A Reversion To Type

A Reversion To Type, by
Josephine Daskam

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Title: A Reversion To Type
Author: Josephine Daskam
Release Date: November 6, 2007 [EBook #23364]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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REVERSION TO TYPE ***

Produced by David Widger

A REVERSION TO TYPE
By Josephine Daskam
Copyright, 1903, by Charles Scribner's Sons

She had never felt so tired of it all, it seemed to her. The sun streamed
hot across the backs of the shining seats into her eyes, but she was too
tired to get the window-pole. She watched the incoming class listlessly,
wondering whether it would be worth while to ask one of them to close
the shutter. They chattered and giggled and bustled in, rattling the
chairs about, and begging one another's pardon vociferously, with that
insistent politeness which marks a sharply defined stage in the social
evolution of the young girl. They irritated her excessively--these little
airs and graces. She opened her book with a snap, and began to call the
roll sharply.
Midway up the room sat a tall, dark girl, not handsome, but noticeably
well dressed. She looked politely at her questioner when spoken to, but
seemed as far in spirit as the distant trees toward which she directed her
attention when not particularly addressed. She seemed to have a certain
personality, a self-possession, a source of interest other than collegiate;
and this held her apart from the others in the mind of the woman who
sat before the desk.
What was that girl thinking of, she wondered, as she called another
name and glanced at the book to gather material for a question. What a
perfect taste had combined that dark, brocaded vest with the dull, rough
cloth of the suit--and she dressed her hair so well! She had a beautiful
band of pearls on one finger: was it an engagement-ring? No, that
would be a solitaire.
And all this time she called names from the interminable list, and
mechanically corrected the mistakes of their owners. Her eyes went
back to the girl in the middle row, who turned her head and yawned a
little. They took their education very easily, these maidens.
How she had saved and denied herself, and even consented to the
indebtedness she so hated, to gain that coveted German winter! And
how delightful it had been!
Almost she saw again the dear home of that blessed year: the kindly
housemother; the chubby Mädchen who knitted her a silk purse, and
cried when she left; the father with his beloved 'cello and his deep,

honest voice.
How cunning the little Bertha had been! How pleasant it was to hear
her gay little voice when one came down the shady street!"Da ist sie,
ja!" she would call to her mother, and then Hermann would come up to
her with his hands outstretched. Had she had a hard day? Was the
lecture good? How brown his beard was, and how deep and faithful his
brown eyes were! And he used to sing--why were there no bass voices
in the States?"Kennst du das Land" he used to sing, and his mother
cried softly to herself for pleasure. And once she herself had cried a
little.
"No," she said to the girl who was reciting, "no, it takes the dative. I
cannot seem to impress sufficiently on your minds the necessity for
learning that list thoroughly. You may translate now."
And they translated. How they drawled it over, the beautiful, rich
German. Hermann had begged so, but she had felt differently then. She
had loved her work in anticipation. To marry and settle down--she was
not ready. It would be so good to be independent. And now--But it was
too late. That was years ago. Hermann must have found some
yellow-braided, blue-eyed Dorothea by this--some Mädchen who cared
not for calculus and Hebrew, but only to be what her mother had been,
wife and house-mother. But this was treason. Our grandmothers had
thought that.
She looked at the girl in the middle row. What beautiful hair she had!
What an idiot she was to give up four years of her life to this round of
work and play and pretence of living! Oh, to go back to Germany--to
see Bertha and her mother again, and hear the father's 'cello! Hermann
had loved her so! He had said, so quietly and yet so surely: "But thou
wilt come back, my heart's own.