Margaret

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This excerpt of Margaret telling her story might be best enjoyed with a glass of Guinness or Writers’ Tears' Irish Whiskey before a crackling fire. If none of those things appeal or aren't readily available, try listening to my WEB OF LEGACIES playlist (click here). Songs 16-22 are for Margaret. 

 

MARGARET RALSTON BOURNE: 1879-1946

 

CHAPTER 16

Resurrection

 

September 25, 1896, Cambridge

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“Tell me, Margaret, why do you wish to attend Radcliffe College?

 

Mrs. Agassiz is getting down to business. We have dispensed with pleasantries, including her fond remembrances of Mother, which mystify me. What on earth could the president of Radcliffe have in common with an illiterate Irish immigrant?

I look out the window at the expanse and trees of Radcliffe Yard. Sounds of construction outside seem louder in the silence as I ponder Mrs. Agassiz’s question. Do I admit I am only here to satisfy the bargain I made with Father? Do I confess that since my own dreams and plans are shattered, I have nothing else to do and might as well attend Radcliffe? Even Mother has begun losing patience with my “moping about.”

 

“I understand you are an excellent student and have done very well at Miss Winthrop’s School.” Mrs. Agassiz gives me another opening.

 

She is advanced in years, but quite stocky, not frail in the least. She is plainly dressed save for a beautiful neck scarf held by a handsome silver slide. Her intelligent, penetrating eyes seek mine and I squirm under her probing gaze.

 

“Yes, Ma’am. Father says I have an academic mind.”

 

“That’s fine, Margaret. A wonderful asset. But what are you curious about? What are your scholarly interests?”

 

Beyond my quest to claim my rightful place in polite society, I have few interests, scholarly or otherwise. But I know how to give the answers teachers want and I know the answer Mrs. Agassiz is looking for, so I offer up some pabulum about studying the classics, Latin, and the arts. When I’m done, she studies me quietly. Something is awry. I squirm again in my seat

 

“Margaret, you do not feel called to pursue an advanced course of study or to attend Radcliffe, do you?”

I am taken aback. Her sharp eyes and keen mind have found me out. I struggle to rally. I must prove her wrong. I may be indifferent about attending college, but I do not want to disappoint Father, who waits so hopefully in Fay House’s stately parlor outside Mrs. Agassiz’s office.

 

I sit up. “Ma’am, I know all about Radcliffe’s story—its history as The Annex, your campaign to become part of Harvard, your belief that women’s minds are capable and deserve a rigorous education.” There, that should satisfy her. Father’s dinner-table lectures did not fall upon deaf ears. I sit back in my seat.

 

“I’m glad you know our history and philosophy, but that is not what I asked you, Margaret. I have no doubt you have a bright mind, but you have not persuaded me you have an eager one. Given how keen your mother’s mind was at your age, this is surprising.”

 

“But my mother cannot read,” I blurt out.

 

This is a shameful secret; one I guard almost as zealously as Mother does. Something I never divulge and did not mean to now. Somehow, I have lost control of this interview. Something I took for granted is slipping through my fingers. I am not winning over Mrs. Agassiz. I cannot understand why. I can charm anyone to get what I want. Well, until the fiasco with that unpleasant uncle.

 

These disturbing thoughts are interrupted by Mrs. Agassiz’s reprimand. “Margaret, the fact that your mother cannot read is no measure of her intelligence. I am sure you know your mother is a bright woman. She did not have the educational advantages you have had.”

 

Then her voice softens and she looks out the window. “But perhaps even if she had, she might have found learning to read difficult. Some people do, even though they are intelligent. I remember reading a paper by a German professor years ago, I believe it was Adolph Kussmaul, who described something he called wortblindheit, word blindness.”

 

None of this interests me, but I sit with an attentive expression, my mind racing with the problem of getting this interview back on track. I must get in the good graces of this imposing woman. Her lecture is giving me time to think, so I encourage her. “Word blindness, Mrs. Agassiz?”

 

“Yes, during my career, I believe I have encountered a handful of these word-blind cases myself, though I think it has more to do with language than vision. Perhaps they are not so very rare. Perhaps as society becomes more literate, we shall discover more people like your mother, who, I suspect, is suffering from this very condition. But what I find fascinating is that some who struggle with this affliction, can be exceptionally accomplished in other ways … perhaps because other undertakings are not possible … or perhaps for some other reasons we do not understand.”

 

She appears momentarily lost in thought, then continues. “In any case, your mother is a brilliant seamstress and designer, not because of her highly skilled needlework, but because she somehow envisions the whole of what she wants to create, its form, color, function, and how a person would feel and look in her creation.”

 

Mrs. Agassiz removes her exquisite neck scarf and hands it to me. “Your mother made this for me years ago to thank me for a favor.”

 

As I study the scarf, its lovely, scalloped edges with tiny stitch work, its lace inlays, its swirling textures in a rich, midnight blue, I recognize my mother’s work. I also see how perfectly the scarf complements the rest of Mrs. Agassiz’s coloring. I glance back up and see that both she and her attire look incomplete without the scarf.

 

“I wear that scarf often, Margaret. It is a cherished possession. But your mother has other talents. She is an insightful interpreter of literature, quite brilliant, really.” Mrs. Agassiz retrieves the scarf and repositions it snugly around her neck with the silver slide. Her large, mannish hands move deftly.

 

Then she abruptly changes her tone again. “Now, what shall we do with you, Margaret? Well, first things first; I have arranged for you to tour our campus with your cousin, Emma. Perhaps once you have seen a little more of Radcliffe, you will find something that sparks your interest, and you can tell me why you want to study at our college. But I must warn you, we are very selective and do not accept every student who applies. We look for young women with eager minds who intend to put their education to work. Frankly, Margaret, I do not see that eagerness in you.”

 

Everything this imposing woman has said is worrisome. For the first time in my life, I feel out of my depth. But one comment rivets my attention like a bone thrown to a starving dog. “My cousin, Mrs. Agassiz?”

 

“Yes, Emma had time in her schedule today. Since Laura is only a freshman and Emma has been with us two years, we thought it best for your older cousin to be your tour guide today.” She pauses and peers at me more closely.

 

“Are you quite all right, young lady?”

 

I imagine I look as dumbstruck as I feel and try to recover. “Yes, Ma’am. It is just that I am disappointed in myself. I fear I did not adequately convey how eager I am to continue my studies as a student at Radcliffe. You see, this has been my dream for ever so long, so I am just a little overwhelmed. Perhaps, as you suggest, after I tour the campus with Emma, I will be more relaxed and better able to explain myself and my interests.”

 

“We shall see, Margaret.” She ushers me from her office into the parlor where Father and a girl I never have laid eyes on before are seated. They both set down the periodicals they have been thumbing and stand as Mrs. Agassiz and I approach.

 

“Ah, I see we are all here. I trust you have been getting re-acquainted. Emma, I will leave you and Margaret to your tour while I chat with Mr. Ralston.”

 

A puzzled look flickers over Emma’s face, but she is poised as she shakes Father’s hand and mine, utters glib pleasantries, then guides me out into the hallway. It all happens too quickly to catch Father’s eye or read his expression.

 

Emma maintains a steady, well-practiced monologue as we view classrooms, lecture halls, residential rooms in nearby private homes, and greet other girls along the walkways and in the buildings that comprise Radcliffe’s campus just off Apian Way. She points with pride to the site at the end of the Yard where the new gymnasium will be, saying, “We expect it to be complete in two years.” Clearly Emma has given this tour before. I take everything in, especially the students, who seem very much like the girls who attend Miss Winthrop’s, but older and radiating with purpose.

 

Everyone carries books, appears to be going somewhere important, and wears beautifully tailored skirts and blouses or day dresses. I see a handful of boys, quite attentive to the girls they are escorting. They must be from Harvard. Everyone greets Emma enthusiastically, who apparently is quite popular. I study all this with great interest. A plan is taking shape.

 

Finally, as we come almost full circle around the Yard, Emma breaks her monologue to say, “Isn’t it a funny coincidence that you and I have the same last name. Perhaps we are distantly related. We should ask your father if he knows the Cambridge Ralstons. We descend from an old Boston family. Where are you from, Margaret?”

 

“Beacon Hill,” I say.

 

Emma steers us off the main path into a little garden area, saying, “This is our Sunken Garden; isn’t it peaceful?” She guides us to a bench, where we sit. “How strange that we live so near each other, but our paths have never crossed. Well, tell me, Margaret, why are you interested in attending Radcliffe?”

 

I tell her much of what I told Mrs. Agassiz, but with considerably more enthusiasm and conviction. I make myself out to be a serious scholar from a good family seeking a more meaningful life than the social frivolities of our mothers’ generation.

 

Perhaps I might teach French. And, of course, once married and raising a family, my scholarly interests will be useful for enriching the minds of my children. By the time I finish spinning my tale, I half believe it myself.

 

“Emma, Mrs. Agassiz mentioned your sister, Laura, also attends Radcliffe. How does she find it here?”

 

“Actually, Laura is my cousin. As the only girls in our families, we are close, more like sisters. Laura adores Radcliffe and I adore having her here with me. We always have such jolly times together in Nahant. Now that we are together at Radcliffe, it is even better.”

 

With very little prompting, Emma fills in the details of her privileged life. I learn that the entire Ralston family gathers at a compound in Nahant during summers and at her grandparents’ house in Cambridge for holidays. I also learn that the family consists of Laura and her two older brothers; their parents, Uncle Ted and Aunt Prudence; Emma’s parents, Charles and Charlotte, and her three older brothers; and, finally, Uncle John, who never married and is known as a gad about with a string of unfortunate romantic entanglements and a penchant for drinking and gambling.

 

“I suppose every family has its black sheep,” Emma says in a confidential tone, “but we seem to have two. There also is an uncle who apparently committed such an unforgivable offence, we are not allowed to speak his name. Once, when we were little, Laura and I found some old children’s books in Nahant inscribed with his name, Robert, I believe. When we asked our parents about it, they took the books away and said we were never to mention his name again, especially to Grandmother.”

 

My heart races. I learn that two of Emma’s brothers, and one of Laura’s brothers attend Harvard and they all socialize together with a lively group of friends from all the best families. Emma shifts back to her tour-guide manner as she ushers us from Sunken Garden, delivers me back to Father and Mrs. Agassiz, bids us a polite farewell, and resumes her carefree, privileged life.

 

I detest her.

 

But Emma is the key to the resurrection of my dreams and the cornerstone in a new plan, one that also allows me please Father, who now stands in the parlor looking anxious. Even Mrs. Agassiz appears concerned. Clearly, she and Father have compared notes and worked out what has just happened. Father must have been shocked to learn my tour guide was his niece and Mrs. Agassiz must have been horrified to discover she was the unwitting architect of this awkward family reunion. It was a blunder. One Mrs. Agassiz surely will wish to remedy with some sort of recompense. One I shall exploit.

I avoid Father’s effort to catch my eye and walk purposefully into Mrs. Agassiz’s office saying, “Thank you for arranging the tour with my cousin, Mrs. Agassiz. Emma and I are all caught up on family news, and Radcliffe is exactly where I want to be.”

 

Mrs. Agassiz follows me into her office. I dare say; she looks sheepish. Good. I sit without being invited and deliver the speech I know will ensure my acceptance to Radcliffe. Mrs. Agassiz nods as I make my points. She does not look pleased, but I have the upper hand now and we both know it. As I leave with Father, I also know that after I take the entrance exam, I shall be enrolled with a full scholarship in this year’s freshman class, even at this late date. I can tell Father is distressed and wants to discuss what has just transpired but has no idea where to start.

 

I, on the other hand, feel greatly revived, better than I have felt in months. Mary often says, “When God closes a door, He opens a window.” Her sayings are irksome. Perhaps Mary is right about this one though. This gossamer thread of hope buoys me, one I shall weave into the fabric of a brand-new plan for achieving my dreams.