Daddy-Long-Legs & Dear Enemy Page 10

  A storm is awfully disturbing in the country. You are always having to think of so many things that are out of doors and getting spoiled.

  Thursday.

  Daddy! Daddy! What do you think? The postman has just come with two letters.

  1st.—My story is accepted. $50.

  Alors! I’m an AUTHOR.

  2d.—A letter from the college secretary. I’m to have a scholarship for two years that will cover board and tuition. It was founded by an alumna for “marked proficiency in English with general excellency in other lines.” And I’ve won it! I applied for it before I left, but I didn’t have an idea I’d get it, on account of my Freshman bad work in math. and Latin. But it seems I’ve made it up. I am awfully glad, Daddy, because now I won’t be such a burden to you. The monthly allowance will be all I’ll need, and maybe I can earn that with writing or tutoring or something.

  I’m crazy to go back and begin work.

  Yours ever,

  JERUSHA ABBOTT,

  AUTHOR OF, “WHEN THE

  SOPHOMORES WON THE GAME.”

  FOR SALE AT ALL NEWS

  STANDS, PRICE TEN CENTS.

  September 26th.

  Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

  Back at college again and an upper classman. Our study is better than ever this year—faces the South with two huge windows—and oh! so furnished. Julia, with an unlimited allowance, arrived two days early and was attacked with a fever of settling.

  We have new wall paper and Oriental rugs and mahogany chairs—not painted mahogany which made us sufficiently happy last year, but real. It’s very gorgeous, but I don’t feel as though I belonged in it; I’m nervous all the time for fear I’ll get an ink spot in the wrong place.

  And, Daddy, I found your letter waiting for me—pardon—I mean your secretary’s.

  Will you kindly convey to me a comprehensible reason why I should not accept that scholarship? I don’t understand your objection in the least. But anyway, it won’t do the slightest good for you to object, for I’ve already accepted it—and I am not going to change! That sounds a little impertinent, but I don’t mean it so.

  I suppose you feel that when you set out to educate me, you’d like to finish the work, and put a neat period, in the shape of a diploma, at the end.

  But look at it just a second from my point of view. I shall owe my education to you just as much as though I let you pay for the whole of it, but I won’t be quite so much indebted. I know that you don’t want me to return the money, but nevertheless, I am going to want to do it, if I possibly can; and winning this scholarship makes it so much easier. I was expecting to spend the rest of my life in paying my debts, but now I shall only have to spend one-half of the rest of it.

  I hope you understand my position and won’t be cross. The allowance I shall still most gratefully accept. It requires an allowance to live up to Julia and her furniture! I wish that she had been reared to simpler tastes, or else that she were not my room-mate.

  This isn’t much of a letter; I meant to have written a lot—but I’ve been hemming four window curtains and three portières (I’m glad you can’t see the length of the stitches) and polishing a brass desk set with tooth powder (very uphill work) and sawing off picture wire with manicure scissors, and unpacking four boxes of books, and putting away two trunkfuls of clothes (it doesn’t seem believable that Jerusha Abbott owns two trunks full of clothes, but she does!) and welcoming back fifty dear friends in between.

  Opening day is a joyous occasion!

  Good night, Daddy dear, and don’t be annoyed because your chick is wanting to scratch for herself. She’s growing up into an awfully energetic little hen—with a very determined cluck and lots of beautiful feathers (all due to you).

  Affectionately,

  JUDY.

  September 30th.

  Dear Daddy,

  Are you still harping on that scholarship? I never knew a man so obstinate and stubborn and unreasonable, and tenacious, and bull-doggish, and unable-to-see-other-people’s-points-of-view as you.

  You prefer that I should not be accepting favors from strangers.

  Strangers!—And what are you, pray?

  Is there any one in the world that I know less? I shouldn’t recognize you if I met you on the street. Now, you see, if you had been a sane, sensible person and had written nice, cheering, fatherly letters to your little Judy, and had come occasionally and patted her on the head, and had said you were glad she was such a good girl—Then, perhaps, she wouldn’t have flouted you in your old age, but would have obeyed your slightest wish like the dutiful daughter she was meant to be.

  Strangers indeed! You live in a glass house, Mr. Smith.

  And besides, this isn’t a favor; it’s like a prize—I earned it by hard work. If nobody had been good enough in English, the committee wouldn’t have awarded the scholarship; some years they don’t. Also—But what’s the use of arguing with a man? You belong, Mr. Smith, to a sex devoid of a sense of logic. To bring a man into line, there are just two methods: one must either coax or be disagreeable. I scorn to coax men for what I wish. Therefore, I must be disagreeable.

  I refuse, sir, to give up the scholarship; and if you make any more fuss, I won’t accept the monthly allowance either, but will wear myself into a nervous wreck tutoring stupid Freshmen.

  That is my ultimatum!

  And listen—I have a further thought. Since you are so afraid that by taking this scholarship, I am depriving some one else of an education, I know a way out. You can apply the money that you would have spent for me, toward educating some other little girl from the John Grier Home. Don’t you think that’s a nice idea? Only, Daddy, educate the new girl as much as you choose, but please don’t like her any better than me.

  I trust that your secretary won’t be hurt because I pay so little attention to the suggestions offered in his letter, but I can’t help it if he is. He’s a spoiled child, Daddy. I’ve meekly given in to his whims heretofore, but this time I intend to be FIRM.

  Yours,

  With a Mind,

  Completely and Irrevocably and

  World-without-End Made-up.

  JERUSHA ABBOTT.

  November 9th.

  Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

  I started down to-day to buy a bottle of shoe blacking and some collars and the material for a new blouse and a jar of violet cream46 and a cake of Castile soap—all very necessary; I couldn’t be happy another day without them—and when I tried to pay the car fare, I found that I had left my purse in the pocket of my other coat. So I had to get out and take the next car, and was late for gymnasium.

  It’s a dreadful thing to have no memory and two coats!

  Julia Pendleton has invited me to visit her for the Christmas holidays. How does that strike you, Mr. Smith? Fancy Jerusha Abbott, of the John Grier Home, sitting at the tables of the rich. I don’t know why Julia wants me—she seems to be getting quite attached to me of late. I should, to tell the truth, very much prefer going to Sallie’s, but Julia asked me first, so if I go anywhere, it must be to New York instead of to Worcester. I’m rather awed at the prospect of meeting Pendletons en masse, and also I’d have to get a lot of new clothes—so, Daddy dear, if you write that you would prefer having me remain quietly at college, I will bow to your wishes with my usual sweet docility.

  I’m engaged at odd moments with the “Life and Letters of Thomas Huxley”47—it makes nice, light reading to pick up between times. Do you know what an archæopteryx48 is? It’s a bird. And a stereognathus?49 I’m not sure myself but I think it’s a missing link, like a bird with teeth or a lizard with wings. No, it isn’t either; I’ve just looked in the book. It’s a mesozoic mammal.

  I’ve elected economics this year—very illuminating subject. When I finish that I’m going to take Charity and Reform; then, Mr. Trustee, I’ll know just how an orphan asylum ought to be run. Don’t you think I’d make an admirable voter if I had my rights? I was twenty-one last week. This is an awfully wasteful
country to throw away such an honest, educated, conscientious, intelligent citizen as I would be.

  Yours always,

  JUDY.

  December 7th.

  Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

  Thank you for permission to visit Julia—I take it that silence means consent.

  Such a social whirl as we’ve been having! The Founder’s dance came last week—this was the first year that any of us could attend; only upper classmen being allowed.

  I invited Jimmie McBride, and Sallie invited his room-mate at Princeton, who visited them last summer at their camp—an awfully nice man with red hair—and Julia invited a man from New York, not very exciting, but socially irreproachable. He is connected with the De la Mater Chichesters. Perhaps that means something to you? It doesn’t illuminate me to any extent.

  However—our guests came Friday afternoon in time for tea in the senior corridor, and then dashed down to the hotel for dinner. The hotel was so full that they slept in rows on the billiard tables, they say. Jimmie McBride says that the next time he is bidden to a social event in this college, he is going to bring one of their Adirondack tents and pitch it on the campus.

  At seven-thirty they came back for the President’s reception and dance. Our functions commence early! We had the men’s cards all made out ahead of time, and after every dance, we’d leave them in groups under the letter that stood for their names, so that they could be readily found by their next partners. Jimmie McBride, for example, would stand patiently under “M” until he was claimed. (At least, he ought to have stood patiently, but he kept wandering off and getting mixed with “R’s” and “S’s” and all sorts of letters.) I found him a very difficult guest; he was sulky because he had only three dances with me. He said he was bashful about dancing with girls he didn’t know!

  The next morning we had a glee club concert—and who do you think wrote the funny new song composed for the occasion? It’s the truth. She did. Oh, I tell you, Daddy, your little foundling is getting to be quite a prominent person!

  Anyway, our gay two days were great fun, and I think the men enjoyed it. Some of them were awfully perturbed at first at the prospect of facing one thousand girls; but they got acclimated very quickly. Our two Princeton men had a beautiful time—at least they politely said they had, and they’ve invited us to their dance next spring. We’ve accepted, so please don’t object, Daddy dear.

  Julia and Sallie and I all had new dresses. Do you want to hear about them? Julia’s was cream satin and gold embroidery, and she wore purple orchids. It was a dream and came from Paris, and cost a million dollars.

  Sallie’s was pale blue trimmed with Persian embroidery, and went beautifully with red hair. It didn’t cost quite a million, but was just as effective as Julia’s.

  Mine was pale pink crêpe de chine trimmed with écru lace and rose satin. And I carried crimson roses which J. McB. sent (Sallie having told him what color to get). And we all had satin slippers and silk stockings and chiffon scarfs to match.

  You must be deeply impressed by these millinery details!

  One can’t help thinking, Daddy, what a colorless life a man is forced to lead, when one reflects that chiffon and Venetian point and hand embroidery and Irish crochet are to him mere empty words. Whereas a woman, whether she is interested in babies or microbes or husbands or poetry or servants or parallelograms or gardens or Plato50 or bridge—is fundamentally and always interested in clothes.

  It’s the one touch of nature that makes the whole world kin.51 (That isn’t original. I got it out of one of Shakespeare’s plays.)

  However, to resume. Do you want me to tell you a secret that I’ve lately discovered? And will you promise not to think me vain? Then listen:

  I’m pretty.

  I am, really. I’d be an awful idiot not to know it with three looking-glasses in the room.

  A FRIEND.

  P.S. This is one of those wicked anonymous letters you read about in novels.

  December 20th.

  Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

  I’ve just a moment, because I must attend two classes, pack a trunk and a suitcase, and catch the four-o’clock train—but I couldn’t go without sending a word to let you know how much I appreciate my Christmas box.

  I love the furs and the necklace and the liberty scarf and the gloves and handkerchiefs and books and purse—and most of all I love you! But Daddy, you have no business to spoil me this way. I’m only human—and a girl at that. How can I keep my mind sternly fixed on a studious career, when you deflect me with such worldly frivolities?

  I have strong suspicions now as to which one of the John Grier Trustees used to give the Christmas tree and the Sunday ice-cream. He was nameless, but by his works I know him! You deserve to be happy for all the good things you do.

  Good-by, and a very merry Christmas.

  Yours always, JUDY.

  P.S. I am sending a slight token, too. Do you think you would like her if you knew her?

  January 11th.

  I meant to write to you from the city, Daddy, but New York is an engrossing place.

  I had an interesting—and illuminating—time, but I’m glad I don’t belong in such a family! I should truly rather have the John Grier Home for a background. Whatever the drawbacks of my bringing up, there was at least no pretense about it. I know now what people mean when they say they are weighed down by Things. The material atmosphere of that house was crushing; I didn’t draw a deep breath until I was on an express train coming back. All the furniture was carved and upholstered and gorgeous; the people I met were beautifully dressed and low-voiced and well-bred, but it’s the truth, Daddy, I never heard one word of real talk from the time we arrived until we left. I don’t think an idea ever entered the front door.

  Mrs. Pendleton never thinks of anything but jewels and dress-makers and social engagements. She did seem a different kind of mother from Mrs. McBride! If I ever marry and have a family, I’m going to make them as exactly like the McBrides as I can. Not for all the money in the world would I ever let any children of mine develop into Pendletons. Maybe it isn’t polite to criticize people you’ve been visiting? If it isn’t, please excuse. This is very confidential, between you and me.

  I only saw Master Jervie once when he called at tea time, and then I didn’t have a chance to speak to him alone. It was sort of disappointing after our nice time last summer. I don’t think he cares much for his relatives—and I am sure they don’t care much for him! Julia’s mother says he’s unbalanced. He’s a Socialist—except, thank Heaven, he doesn’t let his hair grow and wear red ties. She can’t imagine where he picked up his queer ideas; the family have been Church of England for generations. He throws away his money on every sort of crazy reform, instead of spending it on such sensible things as yachts and automobiles and polo ponies. He does buy candy with it though! He sent Julia and me each a box for Christmas.

  You know, I think I’ll be a Socialist, too. You wouldn’t mind, would you, Daddy? They’re quite different from Anarchists; they don’t believe in blowing people up. Probably I am one by rights; I belong to the proletariat. I haven’t determined yet just which kind I am going to be. I will look into the subject over Sunday, and declare my principles in my next.

  I’ve seen loads of theaters and hotels and beautiful houses. My mind is a confused jumble of onyx and gilding and mosaic floors and palms. I’m still pretty breathless but I am glad to get back to college and my books—I believe that I really am a student; this atmosphere of academic calm I find more bracing than New York. College is a very satisfying sort of life; the books and study and regular classes keep you alive mentally, and then when your mind gets tired, you have the gymnasium and outdoor athletics, and always plenty of congenial friends who are thinking about the same things you are. We spend a whole evening in nothing but talk—talk—talk—and go to bed with a very uplifted feeling, as though we had settled permanently some pressing world problems. And filling in every crevice, there is always such a lot
of nonsense—just silly jokes about the little things that come up—but very satisfying. We do appreciate our own witticisms!

  It isn’t the great big pleasures that count the most; it’s making a great deal out of the little ones—I’ve discovered the true secret of happiness, Daddy, and that is to live in the now. Not to be forever regretting the past, or anticipating the future; but to get the most that you can out of this very instant. It’s like farming. You can have extensive farming and intensive farming; well, I am going to have intensive living after this. I’m going to enjoy every second, and I’m going to know I’m enjoying it while I’m enjoying it. Most people don’t live; they just race. They are trying to reach some goal far away on the horizon, and in the heat of the going they get so breathless and panting that they lose all sight of the beautiful, tranquil country they are passing through; and then the first thing they know, they are old and worn out, and it doesn’t make any difference whether they’ve reached the goal or not. I’ve decided to sit down by the way and pile up a lot of little happinesses, even if I never become a Great Author. Did you ever know such a philosopheress as I am developing into?

  Yours ever, JUDY.

  P.S. It’s raining cats and dogs tonight. Two puppies and a kitten have just landed on the window-sill.

  Dear Comrade,

  Hooray! I’m a Fabian.52

  That’s a Socialist who’s willing to wait. We don’t want the social revolution to come to-morrow morning; it would be too upsetting. We want it to come very gradually in the distant future, when we shall all be prepared and able to sustain the shock.