I adored her, but our brother was not so charmed. Lillian was fearless at four and took Ernest on in sibling squabbles, quoting from the Bible as she boldly scolded him for striking her because he simply could not think fast enough to hold his own in argument. At five, she wrote a letter to God, asking Him to take good care of Papa; her penmanship was already better than Ernest’s. She skipped first grade, sailed through second, and won the spelling bee that year, competing against her elders. When she skipped a grade again, Ernest sulked, humiliated by a younger sister who was his equal or better in all things academic, but I was grateful for her precocity. She would read aloud from my textbooks while I washed dishes or hung out laundry. Without Lillie’s help, I never could have stayed in school.
By fourteen, I could see my life laid out before me. While Mumma ran the business, I would keep house for her and Ernest and Lillie. Later, I would become the sort of maiden aunt who lived in a spare bedroom and helped in the raising of nieces and nephews.
Marriage seemed out of the question—even then, when I was so young. You see, Ernest and Lillie were handsome persons with Mumma’s red-gold hair and Papa’s bright blue eyes. I shared their coloring and—in favorable light, from certain angles—a similar cast of feature, but for me, you must imagine a young Eleanor Roosevelt: bucktoothed, weak-chinned, strong-minded, with a father’s bony angularity in place of a mother’s delicate prettiness.
But Eleanor married, you might protest. Why, her husband became president!
Add, then, my freckles, considered a dreadful defect in those days. Next, be discreetly disconcerted by my crossed eyes blinking behind round spectacles.
Ah, you think now. Ah, I have the picture. Poor Agnes…
In 1899, our little household changed forever. Ernest shocked us all by running away to join the army, taking with him Papa’s mechanical talent and a firm desire for the male companionship our high-pitched feminine household did not afford him. I knew Ernest was unhappy at the factory, but he was barely seventeen and I’d never imagined he would simply up and leave home. Poor Mumma was beside herself when she discovered his note.
A few weeks later, she summoned me to her office to make her own announcement. After careful consultation with her brother, she told me, she had sold our Papa’s patents and the factory itself to White Sewing Machines, a Cleveland concern with a reputation for plain dealing and decent labor policies. This decision realized sufficient profit to provide an income. There would be enough, Mumma informed me, to send both of her daughters to Oberlin College, one of the first coeducational academic institutions in America. Lillian’s fine mind had already taken in all that our small school had to offer; she would be a good deal younger than most of our classmates, but we would matriculate at Oberlin together so that I could look after her. At Oberlin, Mumma expected, Lillian would find an educated young man worthy of her.
“And you, Agnes, will need a profession.” Mumma looked toward my left eye, ignoring the right, which turned in when I was feeling tired or upset. “I have decided that you shall earn your teaching certificate. Well? Speak up. I should have thought you’d be grateful. Your nose is always in a book.”
Well, yes. I loved to read, histories especially, but I had never imagined having enough money to go to college. I had begun, instead, to dream of going to the city, of making myself useful to society.
“Mumma, don’t you remember? I—I told you I was thinking I might like to do settlement work.”
She hardly moved. “Are you telling me that you do not wish to attend Oberlin with your sister?”
“Well, you see, Mumma, Miss Jane Addams thinks that those who serve the poor do better by going directly to work with the people who need us. She thinks we should avoid the snare of endless preparation—”
Mumma folded her thin hands in her lap and looked out the window, blinking rapidly. “Agnes, I am all alone,” she whispered. “I thought when Ernest left me that I could count on you to behave.” She shrugged helplessly. “It appears that you have become more self-willed than ever. And to think that I sold the business for you!”
To this moment, I can remember the wave of shame that washed over me. “Mumma, I didn’t know you planned to sell the business! Settlement work wouldn’t require any tuition money, so I just thought—”
“You thought. You thought! Without asking anyone’s opinion, let alone approval. Oh, Agnes,” Mumma said with a gentle melancholy that froze my heart, “you are as bad as your brother. I expected more from you. What will become of Lillian if you won’t go to Oberlin with her? Is your happiness worth your sister’s misery?”
If she had shouted, it might have been different, but Mumma was so small, so fragile. I always felt that if I used my strength, I might break her. Now I, who had only ever wanted to please, had hurt her so cruelly! Settlement work suddenly seemed like a pastime for silly rich girls who had nothing at all in common with me. I swore that teaching would suit me perfectly, that it was a marvelous opportunity, that I was wicked not to be grateful right away. Nothing I said made any difference. Before I knew it, I was weeping at her knees, begging for forgiveness.
Mumma’s face remained the same: gallantly, if imperfectly, concealing her suffering as she recalled every sin, every promise broken by a tiresome, dishonest child. “Go to bed,” she said finally, and sadly, still refusing to look at me. “And in the morning, try to be more cheerful. You owe me that much, at least.”
And in the end, I was glad that Mumma’s wisdom prevailed. Studying at Oberlin College was a great opportunity, and teaching was a profession that suited me well. Indeed, everything went according to her plans for Lillian and me—with a single small detour when I enrolled in Professor Douglas Cutler’s course “History and the Old Testament.” No one was more surprised than I when Professor Cutler found something in me to admire. And no one was less surprised than I when he found even more in darling Lillie to desire.
Douglas was in his thirties, a doctor of divinity, and a match for Lillie’s intellect and Christian conviction. The moment I introduced them, it was love at first sight. They made such a handsome couple, full of plans and aspirations. Shortly after their engagement, Douglas informed us that he’d been offered a position at the American Mission School at Jebail, just north of Beirut in Syria, which in those days stretched all the way to the Mediterranean seacoast. Lillian’s excitement over the news could hardly be contained, but Mumma wept and pleaded with Douglas to turn the offer down. She could hardly bear to think of her favorite child so far away, she told him. She had been so happy to believe that she would have a son-in-law to count on, what with her own dear Howard dead and her wicked son, Ernest, gone. It was awful to hear her distress, but Douglas had already signed the agreement, and a contract is a contract, as Mumma understood.
As for me, well, gracious! It had long been my dream to visit Egypt and the Holy Land, and now my very own sister would be living there, as the wife of a scholar and missionary! What could be better? I would miss Lillie desperately, of course, but she promised to write home every single week and tell me all about her travels and her life.
The wedding was to be in June, a few days after graduation. Lillie insisted that I serve as maid of honor. Eventually I gave in, though I was careful to remove my glasses and keep my eyes downcast for the wedding portrait, presenting neither my profile nor my eyes to spoil the photographs.
Lillie and Douglas spent their honeymoon walking in the footsteps of Jesus, and afterward, they took up residence in Jebail. That September, I left Cedar Glen as well, moving a few miles away to Cleveland, where I had accepted an appointment with the public school system. As you can imagine, Mumma was distraught at being left all alone, so I had a telephone installed for her and made sure the billing went to me. “You can call as often as you like,” I told her.
“And let those operators listen in?” she sniffed. “No lady would do such a thing!”
She was getting on in years by then and reluctant to introduce an outlandis
h modernity to her home. Even so, I believe she was somewhat consoled to know that if she had a need pressing enough to summon a daughter, I was close by and lived right on the trolley line.
The district had assigned me to Murray Hill School in the Cleveland neighborhood known to all as Little Italy. The children in my classroom were mostly immigrants. Some of their fathers were quite rough, and nearly all the parents were illiterate. Few believed that education was worthwhile beyond the fourth grade.
“Pushcart Tony,” Mumma called that kind, though most of them were day laborers, not fruit and vegetable vendors. “Foreigners are taking this country over,” she’d say.
“They didn’t sail on the Mayflower,” I’d answer, “but they came here as soon as they could.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Mumma always said.
This remark was never capitulation, you must understand; nor was it ever an admission of ignorance. You’re wrong, she meant, but I don’t care to argue about it.
“And don’t think I haven’t noticed—that school is right next to a settlement,” she let me know. Alta House wasn’t really a settlement, of course. It was more of a community center with a playground and a gymnasium with a swimming pool. It was named for John D. Rockefeller’s daughter Miss Alta Rockefeller, and it really was quite respectable, though Mumma never entirely believed that.
Each year, I am proud to say, there were two or three children who truly blossomed in my classroom. Often these were the most resistant in September: cocky little boys who wanted to look tough and were afraid to fail, or awkward little girls who hardly dared believe that they’d be good at anything. With no children of my own to love, I had to be careful about letting my emotions run away with me. If my affection and attention were noticed, the boys and girls I liked best would be called “teacher’s pet” and there’d be trouble for them on the playground. I quickly learned to be evenhanded in the classroom.
And I worked hard to expand all my students’ horizons beyond Mayfield Road and Little Italy. We took field trips to the art museum, for example, and whenever a building was going up downtown, I’d try to get the architect to visit us. All the children were excited to see the postcards and letters I received from Lillie, and I organized Old World geography lessons around her mail. Each week, the student whose marks had most improved from one examination to the next would be rewarded with a postcard or a carefully loosened stamp from one of Lillie’s envelopes.
When the war in Europe began, geography took on a different importance. The Ottoman Empire seemed likely to collapse at any moment, throwing the Middle East into turmoil. Lillie and Douglas came home, of course—they had their two boys to think of. Douglas, stoutly middle-aged by then, was awarded a full professorship at our alma mater, Oberlin.
When the war ended in November 1918, our family seemed to have reached a safe harbor, apart from the loss of poor Ernest to flu in the autumn of 1918. At thirty-eight, I believed that all the big questions of my life had been answered. I would never marry. I would earn my living as a teacher. When the time came, I would move back to Cedar Glen and care for Mumma in her old age.
And yet, I will confess to you, from time to time I envied my youthful self—that girl who could still dream and want more, who could still imagine someone who had never materialized, except during those brief weeks before Douglas fell in love with Lillie. However briefly, Douglas had seen my true self, and he had not laughed or sneered or sighed. He was only being kind, I suppose. But kindness is so important, wouldn’t you agree?
It was early March in 1919 and I was correcting a pile of arithmetic papers when my landlady, Mrs. Motta, called me downstairs to receive a telephone call that changed my life. I expected to hear Mumma’s voice, but it was Lillie on the line, and she was so excited! “Agnes, do you remember Neddy Lawrence?”
I racked my brains but no one came to mind, so she reminded me of her letters from Jebail. She’d written of an archaeology student, a British undergraduate who planned to tramp around the Middle East alone, photographing crusader castles for his thesis. He and Lillie had become great friends as he studied practical Arabic with her colleague at the mission school—a young Christian lady whose name was Fareedah el-Akle.
“Neddy’s grammar wasn’t strong, but his memory was excellent and he absorbed Arabic vocabulary very quickly,” Lillie recalled. After her return to the United States in 1914, she and Neddy had exchanged letters, the most remarkable of which was his request that she purchase for him a Colt .45 automatic pistol, which he meant to carry into combat. “Handguns are difficult to obtain in England,” he wrote in explanation.
“We lost track of him after that,” Lillie told me, “but he not only survived the war, he’s become a hero! We called him Ned, but his name is really Thomas Edward Lawrence. Lawrence, Agnes,” Lillie repeated, exasperated. “Doesn’t that ring any bells?”
Frankly, it didn’t, not then. In those days Colonel Lawrence was just on the cusp of the international celebrity that would soon be his. And in any case, I was distracted by how expensive this telephone call would be; Lillie never seemed to worry about things like that.
“There’s a sort of Chautauqua lecture about him at the Palace on Thursday evening,” she said. “We’ll swing by to pick you up—”
“Lillie, no! Friday is a school day. I can’t—”
“Oh, Agnes, you must come. It’ll be wonderful!”
Lillie had a way of saying wonderful. Her tone carried the thrill of the word, its element of marvel and surprise.
“It will be like visiting the Holy Land,” she said, “and you can tell the children about it in class. Anyway, we’ve already bought your ticket, so don’t argue, darling. Just be ready at six forty-five.”
And she was right, of course. It was a splendid evening. Truly unforgettable, for so many reasons.
She and Douglas drove in from Oberlin and left their boys with Mumma before picking me up at Mrs. Motta’s. Lillie was like a schoolgirl—so excited and full of chatter—and she gave a little shriek when we saw the theater marquee.
LOWELL THOMAS PRESENTS
With Allenby in Palestine
and with Lawrence in Arabia!
Douglas left us girls in front of the theater and rattled off to park their ancient electric car. He kept talking about replacing it, but an Oberlin professor’s salary was not quite up to one of the newer gasoline models. A light drizzle was falling, and we hurried inside to wait for Douglas in the lobby. By the time he arrived to escort us to our seats, the theater was almost full.
You might have thought we’d all had enough of war, and that was true in some ways. No one wanted to think about the horrors of the trenches, or those poor Romanov girls, or the ugly revolution in Ireland, but this was different. This was the rousing story of General Allenby, the modern Crusader, and his conquest of the Holy Land, and a glorious tale about the young man Mr. Lowell Thomas called “the uncrowned king of Arabia.”
The presentation had received rave reviews in London. Drawn by the biblical setting and the tour publicity, Americans had flocked to the lecture in city after city. Now it was Cleveland’s turn, and goodness gracious! Didn’t we see a show!
Pots of incense were set alight; a captivating musky fragrance pervaded the hall. As the house lights dimmed, there was a swell of organ music, which resolved into a haunting Levantine melody. Mr. Thomas stepped onto the stage and into the spotlight. With a magician’s flourish, our host proclaimed an irresistible invitation: “Come with me to lands of history, mystery, and romance!”
The curtains swept back to reveal the Nile awash in artificial moonlight that faintly illuminated distant painted pyramids. For the next two and a half hours, Mr. Thomas took us to places in Arabia that no Christian among us had previously seen, and he did so with the world’s first aerial motion photography. Gasping, we viewed the pyramids—from above! We felt vertigo when “our aeroplane” banked and flew along the very roads upon which had marched the armies of Godfre
y de Bouillon and Richard Coeur de Lion, eight centuries before. Hands at our lips, we felt we witnessed with our own eyes a thrilling charge by the massed cavalry of the Australian Light Horse and Imperial Camel Corps.
Lillie loosed a tiny excited squeal at the first image of the slim young Englishman she’d known in Jebail. She held my hand while Mr. Thomas related his own first glimpse of “Shareef Aurens,” the boy my sister knew as Neddy.
“My attention,” Mr. Thomas recalled sonorously, “was drawn to a group of Arabs walking in the direction of the Damascus Gate. My curiosity was excited by a single Bedouin who stood in sharp relief from his companions. He was wearing an agal, kuffieh, and aba such as are worn in the Middle East only by native rulers. In his belt was fastened the short, curved, golden dagger of a prince of Mecca.”
It was not this person’s marvelous costume that interested Mr. Thomas. “The striking fact was that this mysterious prince looked no more like a son of Ishmael than an Abyssinian looks like one of Stefansson’s Esquimaux. Why, this chap was as blond as a Scandinavian in whom flows cool Viking blood! My first thought,” Mr. Thomas assured us, “was that this might be one of the youngest apostles, come to life. His expression was serene, almost saintly in its selflessness and repose.”
“He was a lovely young man,” Lillie allowed, sounding amused.
“But saintly?” Douglas asked rhetorically, and shook his head.
They were both firmly shushed by the gentleman who sat behind us. Mr. Thomas, unaware, continued his encomium. A brilliant young archaeologist before the war, Lawrence was “a born strategist who out-thought and outwitted the Turkish and German commanders in practically every engagement.” At the head of his troops, in the thick of every battle, Lawrence rapidly rose from junior lieutenant to full colonel. “But he dislikes titles,” Mr. Thomas told us, “and prefers to be known as plain Lawrence to general and private alike.” In fact, this modern Galahad was rather shy, Mr. Thomas confided. “Indeed, the Terror of the Turks can blush like a schoolgirl.” Those terrified Turks had put a princely price on his head, but so beloved was the twenty-eight-year-old commander, no one had betrayed him. Thus, we were told, the blue-eyed scholar became, in less than a year, the most powerful man in Arabia, leading the greatest army raised in that land in five centuries.
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