The Story of My Life

In October, 1896, I entered the Cambridge School for Young Ladies, to be prepared for Radcliffe.

When I was a little girl, I visited Wellesley and surprised my friends by the announcement, “Some day I shall go to college—­but I shall go to Harvard!” When asked why I would not go to Wellesley, I replied that there were only girls there.  The thought of going to college took root in my heart and became an earnest desire, which impelled me to enter into competition for a degree with seeing and hearing girls, in the face of the strong opposition of many true and wise friends.  When I left New York the idea had become a fixed purpose; and it was decided that I should go to Cambridge.  This was the nearest approach I could get to Harvard and to the fulfillment of my childish declaration.

At the Cambridge School the plan was to have Miss Sullivan attend the classes with me and interpret to me the instruction given.

Of course my instructors had had no experience in teaching any but normal pupils, and my only means of conversing with them was reading their lips.  My studies for the first year were English history, English literature, German, Latin, arithmetic, Latin composition and occasional themes.  Until then I had never taken a course of study with the idea of preparing for college; but I had been well drilled in English by Miss Sullivan, and it soon became evident to my teachers that I needed no special instruction in this subject beyond a critical study of the books prescribed by the college.  I had had, moreover, a good start in French, and received six months’ instruction in Latin; but German was the subject with which I was most familiar.

In spite, however, of these advantages, there were serious drawbacks to my progress.  Miss Sullivan could not spell out in my hand all that the books required, and it was very difficult to have textbooks embossed in time to be of use to me, although my friends in London and Philadelphia were willing to hasten the work.  For a while, indeed, I had to copy my Latin in braille, so that I could recite with the other girls.  My instructors soon became sufficiently familiar with my imperfect speech to answer my questions readily and correct mistakes.  I could not make notes in class or write exercises; but I wrote all my compositions and translations at home on my typewriter.

Each day Miss Sullivan went to the classes with me and spelled into my hand with infinite patience all that the teachers said.  In study hours she had to look up new words for me and read and reread notes and books I did not have in raised print.  The tedium of that work is hard to conceive.  Frau Grote, my German teacher, and Mr. Gilman, the principal, were the only teachers in the school who learned the finger alphabet to give me instruction.  No one realized more fully than dear Frau Grote how slow and inadequate her spelling was.  Nevertheless, in the goodness of her heart she laboriously spelled out her instructions to me in special lessons twice a week, to give Miss Sullivan a little rest.  But, though everybody was kind and ready to help us, there was only one hand that could turn drudgery into pleasure.

That year I finished arithmetic, reviewed my Latin grammar, and read three chapters of Caesar’s “Gallic War.”  In German I read, partly with my fingers and partly with Miss Sullivan’s assistance, Schiller’s “Lied von der Glocke” and “Taucher,” Heine’s “Harzreise,” Freytag’s “Aus dem Staat Friedrichs des Grossen,” Riehl’s “Fluch Der Schonheit,” Lessing’s “Minna von Barnhelm,” and Goethe’s “Aus meinem Leben.”  I took the greatest delight in these German books, especially Schiller’s wonderful lyrics, the history of Frederick the Great’s magnificent achievements and the account of Goethe’s life.  I was sorry to finish “Die Harzreise,” so full of happy witticisms and charming descriptions of vine-clad hills, streams that sing and ripple in the sunshine, and wild regions, sacred to tradition and legend, the gray sisters of a long-vanished, imaginative age—­descriptions such as can be given only by those to whom nature is “a feeling, a love and an appetite.”

Mr. Gilman instructed me part of the year in English literature.  We read together, “As You Like It,” Burke’s “Speech on Conciliation with America,” and Macaulay’s “Life of Samuel Johnson.”  Mr. Gilman’s broad views of history and literature and his clever explanations made my work easier and pleasanter than it could have been had I only read notes mechanically with the necessarily brief explanations given in the classes.

Burke’s speech was more instructive than any other book on a political subject that I had ever read.  My mind stirred with the stirring times, and the characters round which the life of two contending nations centred seemed to move right before me.  I wondered more and more, while Burke’s masterly speech rolled on in mighty surges of eloquence, how it was that King George and his ministers could have turned a deaf ear to his warning prophecy of our victory and their humiliation.  Then I entered into the melancholy details of the relation in which the great statesman stood to his party and to the representatives of the people.  I thought how strange it was that such precious seeds of truth and wisdom should have fallen among the tares of ignorance and corruption.

In a different way Macaulay’s “Life of Samuel Johnson” was interesting.  My heart went out to the lonely man who ate the bread of affliction in Grub Street, and yet, in the midst of toil and cruel suffering of body and soul, always had a kind word, and lent a helping hand to the poor and despised.  I rejoiced over all his successes, I shut my eyes to his faults, and wondered, not that he had them, but that they had not crushed or dwarfed his soul.  But in spite of Macaulay’s brilliancy and his admirable faculty of making the commonplace seem fresh and picturesque, his positiveness wearied me at times, and his frequent sacrifices of truth to effect kept me in a questioning attitude very unlike the attitude of reverence in which I had listened to the Demosthenes of Great Britain.

At the Cambridge school, for the first time in my life, I enjoyed the companionship of seeing and hearing girls of my own age.  I lived with several others in one of the pleasant houses connected with the school, the house where Mr. Howells used to live, and we all had the advantage of home life.  I joined them in many of their games, even blind man’s buff and frolics in the snow; I took long walks with them; we discussed our studies and read aloud the things that interested us.  Some of the girls learned to speak to me, so that Miss Sullivan did not have to repeat their conversation.

At Christmas, my mother and little sister spent the holidays with me, and Mr. Gilman kindly offered to let Mildred study in his school.  So Mildred stayed with me in Cambridge, and for six happy months we were hardly ever apart.  It makes me most happy to remember the hours we spent helping each other in study and sharing our recreation together.

I took my preliminary examinations for Radcliffe from the 29th of June to the 3rd of July in 1897.  The subjects I offered were Elementary and Advanced German, French, Latin, English, and Greek and Roman history, making nine hours in all.  I passed in everything, and received “honours” in German and English.

Perhaps an explanation of the method that was in use when I took my examinations will not be amiss here.  The student was required to pass in sixteen hours—­twelve hours being called elementary and four advanced.  He had to pass five hours at a time to have them counted.  The examination papers were given out at nine o’clock at Harvard and brought to Radcliffe by a special messenger.  Each candidate was known, not by his name, but by a number.  I was No. 233, but, as I had to use a typewriter, my identity could not be concealed.

It was thought advisable for me to have my examinations in a room by myself, because the noise of the typewriter might disturb the other girls.  Mr. Gilman read all the papers to me by means of the manual alphabet.  A man was placed on guard at the door to prevent interruption.

The first day I had German.  Mr. Gilman sat beside me and read the paper through first, then sentence by sentence, while I repeated the words aloud, to make sure that I understood him perfectly.  The papers were difficult, and I felt very anxious as I wrote out my answers on the typewriter.  Mr. Gilman spelled to me what I had written, and I made such changes as I thought necessary, and he inserted them.  I wish to say here that I have not had this advantage since in any of my examinations.  At Radcliffe no one reads the papers to me after they are written, and I have no opportunity to correct errors unless I finish before the time is up.  In that case I correct only such mistakes as I can recall in the few minutes allowed, and make notes of these corrections at the end of my paper.  If I passed with higher credit in the preliminaries than in the finals, there are two reasons.  In the finals, no one read my work over to me, and in the preliminaries I offered subjects with some of which I was in a measure familiar before my work in the Cambridge school; for at the beginning of the year I had passed examinations in English, History, French and German, which Mr. Gilman gave me from previous Harvard papers.

Mr. Gilman sent my written work to the examiners with a certificate that I, candidate No. 233, had written the papers.

All the other preliminary examinations were conducted in the same manner.  None of them was so difficult as the first.  I remember that the day the Latin paper was brought to us, Professor Schilling came in and informed me I had passed satisfactorily in German.  This encouraged me greatly, and I sped on to the end of the ordeal with a light heart and a steady hand.