blotting.

At the chapel the Marshal drilled the class in the procedures of Commencement. They shambled across the platform in their plaid shirts, learning the proper place to stand to receive the diploma and when to tip the cap, thinking all the while of boot training or parade grounds at dawn.

The parents began to arrive. The Inn was filled with the sound of greetings and the smell of snow on fur. The strip of carpet across the lobby was covered with heel-shapes of snow melting in little pools of water. The harassed room clerk tried to disentangle his reservations. The waitresses served coffee and doughnuts in the Tavern Room and the porter said the second bus from the city was an hour late on account of the bad condition of the roads. Mothers secretly but eagerly pressed the firm flesh of their sons’ arms, fathers shook hands long and hard, young sisters and brothers made a nuisance of themselves.

The boy from Iowa looked at his father who had traveled a night and a day to reach him and wondered desperately if the President would feel it necessary to tell of that escapade at Tony’s Bar. Thank God the judge had been kind hearted and let them off without a record; thank God the President had done the same — though after what a talking-to! They had understood he had meant no harm; but Dad would never understand.

In the afternoon the seniors brought their fathers and mothers and relatives, and girls if they had them, to the reception at the President’s house. The late sun was golden on the little drifts of snow, the dark trunks of trees threw blue shadows, tin’ campus had never looked lovelier. Inside, the house was warm and bright, the lights on the Christmas tree were gay and welcoming. One by one the seniors brought forward their families, some shy, some eager, all proud, all serious. Fat mothers, small mothers, pretty mothers, plain mothers, fathers of all shapes and descriptions, went by. How the boys show their origin, thought the President’s wife as the long procession passed; in each one you can see the parents over again; they are one, these families, they are units, indivisible. “I am so glad you could come,”she said over and over again; “we were so afraid the difficulties of travel, the change in date, would keep you away. We are so happy to have you here. We shall miss your boy so much.”It was true. Who would not miss them and they going God knows where? The President took pains to speak at some length to each father and mother. He hoped that each one left with a special feeling.

The little sisters and brothers with shining faces shook hands softly, their little lingers limp. The grandmothers’ eyes shone brightly behind their glasses; this is an old story but somehow each time more dear.

In the dining room the cider and Christmas cookies disappeared. The seniors introduced their families to each other, the little brothers and sisters made a beeline for the gingerbread men. The daughter of the house noticed with disappointment that no one made use of the mistletoe.

While more guests were coming, others said good-by. Chicago, Westchester, Texas, Detroit, Long Island, Salem, Syracuse — all gathered together lor this brief moment in common cause, spoke of the beauty of the college, its gift to their sons, its future. The parents now felt with the boys a rush of enthusiasm and sentiment for the old stone buildings on the lovely hill. At last everyone was gone, the children ate up all the cookies that were left, the butler swept up the crumbs, and the dog was released from his prison in the cellar.

2

AFTER supper everyone hurried to the level space by the lake in front of the Union. A fire burned brightly on the ground, and to the seniors assembled round it in their caps and gowns the professor of philosophy spoke briefly. The wind blew the flames, blew the black gowns, blew away the serious and tender words. Then the seniors lit at the fire their kerosene-soaked torches and marched single file down the path at the edge of the lake. Overhead the interlacing willow branches leaped to view, the snow gleamed pinkly all around, the thin ice on the water reflected sudden gleams. Beneath each torch the face of its bearer stood out boldly, the nose jutting from eye-wells of shadow, the mouth firm and determined. Soldiers on some strange night attack, savages at some grim celebration, young priests at the altar of an ancient god ... In long line at the water’s edge they sang the “Alma Mater,”the song sounding low and distant across the water; one end was slightly out of time with the other and the effect was one of weird melancholy and sadness. At the last the flaming torches hissed in the lake, went out with a splendid steam, and the seniors came running back to their silent audience, boys in caps and gowns once more.

For the evening, the local movie theater was taken over by the Dramatic Club, and every seat was filled. It was a melodrama with the murdered body right on the stage and a circle of ghoulish criminals and innocent bystanders around it. The senior from New England played the cynical and melancholic poet who at last laid hire the crime. His mother looked on with amazement. In reality he was fresh-faced, sweet-nutured, clear-eyed. His father was thinking of what the boy would learn at Parris Island.

When the curtain went down, the audience, pleasantly horrified, clapped loudly. The grinning cast appeared for a curtain call, and the chattering audience slowly departed. The President and his wife congratulated the actors. On the way out a group of seniors waylaid the President and asked if something couldn’t be done about one of the boys who could not graduate. The others no one defended; but this one had been popular, and almost good enough to get by. The President, feeling sad, said no to the anxious faces around him. “It wouldn’t be fair,”he said, “to him or anyone.”

Downstairs at the Inn the taproom was filled and the young voices went on and on. In some of the fraternity houses there was dancing, and some drinking, but not so much as at other Commencements. The boy from Iowa refused to take a drink and thought of the abysmal hell of the morning when he woke and remembered what had happened at Tony’s Bar.

Very early Sunday morning, long before the late dawn of wartime winter, the superintendent of grounds climbed out of bed and peered out the window. Seeing the snow whirl thickly and the now layer of several inches on the sill, he went to the telephone. “Dan, you better get Harold and the other men right away. Get out both plows — every road on the campus must be cleared. Clean out a big place around the chapel. It’s snowing like the devil.”

The President, hearing the plow go by, looked at his watch and rolled over with a groan, thinking with a sudden stab of his Commencement address, on which he had worked so hard and which he felt was so inadequate. What could one say to boys setting out upon such errands as these; boys for whom one felt such affection, such apprehension?

At the Inn the mothers and sisters dressed carefully in their best, soon to be hidden under fur coats and galoshes. At the fraternity houses the boys dug their cars out of the snow, threw in their last belongings, ready for a quick getaway after the ceremonies were over. At the chapel the men were clearing the steps of the soft, light snow that endlessly drifted back. Inside, the student marshals were looping long streamers of ribbon along the reserved pews.

Half an hour before the ceremonies were supposed to begin, the cars started coming up the long hill, and warm-wrapped cargoes were delivered at the chapel steps. “What weather!" they said to one another. “What weather for Commencement!" In the hall next door the seniors were donning their caps and gowns, making fun of each other, secretly serious. Across the way the Faculty were decked in hoods of all colors; the President was wearing his new hood, gaudy with orange and purple.

The organ began to play. Everybody stood up. The heavy silk flags came down the aisle. The crowded chapel was enlivened with bright colors, with an access of vitality and warmth, as though the entrance of the long file of teachers and students generated a strong current that vibrated in every breast. Families looked eagerly for their darlings; the boys — though endeavoring to appear not to be looking — searched also and small secret smiles were exchanged.

Outside, the snow sifted on the roof, on all the gray stone buildings, catching in the cornices and window frames, in the old trees that had seen so many Commencements but none like this. Inside, the President spoke gravely, looking very young in his gold-tasseled cap. The long rows of faces looked up at him. The black-gowned seniors sat very still, their faces showed nothing. The veils and feathers on the women’s hats jiggled slightly. The children shifted in their seats, trying to count the stars in the big service flag behind the platform.

Now the Dean was reading the list of names; whenever he came to a cum laude a small fire of clapping ran through the room. A magna rated more prolonged applause. And when he came to the one summa cum laude, the roof reverberated and the boy’s mother burst into tears. One by one the seniors came to the platform to receive their diplomas and their dark-red-lined hoods. The audience watched fascinated to see each roll handed out, each hood put on, each man received with a few words by the President. One fellow tried to leave before his hood could be put over his head, and laughter ran lightly as the President held him back.

There was clapping for each one, and no lessening of it throughout; for each one his friends and family made a special little claque, to whom he was the central performer of the day. When the long list was finished they sang with a great outpouring of relief, regret, pride, sorrow, and gladness the “Alma Mater.” For its brief span the whole congregation was knit into one; for now these many hearts were one, this never-to-be-again-united assemblage was united in a moment without a name, the epitome of the end and the beginning which was this day.

The attendant minister pronounced the benediction, the organ played the recessional, the academic procession slowly withdrew. Little by little the families and friends followed, speaking softly, laughing lightly, some eyes shining, some shadowed, some merely tired. Outside in the portico in the snow they joined their sons; the black gowns flapped in the snowy wind, the new hoods were handsome against their black and the snow’s white. Cars drove up, cries of farewell began to be exchanged. Group by group the crowd departed, seeking shelter from the wind, from the snow, from the chill in their own hearts.