The Necklace
She was one of thoseclever enough and charming girls born, as though fate had blundered over herinto a family of high achievers. She had no natural genius, no means of gettingknown, understood. She took as many advanced courses as her ability and heradvisors would allow, but she was as unhappy as though her schedule werebeneath her; for students of her caste and class believe that the number ofadvanced classes is the only mark or rank of note.
She suffered endlessly, feeling herself born for better things—for advanced calculus and physics, for advanced art history and language, most importantly for admission to a highly selective college. She suffered for the poorness of her schedule, for her classmates who were also bright but not brilliant, for the meanness of her curriculum—reading Othello rather than Hamlet, Twain rather than Hawthorne. The sight of students taking even lower classes and applying to local or state colleges aroused heart-broken regrets and hopeless dreams in her mind. She imagined ivy covered walls, vast saloons hung with antique silks and rare volumes, exquisite dorm room furniture and individual thermostats created just for ragers with intimate friends, classmates who were sought after, whose homage roused every other woman’s envious longings.
When she sat down forclass with her pre-calculus rather than a calculus book, her classmatesexclaimed delightedly: “Ah, trigonometric identities! What could be better?”she imagined double integrals and students with inscrutable smiles discussingHerodotus and the Persian Wars.
She had no soccertrophies, no student council victories, no positions of leadership, nothing.And these were the only things she loved; she felt she was made for them. Shelonged to charm, to be desired, to be wildly attractive and sought after. Shehad a classmate who had been admitted early decision to a highly selectivecollege. She refused to visit with the classmate because she suffered so keenlywhen she returned home. She would weep whole days, with grief, regret, despair,jealousy, and misery.
One afternoon hermother came home with an exultant air, holding a large email in her hand.
“Here is something foryou,” she said.
Swiftly she opened theemail on which were printed these words:
“The Admissions Committee of a Second-Tier-but-not-Second-Rate College request the pleasure of your company for the graduating class of 2023. Congratulations on your acceptance; we look forward to seeing you in the fall.”
Instead of beingdelighted, as her mother had hoped, she flung her laptop petulantly across theroom, murmuring:
“What do you want me todo with this?”
“Why, darling, Ithought you’d be pleased. This is a great occasion.”
She looked at hermother out of furious eyes, and said impatiently: “And what courses would Itake at such a school?”
Her mother had notthought about that; she stammered:
“Why the very samecourses that are offered at the highly selective schools. They look very niceto me. It is the same information after all. Aristophanes is Aristophanes…”
Mathilde attended the Second-Tier-but-not-Second-Rate College. But she did not enjoy herself. Not did she enroll in any courses in which she had a sincere interest. She worked endlessly, beyond her capacity, eschewing genuine interaction with classmates or professors, interested only in her grades and whether or not the information in the lecture would be asked about on the exam. She avoided authentic collaboration with classmates, viewing them as competitors for scarce graduate school admissions opportunities rather than companions on a shared journey.
When she was admitted to graduate school, she uttered a cry of delight, but her enthusiasm was short lived. Again she stayed in the library studying until closing time, her infrequent breaks for speed beer pong and one-night stands with young men whose imperfections and names she chose not to remember. Upon graduation she got a job in a large law firm, putting in 90-hour weeks. Even when she made partner she continued her unrelenting toil, ignoring opportunities for romance, marriage, family, or connection of any kind.
Having consumed fastfoods high in nitrate content and glucose while working through meal times ather desk, Mathilde’s first myocardial infarction came at 65 followed by aseries of apoplexies of growing intensity. Her friend came to visit her in theintensive care ward. At first the friend did not recognize her and wassurprised to find herself familiarly addressed by someone whom she took to be astranger. “But… Madame…” she stammered. “I don’t know you. You must be making amistake.”
“No, I am Mathilde,your lab partner from chemistry class all those years ago.”
Her friend uttered acry. “Oh! My poor Mathilde, how you have changed!...”
“Yes, I have had somehard times since I saw you last, and many sorrows. And all on your account,”Mathilde said.
“My fault, how?” Herfriend replied.
“You remember that early decision you received 50 years ago? I wanted that sort of recognition as well.” Mathilde went on: “I wanted a life like yours with an early decision acceptance and an undergraduate experience at a big name college. I wanted acknowledgment and the deep felt sense of satisfaction that comes from being admitted to a college where many students are rejected. In pursuing similar dreams I have ignored all other pursuits that might make me distinguishable as a member of the human species.” Mathilde paused to take a labored breath. “Well, it’s over at last, and I’m glad indeed. I will leave my estate to a highly selective college. There is every possibility that my name will be inscribed on a plaque that will be put up near the finely polished wood by the stair in the Student Union. ”
Her friend deeply moved took her two hands. “You say you have hurtled down the road to nowhere on my account?” her friend gasped. “But you know I became a writer. My partner and I live on a working farm in Vermont with our three children. None of our neighbors nor any of my readers know where I did my undergraduate studies let alone under what decision plan I was admitted to college all those years ago.”
To reread the original Guy de Maupassant from which the above is unabashedly pilfered, click here.
