MEMORIES OF MARGARET FLOY WASHBURN
July 25, 1871-October 29, 1939
Others will write of Margaret Floy Washburn as a woman of
genius, a great psychologist, and a great teacher. More
than most women of her time she leaves an enduring monument
in her scientific investigation, her published studies, and
in the students whose careers have been promoted and
inspired by her teaching and her friendship. I write tonight
with a heart filled with memories of her vivid life, her
brilliant and versatile mind, her passionate and loyal
devotion to her mother, to Vassar College, and to her chosen
friends. Words are cold things for describing a being of
such vitality and strong impulse. She loved her work, her
classes, her research, and she loved lfi‘e. All who knew her
knew of her intense love of animals and of the impulsive
generosity which made her spring to the help and defense of
anyone who was in need or in trouble. To see an animal
suffer was agony to her. In the diary of her uncle Michael
Floy, professor of mathematics in Columbia University, he
tells of working three hours one afternoon to rescue a toad
that he had accidentally covered with earth when he was up-
rooting a tree. Margaret Washburn had the same pity and care
for all helpless things. She always fed the campus squirrels
in winter. The last words she spoke to me before she was
stricken concerned the care of my cat Mau during my proposed
year in Europe. My thoughts often go back to that last walk
with her on March 17, 1937.
As clearly as though it were yesterday I can see her as I
first saw her. She came to the Faculty table -- it was
thirty-six years ago -- a tall, slender young woman, moving
with ease and lightness. I remember well the warm and vivid
glance of her brown eyes and the distinction of her whole
presence. We became friends imediately, seeing each other
daily in term time for many years.
She was never dull. Her wit, her appreciation of life's
ironies, her love of poetry, for which she had a remarkable
memory, her knowledge of biography and literature, the entire
absence of affectation in her attitude toward life and people
made her a fascinating companion. That extraordinary vital
quality in her made friendship with her an endless voyage
of discovery. One knew her well, but never completely.
She had so many resources and gifts that contributed to her
happiness -- an intense love of music, of reading, especially
in eighteenth century literature, and of thinking. Although
she loved her friends I have often heard her say, laughing,
"never less alone than when alone."
MEMORIES OF MARGARET FLOY WASHBURN (Continued)
Her study of her family genealogy gave her great pleasure.
She investigated her Cornish, English, Dutch, French, and
Scotch ancestry both in America and abroad. I once bought
her a record which she prized, from a London church, of
the death of her ancestor John Washburn in 1685 while on a
visit to London. All the different strains of ancestry had
united in her blood to form a being of rare genius with the
instincts of a creative artist.
How many walks and talks we have had together in the beauty
of the Vassar which we both loved, for whose outward form she
had so keen an eye. She saw so much in nature and often
chided me for my slow v1§I6h.
She cared for everything that had ever stirred her thought.
For example, she could quote more of her favorite Latin poet,
Horace, than many a professional Latin scholar could quote.
She visited Rome, made a collection of Roman coins, and
welcomed the plan which we carried out in the summer of 1936 of
visiting Roman Gaul. We went to Orange, Vaison, Nimes, Arles,
St. Remy, and Aignes Mortes and she took many pictures of
Roman theatres and Roman monuments. When we were in England
together and went to such places as St. Albans and Bath she
had the most lively interest in Roman antiquities as well as
in the later historical monuments. She took the part of the
nurse in the Hippolytus of Euripides when that play was given
by the Department of Dramatic Production and the Classical
Departments, and she learned the large amount of Greek that
belonged to her part rapidly and with ease. Her mind was
always active and she loved beautiful bodily movement, such
as dancing.
It was no superficial interest that she took in things outside
her own specialty. Indeed, I think she thought that nothing
was outside her specialty. She felt that a broad foundation
3f_knowledge and culture was necessary for the student of
psychology and I never saw her bored by anything intellectual.
So many memories crowd upon me of our personal friendship and
our trips together, of her work in the Faculty, presiding
over it splendidly in the absence of the President from the
chair, serving on many important committees, to which her
colleagues constantly elected her; of her encouragement of
young scholars, of the many honors she received from
institutions throughout the land; (she was happy over her
election to the National Academy of Sciences); of her
generosities to poor people who were struggling to pay off a
mortgage, or to carry on a little business, and of her keen
enjoyment of the beauty of life.
MEMORIES OF MARGARET FLOY WASHBURN (Continued)
It is hard to believe that that flame is quenched. Her
work and her memory remain, as long as Vassar stands, in
the college to which she gave her love, her life, and her
talent. A hast of alumnae remember the inspiration of
her teaching and the joy of her friendship. They have show:
their love and gratitude in many ways and one of them,
Polyxenie Kambouropoulou, has devoted herself to her daily
during her long illness.
She wrote her graduating essay on the poetry of Matthew
Arnold, which she loved. She gave me her old copy of
Arnold's poems. All today I have heard ringing in my brain
his verse, which I have heard her repeat --
"Her cabin'd, ample spirit,
It f1utter'd and fail'd for breath,
Tonight it doth inherit
The vasty hall of death."
Her love for her mother was the strongest emotion of her
life. She told me repeatedly that her mother was a perfect
human being -- that she had never seen a fault in her. And
her mother, who loved her and was quietly proud of her
achievement, once told me that she considered her less her
daughter than her contribution to the race.
Grace Harriet Macurdy
Vassar Alumnae Magazine
January l94O, Page 3-4