by Kay Moser
Sarah felt like she was living in a fantasy world. Could she actually be sitting just feet away from a state governor? She applauded his comments with enthusiasm, especially when he said he felt “the west was just a little ahead of the east in moral, spiritual, physical, educational and patriotic development.”
Sarah’s amazement grew as the governor of Texas took the stage. How is this possible? How can a sharecropper’s daughter be in the same building with the governor of Texas? Much less sitting practically at his feet! The answers came to her in swift images: Victoria, Christine, Maude. In short, education. Her spirits soared as she joined the rounds of applause given to the Texas governor. If education can bring me this far, how much further might it take me? And what can it do for my students? Her eyes filled with tears of gratitude, while at the same time she wore an enthusiastic, wide smile. Before the noon break, she also heard the remarks of a Texas congressman, the Chautauqua president, the Colorado University president, and the Boulder mayor, each separated by a rousing patriotic song.
“How can this afternoon’s presentation possibly equal this morning’s?” Sarah asked as she left the auditorium with Bert.
“Oh, they have saved the best for this afternoon. You can be sure of that. Henry Watterson is considered the greatest living orator of our day. He will undoubtedly raise the roof.”
“Hadn’t we better hurry down to the dining hall?” Ella asked. “How will we ever get any food with this mob of people here?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Bert snorted. “I wouldn’t go near that dining hall right now.”
“But we’ll starve! I can’t possibly wait until supper to eat,” Ella whined.
Bert grinned. “And you won’t have to.” She leaned closer to Sarah. “Follow me, ladies. Your dinner awaits you at our tent.”
They crossed the dusty grounds, bypassing mobs of people, and when they approached their tent, Sarah saw a gathering of the Fort Worth teachers milling around. Each woman carried her own eating utensils as well as a container of food.
“If ever there was a time for a picnic dinner, this is it,” Bert announced before hurtling herself into the midst of the teachers and beginning to shout orders.
Sarah looked at Ella and laughed. “Bert arranged all this? Why am I surprised?”
“Oh, you shouldn’t be,” Ella answered. “Trust me, she runs everything like a general during the school term. And nothing escapes her notice. Nothing!”
***
When Henry Watterson took the stage that afternoon, Sarah realized she had never heard a professional orator before. She thought she had, for she had listened to many a political speech, but this man’s gift for eloquence shimmered with sheer drama. He strutted around the stage, flinging his arms decisively to make a point, bellowing so loudly she had no doubt that even those who stood outside the auditorium could hear him. He spoke—or ranted, Sarah thought—on various causes which menaced the perpetuity of the nation, but none as dangerous as the love for money. He was eloquent; he was occasionally sarcastic; he was terrible in his denunciation of Spain and the “unspeakable Turks.” Sarah sighed with relief when he finally turned optimistic, assuring all present that the United States of America could and would overcome every foe, be it foreign power or insidious attack on the moral fabric of the nation. Throughout his speech, wild applause often stopped him, as large sections of the audience sprang to their feet in support of his remarks.
Exhausted by the charged atmosphere of the warm auditorium, Sarah straightened with delight when Watterson finally relinquished the stage to the orchestra, which played a series of patriotic songs. Much to her surprise, it was “Dixie” that caused the audience to spring to their feet, sing along, clap their hands to the rhythm of the tune, and demand replay after replay. The unbridled enthusiasm for the song as they sang it for the third time made Sarah lean closer to Bert and shout, “Are you sure we’re in Colorado?”
“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Bert shouted back. “All I know is there was a strong Confederate sympathy here during the War; lots of southerners had come looking for gold before the War broke out.”
“I think they’re still here,” Sarah declared. “Or at least their descendants.”
“Maybe they just think this is the best way to welcome Texans.”
The mayor finally quieted the audience, but just as people had taken their seats, he announced that he had great news. Everyone leaned forward, peering at the red-faced mayor.
“The United States Navy has destroyed the Spanish fleet in the harbor of Santiago de Cuba!” he proclaimed. “The news has just come in—”
No one heard another word he said. The audience rose in a wild cheer as many people hugged complete strangers.
“Well, well, well,” Bert shouted over the roar. “Welcome to the twentieth century, Sarah.”
Sarah remembered President Wiseman’s remarks at her graduation. Her heart raced, and a tremor of anxiety heightened her awareness of her suddenly ragged breathing. I only hope I can play my part.
***
After supper, the crowd gathered back in the auditorium for an evening concert by the orchestra, complete with vocal solos by renowned singers and Madame Makarova’s performance of a Beethoven sonata. Sarah had loved every moment she had listened to Christine play the piano or Antonio Santoro play the violin, but she fell head over heels in love with the sound of a symphony. She could not believe her good fortune. I have heard more symphonic music in the last forty-eight hours than I have heard in my lifetime. Oh, I can never live without great music again!
When the concert ended, the crowd moved outside to watch a grand fireworks display, the first Sarah had ever seen. Obviously the first many in the crowd had ever seen. As the rockets flew into the air, exploding in red, white, and blue sparkling designs, the crowd gasped and flung their fingers skyward, pointing at the sudden, bright colors painting the night sky.
Sarah’s eyes went to the mountains, to the enormous rocks God had heaved up from the earth and plastered on the mountainsides. To her, no man-made explosion of sound or light could compare. She felt more than ready to leave the mobs of people and climb the mesa, but she couldn’t. The day had worn her out, the dangers on the mesa at night were real, and classes would begin the next morning.
The teachers barely spoke as they dragged their tired bodies back to the tents. Sarah undressed quickly and fell into bed as her mind wound down. An amazing day ... full of “firsts.” Two governors … music that made me soar … fireworks. I was here to see it! Little Sarah Novak, sharecropper’s daughter. Mama was right … only in America …
CHAPTER 24
At breakfast the next morning, Bert eagerly unfolded Boulder’s newspaper, the Daily Camera, to read the editorial to them. “Just listen to this.” She chuckled. “Just listen to what the editor wrote about yesterday.”
“‘It was the day that witnessed the nuptials of Colorado and Texas, by the formal dedication of the Texas-Colorado Chautauqua by two governors of sovereign states …’”
“How do you like that expression?” Bert demanded. “The nuptials of Colorado and Texas! Isn’t that comic? Oh, but it gets better. Listen to this.”
“‘Strange people had come among us, but strangers no longer, for we have seen the Texas schoolmarm and fallen in love with her, en masse and individually, and all Boulder felt, as its thousands walked beneath the orchard at the Chautauqua grounds or climbed the slopes and viewed the panoramas so delightful to Texas eyes—miles upon miles of green and teeming plain, with background of lofty mountains—all Boulder felt that we were and are: Two souls with but a single thought, two hearts that beat as one.’”
She dropped the newspaper into her lap and laughed heartily. “Have you ever read such florid prose? They have fallen in love with us!”
Sarah grinned. “Maybe we should thank God. After all, we have caused quite a disruption in this little town, and we do want to be allowed back.”
“Oh, they’ll be eage
r to see us next year,” Bert retorted. “We bring many educational and cultural opportunities, not to mention hard cash.”
“Bert!” Ella exclaimed.
“Well, we do,” Bert insisted.
“But I don’t think you should say—”
Sarah stood and stopped the disagreement before it started. “Time for our first class.”
Outside the dining hall, the extent of organized movement reminded Sarah of large anthills she had seen on the farm. Hundreds of teachers hurried to classes, books and notebooks firmly in hand. Ignoring all distractions, they walked with purposeful steps, their faces lit up with determined but excited expressions. They are eager to learn. I know how they feel … but … I do hope I get a letter from Victoria today.
“Sarah! Quit dawdling.” Bert pushed her forward. “We’ll be late to Professor Freitzig’s class, and I understand he’s a real stickler for punctuality.”
Sarah jerked her attention back to the present and followed Bert, who was clearly choosing the shortest path to the tent that housed the general science course. Since Sarah’s previous studies had focused heavily on literature, classical languages, and mathematics, she had signed up for this class in order to prepare herself to teach younger students in the fall.
Sarah scurried after Bert into the large tent, hoping to gain a chair on the front row. Professor Freitzig, a tall, lean man whose great height was topped by a bald head, peered through round, wire-rimmed glasses at Sarah as she and Bert plopped into the last front-row seats available. He snapped his fingers at the class and pointed to the blackboard, where he had written a schedule of readings for the term. Sarah followed the example of teachers around her, pulled out her notebook, and began copying the schedule. So this first meeting is to be organizational in nature. Good. Her hand flew across a page in her notebook as Professor Freitzig, his hands clasped behind his back, paced in front of the class.
“If you have not finished copying the schedule, students, you may do so after class,” he blurted out a few moments later. “We can waste no more of our precious time together on the mundane. I shall begin this term with a review of the history of science, starting with the formation of the Royal Society in 1660 in London. I realize, of course, that there were scientific experiments and discoveries previous to this date; however, science became an organized discipline at this time. Kindly take notes. Do your best to keep up.”
A teacher’s hand shot into the air, and annoyance blanketed Professor Freitzig’s face. “Surely you’re not already behind,” he snapped. “I have hardly begun.”
“No, sir, I just want to ask a question.”
“Proceed. Quickly!”
“I see no reference in your outline of the term to any study of evolution. Surely that is an oversight on your part.”
Professor Freitzig took a step forward and stared down at the woman. “Your name, please.”
“Miss Susan Hanson. I am the science teacher at Austin High School.”
“Congratulations, Miss Hanson. I am sure I am mightily impressed. As for your comment, I shall not focus on the theory of evolution in this class because it is just that—a theory.”
“Are you saying that you don’t believe in evolution? Or are you merely uninformed about it?”
The class gasped, and Sarah felt her mouth fall open.
Professor Freitzig’s face darkened as a shimmer of perspiration appeared on his head. He turned his back on the class, strode to a stand holding charts, moved it in front of Susan Hanson, and poked his finger at it. “This, Miss Hanson, is the accepted outline of the history of modern science. This is what your school boards will expect you to teach. This will be our focus.”
“But you haven’t answered my question, Professor Freitzig,” Miss Hanson pressed him. “What is your stance on evolution?”
“Just what I would expect from an Austin teacher,” Bert muttered.
“My ‘stance,’ as you label it, on any topic, is not the subject matter of this course, Miss Hanson. I have a job to do here, and I will not be deterred by a discussion of opinions—mine or yours.”
“But a clear understanding of the truth of evolution colors the entire study of science, Professor Freitzig. I am a committed proponent of evolution, and I don’t see how you can ignore it. Indeed, it would be quite impossible to respect a professor who did so.”
Sarah felt sudden movement at her side and realized to her horror that Bert had jumped from her chair.
“My dear Miss Hanson,” Bert barked. “I have not traveled a thousand miles and spent my savings to hear your opinion of anything, certainly not your opinion of Professor Freitzig’s credentials, which are most impressive. Kindly allow Professor Freitzig to continue with his planned lecture.”
“And who are you, may I ask?” Miss Hanson demanded.
“Bert Caine of Fort Worth, Texas.”
“That figures. No doubt you haven’t even read Charles Darwin’s excellent treatise On the Origin of Species, in spite of the fact that it has been in print for nearly forty years.”
“The Holy Bible has been in print for far longer than forty years,” a teacher called as she stood in the back of the tent.
“And it’s the Word of God!” another teacher added.
Professor Freitzig held up both hands. “This discussion is at an end! Kindly be seated.”
Sarah let out the breath she had been holding as Bert sank back onto her chair. A quick glance at her friend confirmed what she suspected. Bert’s face was beet red, her eyes were narrowed, and her lips were a straight, hard line.
“I assure you I am well versed on the theory of evolution,” Professor Freitzig said. “Since the topic is of interest to some members of the class, I shall conduct a discussion of the matter after supper this evening. Kindly meet me in this tent at seven o’clock if you are interested in participating.” He paused, seemed to choose his words carefully, then turned and bowed to Bert. “I thank my esteemed colleague from Fort Worth for defending my credibility as your professor.”
Sarah’s eyes widened. Esteemed colleague … The compliment was obvious. With pleasure, Sarah watched Bert’s furious red face soften to an attractive blush and the corners of Bert’s lips twitch as she struggled to suppress a smile.
“Now back to the material on our syllabus.”
Professor Freitzig galloped into a non-stop lecture that filled out the hour.
Sarah’s pencil flew across her notebook, filling page after page. By the end of the class, she had to shake the cramping out of her hand. “I think I shall be relieved to move on to my art history class,” she commented as she and Bert left the tent. Then she grinned at her friend. “Of course, I can well understand that you might prefer to remain with Professor Freitzig.”
“Stuff and nonsense! I was only defending the poor man.”
“And will you be back here at seven to defend him again?”
Bert glared at her. “I will be back, but it has nothing to do with him. I never back down from a fight. That Miss Hanson is obviously an agnostic, perhaps even an atheist.”
“Have you actually read On the Origin of Species?”
Bert whirled to face her, both fists plopped on her waist. “I have! And I am more than ready for Miss Hanson.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Sarah laughed. “But I believe I’ll skip the discussion of evolution tonight. I’ve heard enough debates on the subject in the last two years of college to cure me of any desire to hear the word again.”
She waved good-bye to Bert as she hurried across the grounds to her next class. She found that the art history tent was dimly lit with the late-morning sunshine carefully excluded.
“Hurry, hurry,” a beaming, white-bearded man encouraged the assembling class. “Much to do! So many pictures to show you.” He clapped his hands as he hurried to a table at the back of the tent, where he had set up a magic lantern, a machine to project slides. “Be seated, be seated. We must begin.”
Sarah slid into a seat on the center
aisle and pulled out her notebook.
“No, no! Put away your pencils. No, indeed. I won’t have you staring down at a piece of paper when you could be enjoying art. Look straight ahead.”
Following his orders, Sarah saw a large, sheet-sized canvas stretched on a wooden stand.
“Art is experience, my dear students. It is not dreary memorization of facts. You must feel art!”
Sarah looked back at the man, certain he must somehow be bubbling over.
“Who is he?” a teacher next to Sarah asked a little too loudly.
“I heard that!” the man called out merrily. “Indeed, who is anyone? We are no one, nothing, without art. But since our misguided society places such emphasis on names and titles, I shall tell you. I am Dr. Pierre Bovary. Please place the accent on the last syllable of my name like this: Bo-vah-REE.” He clapped his hands on each syllable, almost deafening Sarah on the last. “We shall practice. Let me hear you say it. Now, here we go … Bo-vah-REE. Excellent! Such a talented class.”
The tent filled with stifled giggles.
“Ah … you laugh now, but you will see. You shall need to practice pronouncing many of the names we encounter this term. After all, we shall follow art on a magnificent flight of fancy, and it will take us all over the civilized world. Watch the screen! We begin in ancient Egypt.” Sarah’s experience in the art history class was the complete opposite of her hour in the science class. Dr. Bovary raced them through a superficial look at the art of the western world, promising them with each slide, “More of this later. Yes, yes, indeed more later. I shall inundate you with beauty!” He clearly loved art, so much so he seemed to be incapable of speaking without effervescing.
Sarah would have been thoroughly refreshed had she not been reminded of Victoria so often. When class concluded, she hurried to the dining hall, hoping that the noon mail had brought a letter from her mentor.
