Daddy-Long-Legs & Dear Enemy Page 5

  Let me see if I can’t think of something else pleasant—Oh, yes! I’m learning to skate, and can glide about quite respectably all by myself. Also I’ve learned how to slide down a rope from the roof of the gymnasium, and I can vault a bar three feet and six inches high—I hope shortly to pull up to four feet.

  We had a very inspiring sermon this morning preached by the Bishop of Alabama. His text was: “Judge not that ye be not judged.”18 It was about the necessity of overlooking mistakes in others, and not discouraging people by harsh judgments. I wish you might have heard it.

  This is the sunniest, most blinding winter afternoon, with icicles dripping from the fir trees and all the world bending under a weight of snow—except me, and I’m bending under a weight of sorrow.

  Now for the news—courage, Judy!—you must tell.

  Are you surely in a good humor? I flunked mathematics and Latin prose. I am tutoring in them, and will take another examination next month. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed, but otherwise I don’t care a bit because I’ve learned such a lot of things not mentioned in the catalogue. I’ve read seventeen novels and bushels of poetry—really necessary novels like “Vanity Fair” and “Richard Feverel”19 and “Alice in Wonderland.” Also Emerson’s “Essays”20 and Lockhart’s “Life of Scott”21 and the first volume of Gibbon’s “Roman Empire”22 and half of Benvenuto Cellini’s “Life”23—wasn’t he entertaining? He used to saunter out and casually kill a man before breakfast.

  So you see, Daddy, I’m much more intelligent than if I’d stuck to Latin. Will you forgive me this once if I promise never to flunk again?

  Yours in sackcloth,

  JUDY.

  Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

  This is an extra letter in the middle of the month because I’m sort of lonely tonight. It’s awfully stormy; the snow is beating against my tower. All the lights are out on the campus, but I drank black coffee and I can’t go to sleep.

  I had a supper party this evening consisting of Sallie and Julia and Leonora Fenton—and sardines and toasted muffins and salad and fudge and coffee. Julia said she’d had a good time, but Sallie stayed to help wash the dishes.

  I might, very usefully, put some time on Latin to-night—but, there’s no doubt about it, I’m a very languid Latin scholar. We’ve finished Livy24 and De Senectute and are now engaged with De Amicitia25 (pronounced Damn Icitia).

  Should you mind, just for a little while, pretending you are my grandmother? Sallie has one and Julia and Leonora each two, and they were all comparing them to-night. I can’t think of anything I’d rather have; it’s such a respectable relationship. So, if you really don’t object—When I went into town yesterday, I saw the sweetest cap of Cluny lace trimmed with lavender ribbons. I am going to make you a present of it on your eighty-third birthday.

  ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

  That’s the clock in the chapel tower striking twelve. I believe I am sleepy after all.

  Good night, Granny.

  I love you dearly.

  JUDY.

  The Ides of March.

  Dear D. L. L.,

  I am studying Latin prose composition. I have been studying it. I shall be studying it. I shall be about to have been studying it. My reëxamination comes the 7th hour next Tuesday, and I am going to pass or BUST. So you may expect to hear from me next, whole and happy and free from conditions, or in fragments.

  I will write a respectable letter when it’s over. To-night I have a pressing engagement with the Ablative Absolute.

  Yours—in evident haste,

  J. A.

  March 26th.

  Dear D. L. L. Smith.

  SIR: You never answer any questions; you never show the slightest interest in anything I do. You are probably the horridest one of all those horrid Trustees, and the reason you are educating me is, not because you care a bit about me, but from a sense of Duty.

  I don’t know a single thing about you. I don’t even know your name. It is very uninspiring writing to a Thing. I haven’t a doubt but that you throw my letters into the waste-basket without reading them. Hereafter I shall write only about work.

  My reëxaminations in Latin and geometry came last week. I passed them both and am now free from conditions.

  Yours truly,

  JERUSHA ABBOTT.

  April 2d.

  Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

  I am a BEAST.

  Please forget about that dreadful letter I sent you last week—I was feeling terribly lonely and miserable and sore-throaty the night I wrote. I didn’t know it, but I was just coming down with tonsilitis and grippe and lots of things mixed. I’m in the infirmary now, and have been here for six days; this is the first time they would let me sit up and have a pen and paper. The head nurse is very bossy. But I’ve been thinking about it all the time and I shan’t get well until you forgive me.

  Here is a picture of the way I look, with a bandage tied around my head in rabbit’s ears.

  Doesn’t that arouse your sympathy? I am having sublingual gland swelling. And I’ve been studying physiology all the year without ever hearing of sublingual glands. How futile a thing is education!

  I can’t write any more; I get sort of shaky when I sit up too long. Please forgive me for being impertinent and ungrateful. I was badly brought up.

  Yours with love,

  JUDY ABBOTT.

  THE INFIRMARY.

  April 4th.

  Dearest Daddy-Long-Legs,

  Yesterday evening just toward dark, when I was sitting up in bed looking out at the rain and feeling awfully bored with life in a great institution, the nurse appeared with a long white box addressed to me, and filled with the loveliest pink rosebuds. And much nicer still, it contained a card with a very polite message written in a funny little uphill back hand (but one which shows a great deal of character). Thank you, Daddy, a thousand times. Your flowers make the first real, true present I ever received in my life. If you want to know what a baby I am, I lay down and cried because I was so happy.

  Now that I am sure you read my letters, I’ll make them much more interesting, so they’ll be worth keeping in a safe with red tape around them—only please take out that dreadful one and burn it up. I’d hate to think that you ever read it over.

  Thank you for making a very sick, cross, miserable Freshman cheerful. Probably you have lots of loving family and friends, and you don’t know what it feels like to be alone. But I do.

  Good-by—I’ll promise never to be horrid again, because now I know you’re a real person; also I’ll promise never to bother you with more questions.

  Do you still hate girls?

  Yours forever,

  JUDY.

  8th hour, Monday.

  Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

  I hope you aren’t the Trustee who sat on the toad? It went off—I was told—with quite a pop, so probably he was a fatter Trustee.

  Do you remember the little dugout places with gratings over them by the laundry windows in the John Grier Home? Every spring when the hoptoad season opened we used to form a collection of toads and keep them in those window holes; and occasionally they would spill over into the laundry, causing a very pleasurable commotion on wash days. We were severely punished for our activities in this direction, but in spite of all discouragement the toads would collect.

  And one day—well, I won’t bore you with particulars—but somehow, one of the fattest, biggest, juiciest toads got into one of those big leather arm chairs in the Trustees’ room and that afternoon at the Trustees’ meeting—But I dare say you were there and recall the rest?

  Looking back dispassionately after a period of time, I will say that punishment was merited, and—if I remember rightly—adequate.

  I don’t know why I am in such a reminiscent mood except that spring and the reappearance of toads always awakens the old acquisitive instinct. The only thing that keeps me from starting a collection is the fact that no rule exists against it.

  After chapel, Thursday.


  What do you think is my favorite book? Just now, I mean; I change every three days. “Wuthering Heights.”26 Emily Brontë was quite young when she wrote it, and had never been outside of Haworth churchyard. She had never known any men in her life; how could she imagine a man like Heathcliffe?27

  I couldn’t do it, and I’m quite young and never outside the John Grier Asylum—I’ve had every chance in the world. Sometimes a dreadful fear comes over me that I’m not a genius. Will you be awfully disappointed, Daddy, if I don’t turn out to be a great author? In the spring when everything is so beautiful and green and budding, I feel like turning my back on lessons, and running away to play with the weather. There are such lots of adventures out in the fields! It’s much more entertaining to live books than to write them.

  Ow ! ! ! ! ! !

  That was a shriek which brought Sallie and Julia and (for a disgusted moment) the Senior from across the hall. It was caused by a centipede like this:

  only worse. Just as I had finished the last sentence and was thinking what to say next—plump!—it fell off the ceiling and landed at my side. I tipped two cups off the tea table in trying to get away. Sallie whacked it with the back of my hair brush—which I shall never be able to use again—and killed the front end, but the rear fifty feet ran under the bureau and escaped.

  This dormitory, owing to its age and ivy-covered walls, is full of centipedes. They are dreadful creatures. I’d rather find a tiger under the bed.

  Friday, 9.30 P.M.

  Such a lot of troubles! I didn’t hear the rising bell this morning, then I broke my shoe-string while I was hurrying to dress and dropped my collar button down my neck. I was late for breakfast and also the first-hour recitation. I forgot to take any blotting paper and my fountain pen leaked. In trigonometry the Professor and I had a disagreement touching a little matter of logarithms. On looking it up, I find that she was right. We had mutton stew and pie-plant28 for lunch—hate ’em both; they taste like the asylum. Nothing but bills in my mail (though I must say that I never do get anything else; my family are not the kind that write). In English class this afternoon we had an unexpected writing lesson. This was it:

  I asked no other thing,

  No other was denied.

  I offered Being for it;

  The mighty merchant smiled.

  Brazil? He twirled a button

  Without a glance my way:

  But, madam, is there nothing else

  That we can show to-day?29

  That is a poem. I don’t know who wrote it or what it means. It was simply printed out on the blackboard when we arrived and we were ordered to comment upon it. When I read the first verse I thought I had an idea—The Mighty Merchant was a divinity who distributes blessings in return for virtuous deeds—but when I got to the second verse and found him twirling a button, it seemed a blasphemous supposition, and I hastily changed my mind. The rest of the class was in the same predicament; and there we sat for three quarters of an hour with blank paper and equally blank minds. Getting an education is an awfully wearing process!

  But this didn’t end the day. There’s worse to come.

  It rained so we couldn’t play golf, but had to go to gymnasium instead. The girl next to me banged my elbow with an Indian club. I got home to find that the box with my new blue spring dress had come, and the skirt was so tight that I couldn’t sit down. Friday is sweeping day, and the maid had mixed all the papers on my desk. We had tombstone for dessert (milk and gelatin flavored with vanilla). We were kept in chapel twenty minutes later than usual to listen to a speech about womanly women. And then—just as I was settling down with a sigh of well-earned relief to “The Portrait of a Lady,”30 a girl named Ackerly, a dough-faced, deadly, unintermittently stupid girl, who sits next to me in Latin because her name begins with A (I wish Mrs. Lippett had named me Zabriski), came to ask if Monday’s lesson commenced at paragraph 69 or 70, and stayed ONE HOUR. She has just gone.

  Did you ever hear of such a discouraging series of events? It isn’t the big troubles in life that require character. Anybody can rise to a crisis and face a crushing tragedy with courage, but to meet the petty hazards of the day with a laugh—I really think that requires spirit.

  It’s the kind of character that I am going to develop. I am going to pretend that all life is just a game which I must play as skilfully and fairly as I can. If I lose, I am going to shrug my shoulders and laugh—also if I win.

  Anyway, I am going to be a sport. You will never hear me complain again, Daddy dear, because Julia wears silk stockings and centipedes drop off the wall.

  Yours ever,

  JUDY.

  Answer soon.

  May 27th.

  Daddy-Long-Legs, Esq.

  DEAR SIR: I am in receipt of a letter from Mrs. Lippett. She hopes that I am doing well in deportment and studies. Since I probably have no place to go this summer, she will let me come back to the asylum and work for my board until college opens.

  I HATE THE JOHN GRIER HOME.

  I’d rather die than go back.

  Yours most truthfully,

  JERUSHA ABBOTT.

  Cher Daddy-Jambes-Longes,

  Vous etes un brick!

  Je suis tres heureuse about the farm, parsque je n’ai jamais been on a farm dans ma vie and I’d hate to retourner chez John Grier, et wash dishes tout l’été. There would be danger of quelque chose affreuse happening, parsque j’ai perdue ma humilité d’autre fois et j’ai peur that I would just break out quelque jour et smash every cup and saucer dans la maison.

  Pardon brièveté et paper. Je ne peux pas send des mes nouvelles parseque je suis dans French class et j’ai peur que Monsieur le Professeur is going to call on me tout de suite.

  He did!

  Au revoir,

  Je vous aime beaucoup.

  JUDY.31

  May 30th.

  Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

  Did you ever see this campus? (That is merely a rhetorical question. Don’t let it annoy you.) It is a heavenly spot in May. All the shrubs are in blossom and the trees are the loveliest young green—even the old pines look fresh and new. The grass is dotted with yellow dandelions and hundreds of girls in blue and white and pink dresses. Everybody is joyous and carefree, for vacation’s coming, and with that to look forward to, examinations don’t count.

  Isn’t that a happy frame of mind to be in? And oh, Daddy! I’m the happiest of all! Because I’m not in the asylum any more; and I’m not anybody’s nurse-maid or typewriter or bookkeeper (I should have been, you know, except for you).

  I’m sorry now for all my past badnesses.

  I’m sorry I was ever impertinent to Mrs. Lippett.

  I’m sorry I ever slapped Freddie Perkins.

  I’m sorry I ever filled the sugar bowl with salt.

  I’m sorry I ever made faces behind the Trustees’ backs.

  I’m going to be good and sweet and kind to everybody because I’m so happy. And this summer I’m going to write and write and write and begin to be a great author. Isn’t that an exalted stand to take? Oh, I’m developing a beautiful character! It droops a bit under cold and frost, but it does grow fast when the sun shines.

  That’s the way with everybody. I don’t agree with the theory that adversity and sorrow and disappointment develop moral strength. The happy people are the ones who are bubbling over with kindliness. I have no faith in misanthropes. (Fine word! Just learned it.) You are not a misanthrope are you, Daddy?

  I started to tell you about the campus. I wish you’d come for a little visit and let me walk you about and say:

  “That is the library. This is the gas plant, Daddy dear. The Gothic building on your left is the gymnasium, and the Tudor Romanesque beside it is the new infirmary.”

  Oh, I’m fine at showing people about, I’ve done it all my life at the asylum, and I’ve been doing it all day here. I have honestly.

  And a Man, too!

  That’s a great experience. I never talked to a man befor
e (except occasional Trustees, and they don’t count). Pardon, Daddy. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings when I abuse Trustees. I don’t consider that you really belong among them. You just tumbled onto the Board by chance. The Trustee, as such, is fat and pompous and benevolent. He pats one on the head and wears a gold watch chain.

  That looks like a June bug, but is meant to be a portrait of any Trustee except you.

  However—to resume:

  I have been walking and talking and having tea with a man. And with a very superior man—with Mr. Jervis Pendleton of the House of Julia; her uncle, in short (in long, perhaps I ought to say; he’s as tall as you). Being in town on business, he decided to run out to the college and call on his niece. He’s her father’s youngest brother, but she doesn’t know him very intimately. It seems he glanced at her when she was a baby, decided he didn’t like her, and has never noticed her since.

  Anyway, there he was, sitting in the reception room very proper with his hat and stick and gloves beside him; and Julia and Sallie with seventh-hour recitations that they couldn’t cut. So Julia dashed into my room and begged me to walk him about the campus and then deliver him to her when the seventh hour was over. I said I would, obligingly but unenthusiastically, because I don’t care much for Pendletons.

  But he turned out to be a sweet lamb. He’s a real human being—not a Pendleton at all. We had a beautiful time; I’ve longed for an uncle ever since. Do you mind pretending you’re my uncle? I believe they’re superior to grandmothers.

  Mr. Pendleton reminded me a little of you, Daddy, as you were twenty years ago. You see I know you intimately, even if we haven’t ever met!