The End of Innocence by Allegra Jordan Page A

that explains it. Germans are an intemperate sort. You know, Visigoths and all. Nietzsche, Feuerbach, and Marx returned them to their hopeless roots,” he said softly. He sighed and his voice trailed off as he read through her work again. “Yes, yes, yes. Helen, I think this is a good start, and very fine in many places, but in all candor I have seen you write better. The torched fields are a little strong.” He shook his head. “And the part about the women is self-pitying.”
    Helen was taken aback. This was what the German had implied. “But, Father, men start wars, they die, and women are sad.”
    â€œWell,” he said, then halted and cleared his throat. “You mustn’t tell your mother I feel this way because she’d take it as an attack on her sex and not as a matter of my opinion about a poem. In my experience, women have a way of helping a government send men off to war to die once the men, as you say, start the war. But you might consider that war is often forced upon men who don’t wish to go at all. Men are inherently peace-loving animals. And then women say they’ll never forget; how glorious it all is—and then men have a way of dying brutally and the women then do forget, which ranks only slightly less problematic than when women don’t forget and cause the next generation to wish to avenge their deaths.”
    Helen looked intently at him. “Father, perhaps Mother would take what you said as an attack on our sex because it seems to be an attack on our sex and not a criticism of my poem. My maid feels sad and it’s not because she’s guilt-ridden about sending men off to war.”
    â€œDear child, men have been beaten about the head and shoulders by women’s feelings for generations, not to mention eons. You have been exceptional in that you’re more like a son to me than I’d expect any daughter to be. The mist chills us all, Helen. Not just women. Maybe your German drunk has a point.”
    â€œBut it’s all right to be sad when you are the victim of things beyond your control. These are not shrill Prussian mothers thrusting their sons into Belgium.”
    She saw his lower lip curl.
    â€œYou think he has a point.”
    â€œA bit of one,” he said.
    â€œYou think my poem is the most silly chuff you’ve read?” Her face reddened.
    â€œThat’s not what I said.” He looked pained. “Perhaps the young man’s point could have been made in a politer manner, but at college you’ll have to listen for the merits of the argument and not the way in which it’s been presented. Sometimes we learn from those we disagree with.”
    Helen sighed. “I will think on it,” she said, returning to her chair, and to a tedious discussion of sail rigging on the clipper ship Flying Cloud . Only twenty-three pages left. She put a large X over a perfectly decent paragraph and in the margin spitefully urged him to rewrite it for clarity.
    Ten minutes passed before she heard the Sunday paper rustle again. Her father peered from the other side of the editorial section.
    â€œYou know, Helen, I received a note yesterday, which I’d meant to give you.” He stood up and walked over to his desk, picked up a bright white envelope, and brought it to her.
    â€œWhat’s this?” she asked.
    Her father began to fill his pipe, not looking at her.
    Harvard University
    Dear Jonathan,
    It was good to see you last week at the Harvard Historical Society meeting. I had no idea you had been working on a new manuscript about the clipper ship.
    I was also intrigued to learn that your daughter was editing it and that she is enrolled at Radcliffe College.
    I have an extra seat in my Editing for Editors class that I would like to offer her. Boys who usually fill my class have gone to seek their glory in the European war.
    Have your daughter come to my seminar starting this Monday. Harvard and Radcliffe