Chapter Eleven #2
It was not over, of course. Territory continued to change hands, and every newspaper still brought fresh horrors.
The country was recently gripped by the “Lost Battalion,” boys of the 77th Division, mostly poor immigrants from New York City, trapped and surrounded in the Argonne Forest. They refused to surrender, and for six days fought so valiantly, even with their heavy losses, they had become a symbol of the bravery and tenacity that would bring an end to the war.
Michael was an object of great interest, but while he seemed embarrassed by the attention, Julia loved to see him so celebrated, especially among the many dignitaries. And while he did not seem to notice admiring glances from young women in attendance, Julia did.
Michael had been correct that it was not conducive to talking to each other, but at one point, they found themselves on a less crowded part of the deck.
“By the way, I saw Mr. Stewart, and he asked me to give you this.” Michael bent and kissed her on the cheek.
“Oh…” Julia felt herself flush.
“Oh, no, you don’t, Jules,” he said, in a tone of gentle remonstrance. “I’m your friend always, remember.”
“Well, then.” Julia nodded. “Thank you.”
Two weeks later, Julia sat in the parlor of Louisa’s boardinghouse downtown, reading Pelham’s latest letter aloud.
She read it through without looking at Louisa’s face, hoping that when she finally did, she would see a reassuring expression, or perhaps even puzzlement, as if Louisa could not understand why the letter had made her anxious.
When Julia looked up, however, what she saw was concern, not confusion, and the pause that followed made her heart sink. Louisa was as honest as the sun. The only conceivable reason for silence was the knowledge that her words would hurt.
Julia’s shoulders slumped. “Just say it. He sounds impatient, doesn’t he?”
“I’m not sure. I have never met the man.” Louisa winced a little before adding, “Though I perceive he feels you are in need of … instruction.”
“I hoped you would tell me I was crazy, but I sense that, too.”
At Julia’s request, Pelham had expanded upon lots of his theories, including about education. He saw American schools as little factories, churning out compliant workers, and believed teachers should seize on children’s natural curiosity and encourage them to follow their interests.
Julia thought his ideas sounded marvelous, though in one of her letters, she mused that it was hard to imagine implementing them, with so many children of such different abilities in her classroom.
More recently, she had written about poor Dieter, her former student, now in fourth grade. Though the war was almost over, he was still being bullied by his classmates.
This letter in response felt like a scolding.
Conflict is eliminated when students are truly engaged, their minds and imaginations captivated.
You are blessed to have the spirit of Brook Farm coursing through your veins!
Bring it to the classroom, and I am persuaded you will win and hold your students’ attention, and arouse in them a sense of personal responsibility.
I realize there are many children in your charge, and the present system allows only a little latitude. Remember, though: Children learn to thrive and cooperate with fewer rules.
“You do not actually believe him, do you?” Louisa asked. “Boys fight for lots of reasons, a chief one being that their fathers and brothers are at war. Besides, this boy isn’t even in your classroom anymore!”
Seeing the uncertainty in Julia’s eyes, Louisa added, with a touch of asperity, “Has Pelham had any teaching experience at all?”
“No,” Julia said.
Louisa sighed. “It’s like what people say about socialism. It would work if everyone just did it right. But lots of ideas that sound wonderful end up failing when people actually try them. His theories might work in some little experimental school, but hothouse flowers can’t grow in any old soil.”
“I know,” Julia said sadly.
“You are a gifted teacher, Julia.” Louisa’s tone was gentle.
Julia tried to smile. “Thank you.”
Louisa opened her mouth as if to say something, but she closed it again.
“What?”
“It’s just that I would hate to think that Mr. Stewart is interested in your opinion only so long as it comports with his own,” she said apologetically.
“Oh, I don’t think it’s that. It’s hard to communicate just with letters.”
“All right. I don’t want you doubting yourself.”
“Thank you. I won’t, and I so appreciate your listening.”
Julia pulled herself together and managed a cheerful goodbye. Once she was on the streetcar, though, she leaned her forehead against the window and tried to hold back the tears.
Pelham’s early letters had made Julia feel like they were two people in a crowded café, so intent on getting to know each other, they took no notice of anything or anyone. Even in his shortest missives, she sensed that in the few minutes he snatched to write them, he was with her, just her.
Julia loved drawing Pelham out on his theories, and he said her openness and curiosity helped him clarify his thinking. Since these qualities were all she had ever felt like she had to offer, she was thrilled that they were finally of use to someone.
Julia could not possibly agree with all of his ideas, though. There were so many of them! Besides, Pelham and his fellow intellectuals often disagreed with each other. Until now, Julia had felt that what mattered was that they both wanted a better, freer, fairer world.
While Julia appreciated Louisa’s steadfast defense of her teaching, it was not what troubled her.
She had never rigidly followed prescribed texts or methods, and since her students invariably learned what they were meant to, she had earned even more latitude.
She could probably win an argument with Pelham on points.
She just did not expect to be having one.
Until now, their exchange had been cheerful, open, and frictionless. There was a presumption of good faith, in which they were both not just willing but eager to see each other in the most charitable light. Now she felt like she had failed a test she had not known she was taking.
However improbable, given that their entire relationship consisted of twenty-four hours together and nothing but letters since, Julia had fallen hopelessly in love for the first time in her life. She simply could not bear the thought of losing him.
A week or so later, Julia received a letter so sweet and sentimental, she concluded that she had imagined his impatience. But then that was followed by another discomfiting exchange, about a novel Pelham urged her to read, which he said revealed a “keen understanding of Freudianism.”
After Julia read it, she wrote to Pelham, extolling the author’s prose, and the way he depicted how secret desires, locked in the unconscious, affected human behavior.
Her only ambivalent comment was that she struggled to sympathize with the characters: “I just found it hard, since they were driven by instincts they could not control.”
His reply caused the same sinking feeling she experienced when she read his letter about her students’ conflicts. “I suspect you are influenced by the old literary tradition,” he said. “You should read it again.”
Julia did not read this letter to Louisa.
She did not need to be told Pelham was wrong.
Julia loved books and had always read broadly.
She was happy to cozy up with a Mary Roberts Rinehart mystery, but she also read classics and contemporary literary works, and her opinions were honest and considered.
Once again, it was not the substance of his remarks, but rather what they indicated: that while Pelham might have once been enchanted, he was no longer.
Meanwhile, as letters between them slowly traveled across the Atlantic, Austria-Hungary surrendered, and then Turkey followed suit. The war was over, though it took until November 11 for the armistice to be signed.
The good news acted as a damper on Julia’s despair. In addition to deep relief that this horrible war would soon be behind them, she felt sure that if the distance could finally be erased, she and Pelham could recapture what they had lost.
Pelham would stay to cover the peace negotiations, so she knew he would not return immediately, but over time, she began to wonder if he wanted to come back at all. She still heard from him, but his letters came more sporadically and were less personal.
They were still at the café together, still in conversation, but now his body was angled away from the table, his attention diverted.
The new object of Pelham’s consuming interest was Russia.
He was deeply envious of Jack Reed, a member of the Greenwich Village set who was in Russia when the revolution broke out and wrote a riveting book on the subject: “What I would have given to see what he saw. Now it’s almost impossible for American reporters to get into the country. ”
In February, three months after the armistice was signed, Julia received a rather cryptic letter.
I would like to see you again, Julia, to be together, face-to-face. There is a project here that interests me, and I believe it might be of interest to you, too. I will tell you more when I know more about it myself.
Julia had no idea what the “project” was, or if by her “interest,” he meant for her to be involved somehow. Either way, it cemented what she had all but known before: Pelham Stewart was in no hurry to return to America—and in no hurry to return to her.