14. The First Day
Chapter 14
The First Day
S ince the only mirror in our house was small, I was not able to get a good view of my image. I had worn my most professional dress, which was also my most flattering, and I stood in front of Kitty.
“How do I look?” I asked. “Is there anything out of place?”
“One bit of white thread that’s on your sleeve. Hold on.”
She took the thread off and then looked at me once more.
“That’s the only problem with darker-colored gowns,” she noted, “it’s easy to see when lint falls upon it. Either way, for the moment, you look perfect.”
She did the same thing to me. I confirmed that she looked proper, and we left home together. Our stops on the omnibus were at different points and soon I was standing in front of Granger Hall.
“Well, Elizabeth,” I said to myself, “brace yourself. After all, it’s only the rest of your life.”
Fortifying any negative reaction to my first day of work, I went into Granger Hall and reported to Mr. Hunnicutt.
“Ah, Miss Bennet,” Mr. Hunnicutt said, jovially. “First day on the job. Are you nervous?”
“Quite so,” I smiled, happy that I always began the day with Mr. Hunnicutt. He was a lighthearted man and that was the sort of company that I enjoyed. He also had the good fortune to not be handsome at all. That left him obliged to be agreeable to the rest of the world, because his personality had to be his chief asset. “I do not deny it.”
“Well, you will begin the day in an easy fashion,” he said, handing me a portable desk that contained paper, pen, and ink within it. “You will be my notetaker for the morning. I teach a variety of subjects. It’s German today. Don’t worry, I speak at a nice slow pace—but not a monotone one.”
“Oh, that is very good,” I said, following him to the lecture hall with my desk in my arms, “I had one governess who never learned that speaking in the same droll tone rendered her lessons unlearnable.”
“Yes, I had many professors who suffered under that presumptuous habit that showing any interest in subject matter when lecturing meant one was unprofessional,” Mr. Hunnicutt added, laughing. “Blast them all. My experience at university was not a good one. I had resolved it within myself to become an educator, to spare students from the experience that I once had to endure.”
“It is always good to end the vicious cycle.”
We entered the hall, and I began to set up my desk in the back corner of the room.
Soon after I had my paper, pen and ink placed on the desk, students began to arrive. As the men entered, a few of them glanced my way, then they looked back again.
I smiled gently at them, for the sake of being friendly, but I displayed no other signs of warmth—but that had proven to be too much. The students composed of men who were of the middle class, who could not afford private tutors. Some of them were in their twenties and thirties.
When a couple of them saw me, they stopped in their tracks, changed directions, and came over to the nearest chairs to myself. Their close proximity to me made me very uneasy. It wasn’t because I immediately took a disdain for men who might find a woman’s company agreeable, but that they would try and engage me in discussion. My vocation was to be silent and write down every major point that Mr. Hunnicutt would think were the key aspects of the lessons.
Fortunately, I was not left to fend for myself. When seeing the men who were placing themselves near me, with every intent to pay me notice, Mr. Hunnicutt informed them to come closer to the front. The students obeyed and I gave Mr. Hunnicutt a look of gratitude. He noticed, smiled gently, and began his class.
Despite having never taken German in the whole of my life, this was a very easy class to take notes for! Mr. Hunnicutt was exquisite at enunciation, he wrote down the information on the blackboard in clear letters, and he did speak at his promised pace. I was able to get down all the notes of chief import, and even did side bullet points. Sometimes, I didn’t even need to use shorthand.
“You are very good,” I complimented him when the class came to an end. Holding my desk under my arm, I escorted him out of the room.
“Why thank you, dear lady,” he responded, taking my desk from out of my arms to carry it for me. “And, as you know, I must peruse your notes before you copy them.”
“I understand. How long have you known German? For you speak it as if it is your second language.”
“That’s because it’s my first. I’m a German native.”
I blinked, surprised.
“You are?”
“Yes,” he chuckled, “I understand your confusion on the matter. My mother was German, and my father was English. I was born in Germany, but when I was nine years old, my mother passed away, father brought me to England, and I had to learn to adapt to a whole other world—a world that would remind me that I was a foreigner. When I went to Cambridge, I had mastered the English accent, so I could start over. After all, my father’s name was Hunnicutt, and I sounded like everyone else. I was the best in German classes, and when I graduated, I thought it wise to put my native tongue to the test. I taught German, and it’s been working splendidly for me ever since.”
“We all seem to come from somewhere else, don’t we?” I asked him as we entered his office, and I handed him my notes.
“Yes, we do. But the world is content to only make us all feel like outsiders. Now, let us see.”
I handed him my notes and he began to read.
“Oh, your notes are in two columns?” He observed.
“It’s a habit of mine.”
“I like it.”
He put on his spectacles and began to read it, while pacing back and forth.
At last, he finished reading it, lowered the notes and looked at me over the brim of his spectacles. Here came the moment of truth.
“Very good,” he replied. “This is proper notetaking!”
I sighed, relieved.
“For a moment, I thought you were about to say something awful.”
“Well, I wasn’t. This is how I wish for you to always take notes.”
“How many copies should I make?” I asked.
“Two. Afterwards, you may enjoy your lunch. When you finish, I will introduce you to Professor Dennison. He teaches Italian.”
“By any chance, does he have any Italian in him?”
“I never asked, but I know that it is Mr. Hanley that does.”
My eyes widened.
“Mr. Hanley is part Italian?”
“Yes, you would not think of it when you look at him, poor fellow. He has not the charisma, romantic inclinations, and spark of life that marks the Italian man. Then again, traits are not wholly specific to any nationality. Now, if you don’t mind, you must indulge me on something. I like music.”
“So do I,” I said as I sat in the corner of his office, placed my desk on the table and began to prepare making copies. “I am not talented in the line of music, but I admire it.”
“Well, then hopefully, you will not begrudge me on my guilty pleasure. When I am not teaching, I love to listen to music.”
In the other side of his office, he opened a chest and there was a phonograph.
“You have a phonograph!” I gasped.
“I do! Edison was a genius when he invented this contraption.”
“But his ideas would be nothing without the discoveries of édouard-Léon Scott de Martinville .”
“You know about Scott?” Mr. Hunnicutt remarked, impressed.
“Oh yes! The clever fellow. Edison improved on the original model, and now here we are! Wasn’t one of the first songs to be recorded on it ‘Au Claire de la Lune’?”
“Yes. And that is precisely what we are about to listen to.”
I sat there, excited, as the music began to play. What an ingenious thing!
Like a cascade of perfect melodies, ‘Au Claire de la Lune’ began to quietly play from the machine and I was enraptured.
“Music,” Mr. Hunnicutt sighed, sitting down, and beginning to go over reading some papers, “the pleasures of society.”
“Yes,” I remarked, “be those pleasures from polished or unpolished societies. Any culture can understand music. It is the language of life.”
Together, we sat there, with him looking over his work and me copying notes. We didn’t speak again the entire time, and I was at peace.
If every day could be like this, then I do believe I could adapt to a life of profession with grace.
After I ate my lunch, Mr. Dennison was punctual in addressing me.
And it was very quick to deduce that he and I would both hate each other. Quite a different person than Mr. Hunnicutt, Mr. Dennison was cold, severe, and didn’t have the handsome features to apologize for his disposition. He was grotesque from without and from within. Even Mr. Hunnicutt evidently didn’t like him.
“Why didn’t you warn me that he was the worst man in the world?” I whispered to Mr. Hunnicutt as I prepared my desk.
“Because I have never seen him around ladies. I thought he would be better around you lot. My mistake. He hates life, and that’s all there is to it.”
Fortunately, I didn’t have to speak to Mr. Dennison, but only take notes.
And he did show the irony of life: he was a phenomenal instructor. He spoke loud, well, clear and there was passion in his voice. It was evident that he had a love for the Italian language and for the Italian people.
It was even more ironic, because if he ever actually did meet an Italian, I wonder if they would even like him? Either way, his love for Italian culture rested in its proper place and he was another professor who was easy to serve as a notetaker.
When I finished, I had to submit to his higher opinion, and he had to critique my writing style.
Yes!
I had to sit there and watch this disagreeable man look over every word that I had written.
“This is intolerable,” he uttered, “I don’t like columns in notes. And bullet points.”
“I thought it would be easier for your students to make sense of everything if it was laid out in such a fashion.”
“You suppose wrongly. Your handwriting is also too feminine.”
“I never met a man who cared for that.”
“And your presence in my classroom is most distracting. Too much is in my favor when I argued that there should not be a female notetaker. And I was right.”
“That is quite enough, sir!” came a voice to my right. Turning to who came to my defense, my jaw dropped at his sudden and most unexpected arrival.
“Mr. Darcy!” I uttered, my voice low.
Mr. Darcy was standing in the doorway of the lecture hall.