Chapter 25 — Graduation

After Parents’ Day the school year rushed to its conclusion. The routine of classes and athletics was broken by the last baseball game, the last crew race, and the last track meet. When the last high fly was caught, the last “You’re out!” pronounced, the ball team was suddenly no longer a team. When Butch called, “Way enough” for the last time, and Cap closed the boat house door behind them, the first boat was no longer a smooth, strong, disciplined unit but five good friends who would never forget that final sprint when five men and a shell fused together like quicksilver, a single organism with a single will, the river singing underneath. The last classes met and dispersed, teachers trying to distill the wisdom from a year’s study of mathematics or science, of literature or history, into a single 40-minute cup – and failing. Then came the final examinations, the English examinations first. A passing crow looked down on the morning of that event with amazement at what appeared to be a huge centipede, a vast caterpillar armored with shining scales and protected with prongy horns. It was a procession of boys, each carrying over his head a tablet armchair from a classroom to the gym, pro tem examination room. It happened twice a year at midyear and at finals, and every time Peter Floyd was reminded of Jesus carrying his cross and of captives forced to dig their own graves, but he shook off the thought. The chairs were ranged in rows on the gym floor, covered for today with canvas smelling strongly of something like creosote – an examination smell. Pencils, pens, erasers arranged on writing arms, a bluebook slapped down on every arm, teachers moving up and down the aisles each passing out his own mimeographed examination papers to his own classes. “Gentlemen, your attention please,” announced Mr. Floyd in his formal voice. “On the English IV examination, page 2, line 6, the final word should be ‘alarm’ ‘Ready to ride and spread the alarm through every Middlesex village and farm.’ On the English VI examination write on three of the five topics. You have a choice. This examination will close at 11:15, two hours from now. You may begin.” A proctor wrote “11:15” in letters two feet high on a portable blackboard and under it, “You have _____ minutes remaining” and filled in the blank every 15 minutes. Silence fell, broken by little things. Proctors paced slowly up and down the aisles. One of Mr. Edgehill’s shoes squeaked. Someone opened a window. A hand shot up. A whisper, “Sir, does this mean I can write on any author I want?” A finger pointed at the question paper. “Read the directions!” A gull screamed over the river. A dog barked. Feet shuffled. “Sir, may I sharpen my pencil?” The pencil sharpener growled. The proctors paced. One plied eraser and chalk. “You have 1 hr. 15 min. left.” Joe Rotch, bent over his bluebook, pen laboring line by line, was answering question II: “Write a brief and specific essay distinguishing between poetry and mere verse with reference to the poems of 20th century American writers.” Joe was badly entangled in MacLeish’s Ars Poetica and was struggling to extricate himself. Sam Reed was “on a roll,” knocking out an Instant B essay on the linked analogies in Moby Dick. “Gentlemen, this examination will close in ONE HOUR,” pronounced Mr. Johnson, in tones Monhegan’s fog signal might envy. The time on the blackboard shrank to 40 minutes, to 30 minutes. Billy Edwards was trying desperately to identify ten of the following: pathetic fallacy, Sid Thaxter, Piggy… Hand up. An alert proctor moving quickly up the aisle. Hand extended. Bluebook put in it as a nurse 115

slaps a tool into a surgeon’s hand. Someone stood up, collected his pencils, watch and bluebook, laid the bluebook on the table in front of a sign reading “Mr. Evanston Eng. IIIB”, walked out. Another rose to go. Everyone looked up briefly. “Gentlemen, this examination will close in TEN MINUTES.” The blackboard was erased and marked again. One boy after another stood up. Nearly half the room was moving. Still a number of bent heads, flying pens. Butch was rushing to finish the second part of an essay on “Plot defines character; character determines plot in a short story.” Confusion increased as boys lined up to hand in papers. “What did you do for number 3?” I winged it. How about number 6? And who in hell was Piggy?” “Gentlemen, the examination is CLOSED. Finish the sentence you are writing and hand in your bluebooks at once. THE EXAMINATI0N IS CLOSED!” General conversation. Almost everyone crowding forward to hand in papers. Almost everyone talking at once. Johnny Cluett still furiously writing, trying incoherently to pull together final thoughts on Julius Caesar. Mr. Evanston stood over him, saw a sentence long enough to make a Laöcoon of the author, dragged the book from under Johnny’s outraged pen. It was over. Other exams on other days. Some studied late, alone under the lamp, bent heads over green blotters. Others studied together, asking and answering questions: “Name three causes of the War of 1812.” “Impressment, Orders in Council, Indians.” “What’s impressment?” “Don’t know. Look it up” “Time for a Coke.” A few went in for all-nighters: No-Doz pills and other heroic measures. Others played frisbee around the flagpole in the cool dusk. Gus piled bluebooks on desk, bed, and bookcase, tore into the ancient history ones first. He found it a discouraging experience. Bits and pieces of information and misinformation adrift on a sea of generalities paraphrased if not quoted or misquoted from the text and class discussion. Occasionally a sound essay. Henry Phillips had a good one. So did Billy Edwards. Cluett had done well on part of it and saved his C grade.

Peter Floyd, reading his last set of examinations, written by boys he would never teach again, sternly restrained his impulse to be over-generous. Carefully as always, he marked every mistake in spelling, punctuation and sentence structure with marginal comments where appropriate. Opposite “history-wise” he wrote “barbaric”. On another page, “Like is a preposition, not a conjunction.” “Adv. clause coming first, comma.” After each answer he wrote a carefully worded comment suggesting improvements just as he had for the last God-knows-how-many papers. Mr. Marvin read Billy Edwards’s math examination first, hoping he could find enough correct answers and give enough half credit on wrong answers to get his protegé over the curbstone. He was a little surprised and no little delighted to find that he could, without straining his Puritan conscience, give Billy a legitimate C+. The French -1 was held in the regular classroom, and it was just as well, for it was something between a party and the fall of the Bastille, involving balloons, little Chinese fire-crackers, French chocolates, jokes, riddles, songs led by Tim’s violin, and culminating in a thimbleful of French wine and a full chorus of “Vive la Compagnie.” At the door, Alice saluted each candidate cheek to cheek like General DeGaulle pinning upon a medal and announced, “Tout le monde passent a l’examen.”

The Science examinations were given on the last day. While most of the school marshaled facts, formulae, and calculators, Gus and Alice borrowed her father’s sloop Esperance for the day. Jerry was not at all in the habit of lending his sloop to anyone, but Alice had sailed with her father since she was a child. Gus had taught sailing in small boats and it looked like a gentle day. Jerry couldn’t go because he “had to clean up the studio for graduation,” he said. Although only early June, it seemed like the first day of summer. With the ebb tide under them, Alice made short work of the beat down the river in the bright morning. They landed for lunch on Seguin, a high, bare island several miles at sea with an automated lighthouse on top. In the lee of the tower they ate their lunch where they could see 40 miles of Maine coast spread out before them in green and blue and white. Far below them, Esperance lay to her anchor in the quiet cove. A busy cormorant in his usual black business suit flew low to the water with fast wing beats, obviously late for an important corporate appointment. Gulls, disturbed from their nests, circled overhead, soaring on sun-trimmed wings. Time slowed down, stood still, and the two were quite content to let it. The shadow of the tower crept around toward them; then time clicked into gear. They gathered up cups, knives, wax paper in the lunch basket, pushed off the skiff left far up the beach by the ebbing tide, set sail, pulled the anchor and headed home before a fair wind. Jerry watched them slip into Kenniston’s Cove, pick up the mooring, stow sails. As they walked up the wharf together, sunburned and wind blown, swinging the picnic basket between them, Jerry went to meet them with a catch in his breath. Ben Sawyer from the top of the bank wondered whether he was about to gain a good French teacher or lose a good history teacher. Faculty meeting in the Common Room. Some men still averaging grades or entering them in mark books. Card files with boys’ records being passed around, being filled in. Fragments of conversations: “The boy is illiterate, I tell you. He doesn’t know ‘Come here’ from ‘Sic em.’” “I got some good exams out of my VC section. McPherson actually got an A-, and I don’t give many of them.” “He may be a good pitcher. He may have a .400 average. But he can’t do geometry. If he’d promise never to take another math course, I’d give him a C- and tie a ribbon on it.” “I didn’t actually catch him cheating, but I don’t trust him. I don’t know why, but there is something about the way he...well, forget it.” Mr. Hanshaw finally collected the cards, shuffled them into order, and rapped on the table. “The following will graduate Summa Cum Laude: Sullivan and Anderson. Magnas to ...” Then the list of honors for the term to the lower classes. It was a tedious business, eliciting only an occasional comment, although when Hummelman’s name came up with honors, there was brief spontaneous applause. Then voting on prizes. The Latin medal for highest achievement in the study of Vergil and Cicero to Jackson, who had the highest grade by .0451% … and so on through other subjects. The Dramatics prize to Arthur Sikes for his performance as Mr. Pickwick. The music prize for the most improvement in the study of a musical instrument to Tim Feineman ... The hard one was the Ashcroft Prize “for that member of the graduating class who best demonstrates the ideals of the Academy in mind, body, and spirit.” Five candidates were presented to the meeting. Heated argument ensued as to whether an A in Calculus was “better” than an A in History and whether having been captain of a losing football team showed better spirit than coming from behind to win a cross country race. Of course the problems were insoluble, and after many votes and reconsiderations, the prize was divided between the two candidates with the most articulate and determined supporters. Coach Johnson became quite heated and had to be gaveled into silence. Fritz Bauer, who had been through the same sort of discussion for many years, ignored the senseless debate and fell to watching the birds fluttering in the bath outside the window. Mr. Marvin disliked the whole notion of trying to put people on a number line, said so, was ignored, and lapsed into silence. “Then,gentlemen, we are adjourned. Reverend Hatchley of Bath will preach the Baccalaureate

sermon tonight at 7:30 in the Assembly Hall, where we are all expected. We will gather in this room at 9:45 tomorrow morning to form the commencement procession and again at 9 o’clock on Friday morning to deal with those boys whose advisors recommend them for full faculty attention. Our final faculty party, to which wives and other guests are invited, will be held on Friday night. Cocktails and cook out. Gentlemen’s attire will be casual. That’s all.” Baccalaureate. Parents gathering, the men in dark clothes for the most part, women quite formal. Faculty accosted: “I am so glad to meet you at last. Mike has told me so much about you. You must be a great inspiration to the boys ...” “Coach, in that Mt. Bigelow game, why didn’t you tell Jimmy to bunt on that last play? A good bunt down the third base line would have loaded the bases ...” “Well, you know his father and grandfather went to Dartherst, and I’m so glad he got in. The school has really done wonders for him ...” Many boys to many teachers: “Sir, whad-I-get?” The bell preserved from one of the last Kenniston schooners rang the gathering inside. After a decent interval , the Headmaster stood up: “Ladies and gentlemen, friends and scholars, it is with pride and pleasure...” An ensemble of assorted instruments including a flute, a trombone, a cello, a clarinet, and two violins played a selection arranged for the occasion. The glee club sang. The congregation sang, “Let the Lower Lights Be Burning.” The Reverend Hatchby at last came to bat and delivered a rousing 15-minute sermon on the text, “If the trumpet giveth forth an uncertain sound, who will prepare himself for the battle?” He urged everyone within earshot to let his yea be yea and his nay be nay, to stand to his guns, to praise God and keep his powder dry. He concluded with a brief prayer in which he instructed the Almighty to keep His eye on those here gathered because they were the salt of the earth and were dedicated to do good work in His service. Amen. They sang the school hymn, “How Happy is He Born and Taught,” supported by the glee club, and departed in peace according to His word. Mr. and Mrs. Edwards arrived in time for Commencement on Thursday morning. Mrs. Edwards found Billy and embraced him publicly, somewhat to his embarrassment. Noticing first his son’s increased stature and responding to his air of confidence, Mr. Edwards could say only, “Well, son – Good to see you.” He would have more to say later. Mr. and Mrs. Rotch were immeasurably proud of Joe, standing taller than either of them and secure in the knowledge that The Great University had admitted him from the waiting list. The boys left to line up, each class marshaled in order of height by teachers frustrated because the troops did not maintain a constant order of battle. The faculty led the procession,Fritz Bauer and Peter Floyd in the lead as senior members. The faculty was followed by the graduating class in solemn procession arranged in alphabetical order. A proud parent snapped a flash bulb as his son passed. Then came the other classes in order,overseen at the last by Assistant Headmaster Hanshaw, Chief Marshall of the whole production. The ceremonies proceeded in dignified if uninspiring order. The Reverend Hatchby led off with a prayer, prizes were duly awarded to polite applause. The Headmaster spoke briefly on the year’s triumphs. Dr. Althea Banks, author, State Senator, trustee of the Academy, addressed the graduating class, maintaining that good as their education had been, it had been neglected in one important respect. Half the human race was, and is, and will be female, and it is by no means the lesser half, that as they went forth into the academic world and then into the worlds of business and politics, they would find women who would earn

their respect and admiration – she named a few – and concluded that, as Mrs. Bush said, one or more of these distinguished graduates might find himself fortunate enough to become the spouse of a President of the United States. Prolonged applause. The diplomas were handed out in alphabetical order, each graduate stepping forward, receiving the rolled document in his left hand, shaking the Headmaster’s right hand, and marching off the stage as the next came up. “Please hold your applause until all the diplomas have been given out.” But they didn’t. As the applause died down, the Headmaster came forward once more. “Most of you know that Peter Floyd will not be back with us next year. Characteristically, he has asked me to make no ceremony of his departure after 23 years of teaching Kennebec Academy boys to write literate English and to read with imagination and understanding. He told me, if anyone asked, to say he was writing a book or building a boat. He observed that this is not his funeral, and no eulogy is in order. So I will say no more about him. But I can say something about us. We will miss him. We will miss his intimate understanding of our literature and his unique understanding of those who don’t understand. We will miss his kind but firm administration of Chelsea House. The fool, the rogue, and the bully have felt the iron. Those with antisocial attitudes have had their attitudes adjusted – unmistakably. The impulsive, the misguided, the well meaning who have missed the mark have had their compasses corrected that they might steer a straighter course. We will miss his wife, Ruth. We will miss her flowers, her birds, and the kindly civilizing influence she brought to a sometimes-barbaric boys’ school. I am forbidden to make a Mr. Chips of Peter, for he deplores such sentimentality, but I can tell you that his colleagues and his students, including those he taught this year, wish him to know that they appreciate his efforts and admire his success. I can tell you this about his future. When he goes home, he and Ruth will find a token of their admiration. We wish him the best of good fortune and hope our paths will frequently cross. That’s all.” Prolonged applause, during which Peter could do nothing but sit and suffer. The final faculty meeting waded its way through the tangled swamp of academic difficulty. Comments regarding William T. Edwards, Jr., who finished with B+ in English, B in History, B- in Science, C in Math and “Pass” in French -1: Guidance Counselor: “You see what thoughtful non-directive guidance can do for the developing adolescent. A little beneficent neglect does wonders.” Mr. Marvin: “He is fundamentally an intelligent boy. Careful cultivation of his intelligence overcame his math anxiety after he learned to focus his attention. His examination was surprisingly good.” Mr. Evanston: “He never should have been allowed to cox. He could have done much better with more study time.” Mr. Cunningham, hotly: “Coxing was the best thing that happened to him this year.” Mr. Rossignol: “Pass? In French? Mon Dieu.” Sam Reed, when he heard the news: “How to go, kid.” Mr. Edwards, when he saw the final report card: “I told you, Billy, that learning the words with those cards would get you through French – any French. And bearing down on Smith-Fagin.” If you can do Smith-Fagin, you can do anything. That’s what got me into college.” Billy, in answer to Peter Floyd’s query, “How did you do it?” “I got to like the taste of it.” Mr. Sawyer: “God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform”.