第 4 页 共 23 页 第四部
DADDY-LONG-LEGS(4)
By JEAN WEBSTER
24th April
Dear Daddy,
Spring has come again! You should see how lovely the campus is. I
think you might come and look at it for yourself. Master Jervie dropped
in again last Friday--but he chose a most unpropitious time, for Sallie and
Julia and I were just running to catch a train. And where do you think we
were going? To Princeton, to attend a dance and a ball game, if you
please! I didn't ask you if I might go, because I had a feeling that your
secretary would say no. But it was entirely regular; we had leave-ofabsence
from college, and Mrs. McBride chaperoned us. We had a
charming time--but I shall have to omit details; they are too many and
complicated.
Saturday
Up before dawn! The night watchman called us--six of us--and we
made coffee in a chafing dish (you never saw so many grounds!) and
walked two miles to the top of One Tree Hill to see the sun rise. We had
to scramble up the last slope! The sun almost beat us! And perhaps you
think we didn't bring back appetites to breakfast!
Dear me, Daddy, I seem to have a very ejaculatory style today; this
page is peppered with exclamations.
I meant to have written a lot about the budding trees and the new
cinder path in the athletic field, and the awful lesson we have in biology
for tomorrow, and the new canoes on the lake, and Catherine Prentiss who
has pneumonia, and Prexy's Angora kitten that strayed from home and has
been boarding in Fergussen Hall for two weeks until a chambermaid
reported it, and about my three new dresses-- white and pink and blue
polka dots with a hat to match--but I am too sleepy. I am always making
this an excuse, am I not? But a girls' college is a busy place and we do
get tired by the end of the day! Particularly when the day begins at dawn.
Affectionately, Judy
15th May Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Is it good manners when you get into a car just to stare straight ahead
and not see anybody else? A very beautiful lady in a very beautiful velvet dress got into the car today, and without the slightest expression sat for fifteen minutes and looked at a sign advertising suspenders. It doesn't seem polite to ignore everybody else as though you were the only important person present. Anyway, you miss a lot. While she was absorbing that silly sign, I was studying a whole car full of interesting human beings. The accompanying illustration is hereby reproduced for the first time.
It looks like a spider on the end of a string, but it isn't at all; it's a picture
of me learning to swim in the tank in the gymnasium.
The instructor hooks a rope into a ring in the back of my belt, and runs
it through a pulley in the ceiling. It would be a beautiful system if one
had perfect confidence in the probity正直 of one's instructor. I'm always
afraid, though, that she will let the rope get slack, so I keep one anxious
eye on her and swim with the other, and with this divided interest I do not
make the progress that I otherwise might.
Very miscellaneous weather we're having of late. It was raining
when I commenced and now the sun is shining. Sallie and I are going
out to play tennis--thereby gaining exemption from Gym. A week later
I should have finished this letter long ago, but I didn't. You don't mind,
do you, Daddy, if I'm not very regular? I really do love to write to you; it
gives me such a respectable feeling of having some family. Would you
like me to tell you something? You are not the only man to whom I write
letters. There are two others! I have been receiving beautiful long
letters this winter from Master Jervie (with typewritten envelopes so Julia
won't recognize the writing). Did you ever hear anything so shocking?
And every week or so a very scrawly epistle, usually on yellow tablet
paper, arrives from Princeton. All of which I answer with business-like
promptness. So you see--I am not so different from other girls--I get
letters, too.
Did I tell you that I have been elected a member of the Senior
Dramatic Club? Very recherche organization. Only seventy-five
members out of one thousand. Do you think as a consistent Socialist that
I ought to belong?
What do you suppose is at present engaging my attention in sociology?
I am writing (figurez vous!) a paper on the Care of Dependent Children.
The Professor shuffled up his subjects and dealt them out promiscuously,
and that fell to me. C'est drole ca n'est pas?
There goes the gong for dinner. I'll post this as I pass the box.
Affectionately, J.
4th June Dear Daddy,
Very busy time--commencement in ten days, examinations tomorrow;
lots of studying, lots of packing, and the outdoor world so lovely that it hurts you to stay inside.But never mind, vacation's coming. Julia is going abroad this summer-- it makes the fourth time. No doubt about it, Daddy, goods are
not distributed evenly. Sallie, as usual, goes to the Adirondacks. And
what do you think I am going to do? You may have three guesses.
Lock Willow? Wrong. The Adirondacks with Sallie? Wrong. (I'll
never attempt that again; I was discouraged last year.) Can't you guess
anything else? You're not very inventive. I'll tell you, Daddy, if you'll
promise not to make a lot of objections. I warn your secretary in advance
that my mind is made up.
I am going to spend the summer at the seaside with a Mrs. Charles
Paterson and tutor her daughter who is to enter college in the autumn. I
met her through the McBrides, and she is a very charming woman. I am
to give lessons in English and Latin to the younger daughter, too, but I
shall have a little time to myself, and I shall be earning fifty dollars a
month! Doesn't that impress you as a perfectly exorbitant amount? She
offered it; I should have blushed to ask for more than twenty-five.
I finish at Magnolia (that's where she lives) the first of September, and
shall probably spend the remaining three weeks at Lock Willow-- I should
like to see the Semples again and all the friendly animals.
How does my programme strike you, Daddy? I am getting quite
independent, you see. You have put me on my feet and I think I can
almost walk alone by now.
Princeton commencement and our examinations exactly coincide--
which is an awful blow. Sallie and I did so want to get away in time for
it, but of course that is utterly impossible.
Goodbye, Daddy. Have a nice summer and come back in the autumn
rested and ready for another year of work. (That's what you ought to be
writing to me!) I haven't any idea what you do in the summer, or how you
amuse yourself. I can't visualize your surroundings. Do you play golf
or hunt or ride horseback or just sit in the sun and meditate?
DADDY-LONG-LEGS
78
Anyway, whatever it is, have a good time and don't forget Judy.
10th June Dear Daddy, This is the hardest letter I ever wrote, but
I have decided what I must do, and there isn't going to be any turning back.
It is very sweet and generous and dear of you to wish to send me to
Europe this summer--for the moment I was intoxicated by the idea; but
sober second thoughts said no. It would be rather illogical of me to
refuse to take your money for college, and then use it instead just for
amusement! You mustn't get me used to too many luxuries. One doesn't miss what one has never had; but it's awfully hard going without things after one has commenced thinking they are his-- hers (English language needs another pronoun) by natural right. Living with Sallie and Julia is an awful strain on my stoical philosophy. They have both had things from the time they were babies; they accept happiness as a matter
of course. The World, they think, owes them everything they want.
Maybe the World does--in any case, it seems to acknowledge the debt and
pay up. But as for me, it owes me nothing, and distinctly told me so in
the beginning. I have no right to borrow on credit, for there will come a
time when the World will repudiate my claim.
I seem to be floundering in a sea of metaphor--but I hope you grasp
my meaning? Anyway, I have a very strong feeling that the only honest
thing for me to do is to teach this summer and begin to support myself.
MAGNOLIA, Four days later
I'd got just that much written, when--what do you think happened?
The maid arrived with Master Jervie's card. He is going abroad too this
summer; not with Julia and her family, but entirely by himself I told him
that you had invited me to go with a lady who is chaperoning a party of
girls. He knows about you, Daddy. That is, he knows that my father
and mother are dead, and that a kind gentleman is sending me to college; I
simply didn't have the courage to tell him about the John Grier Home and
all the rest. He thinks that you are my guardian and a perfectly legitimate
old family friend. I have never told him that I didn't know you--that
would seem too queer!
Anyway, he insisted on my going to Europe. He said that it was a
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necessary part of my education and that I mustn't think of refusing. Also,
that he would be in Paris at the same time, and that we would run away
from the chaperon occasionally and have dinner together at nice, funny,
foreign restaurants.
Well, Daddy, it did appeal to me! I almost weakened; if he hadn't
been so dictatorial, maybe I should have entirely weakened. I can be
enticed step by step, but I WON'T be forced. He said I was a silly,
foolish, irrational, quixotic, idiotic, stubborn child (those are a few of his
abusive adjectives; the rest escape me), and that I didn't know what was
good for me; I ought to let older people judge. We almost quarrelled--I
am not sure but that we entirely did!
In any case, I packed my trunk fast and came up here. I thought I'd
better see my bridges in flames behind me before I finished writing to you.
They are entirely reduced to ashes now. Here I am at Cliff Top (the name
of Mrs. Paterson's cottage) with my trunk unpacked and Florence (the
little one) already struggling with first declension nouns. And it bids fair
to be a struggle! She is a most uncommonly spoiled child; I shall have to
teach her first how to study--she has never in her life concentrated on
anything more difficult than ice-cream soda water.
We use a quiet corner of the cliffs for a schoolroom--Mrs. Paterson
wishes me to keep them out of doors--and I will say that I find it difficult
to concentrate with the blue sea before me and ships a-sailing by! And
when I think I might be on one, sailing off to foreign lands-- but I WON'T
let myself think of anything but Latin Grammar.
The prepositions a or ab, absque, coram, cum, de e or ex, prae, pro,
sine, tenus, in, subter, sub and super govern the ablative.
So you see, Daddy, I am already plunged into work with my eyes
persistently set against temptation. Don't be cross with me, please, and
don't think that I do not appreciate your kindness, for I do--always--always.
The only way I can ever repay you is by turning out a Very Useful Citizen
(Are women citizens? I don't suppose they are.) Anyway, a Very Useful
Person. And when you look at me you can say, `I gave that Very Useful
Person to the world.'
That sounds well, doesn't it, Daddy? But I don't wish to mislead you.
DADDY-LONG-LEGS
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The feeling often comes over me that I am not at all remarkable; it is fun
to plan a career, but in all probability I shan't turn out a bit different from
any other ordinary person. I may end by marrying an undertaker and
being an inspiration to him in his work. Yours ever, Judy
19th August Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
My window looks out on the loveliest landscape--ocean-scape, rather--
nothing but water and rocks.
The summer goes. I spend the morning with Latin and English and
algebra and my two stupid girls. I don't know how Marion is ever going
to get into college, or stay in after she gets there. And as for Florence,
she is hopeless--but oh! such a little beauty. I don't suppose it matters in
the least whether they are stupid or not so long as they are pretty? One
can't help thinking, though, how their conversation will bore their
husbands, unless they are fortunate enough to obtain stupid husbands. I
suppose that's quite possible; the world seems to be filled with stupid men;
I've met a number this summer.
In the afternoon we take a walk on the cliffs, or swim, if the tide is
right. I can swim in salt water with the utmost ease you see my
education is already being put to use!
A letter comes from Mr. Jervis Pendleton in Paris, rather a short
concise letter; I'm not quite forgiven yet for refusing to follow his advice.
However, if he gets back in time, he will see me for a few days at Lock
Willow before college opens, and if I am very nice and sweet and docile, I
shall (I am led to infer) be received into favour again.
Also a letter from Sallie. She wants me to come to their camp for
two weeks in September. Must I ask your permission, or haven't I yet
arrived at the place where I can do as I please? Yes, I am sure I have--I'm
a Senior, you know. Having worked all summer, I feel like taking a little
healthful recreation; I want to see the Adirondacks; I want to see Sallie; I
want to see Sallie's brother-- he's going to teach me to canoe--and (we
come to my chief motive, which is mean) I want Master Jervie to arrive at
Lock Willow and find me not there.
I MUST show him that he can't dictate to me. No one can dictate to
me but you, Daddy--and you can't always! I'm off for the woods. Judy
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CAMP MCBRIDE, 6th September
Dear Daddy,
Your letter didn't come in time (I am pleased to say). If you wish your
instructions to be obeyed, you must have your secretary transmit them in
less than two weeks. As you observe, I am here, and have been for five
days.
The woods are fine, and so is the camp, and so is the weather, and so
are the McBrides, and so is the whole world. I'm very happy!
There's Jimmie calling for me to come canoeing. Goodbye--sorry to
have disobeyed, but why are you so persistent about not wanting me to
play a little? When I've worked all the summer I deserve two weeks.
You are awfully dog-in-the-mangerish.
However--I love you still, Daddy, in spite of all your faults.
Judy
3rd October Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Back at college and a Senior--also editor of the Monthly. It doesn't
seem possible, does it, that so sophisticated a person, just four years ago,
was an inmate of the John Grier Home? We do arrive fast in America!
What do you think of this? A note from Master Jervie directed to
Lock Willow and forwarded here. He's sorry, but he finds that he can't
get up there this autumn; he has accepted an invitation to go yachting with
some friends. Hopes I've had a nice summer and am enjoying the
country.
And he knew all the time that I was with the McBrides, for Julia told
him so! You men ought to leave intrigue to women; you haven't a light
enough touch.
Julia has a trunkful of the most ravishing new clothes--an evening
gown of rainbow Liberty crepe that would be fitting raiment for the angels
in Paradise. And I thought that my own clothes this year were
unprecedentedly (is there such a word?) beautiful. I copied Mrs.
Paterson's wardrobe with the aid of a cheap dressmaker, and though the
gowns didn't turn out quite twins of the originals, I was entirely happy
until Julia unpacked. But now--I live to see Paris!
Dear Daddy, aren't you glad you're not a girl? I suppose you think
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that the fuss we make over clothes is too absolutely silly? It is. No
doubt about it. But it's entirely your fault.
Did you ever hear about the learned Herr Professor who regarded
unnecessary adornment with contempt and favoured sensible, utilitarian
clothes for women? His wife, who was an obliging creature, adopted
`dress reform.' And what do you think he did? He eloped with a chorus
girl. Yours ever, Judy
PS. The chamber-maid in our corridor wears blue checked gingham
aprons. I am going to get her some brown ones instead, and sink the blue
ones in the bottom of the lake. I have a reminiscent chill every time I
look at them.
17th November Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Such a blight has fallen over my literary career. I don't know whether
to tell you or not, but I would like some sympathy-- silent sympathy,
please; don't re-open the wound by referring to it in your next letter.
I've been writing a book, all last winter in the evenings, and all the
summer when I wasn't teaching Latin to my two stupid children. I just
finished it before college opened and sent it to a publisher. He kept it
two months, and I was certain he was going to take it; but yesterday
morning an express parcel came (thirty cents due) and there it was back
again with a letter from the publisher, a very nice, fatherly letter--but frank!
He said he saw from the address that I was still at college, and if I would
accept some advice, he would suggest that I put all of my energy into my
lessons and wait until I graduated before beginning to write. He enclosed
his reader's opinion. Here it is:
`Plot highly improbable. Characterization exaggerated.
Conversation unnatural. A good deal of humour but not always in the
best of taste. Tell her to keep on trying, and in time she may produce a
real book.'
Not on the whole flattering, is it, Daddy? And I thought I was
making a notable addition to American literature. I did truly. I was
planning to surprise you by writing a great novel before I graduated. I
collected the material for it while I was at Julia's last Christmas. But I dare say the editor is right. Probably two weeks was not enough in which to observe the manners and customs of a great city.
I took it walking with me yesterday afternoon, and when I came to the
gas house, I went in and asked the engineer if I might borrow his furnace. He politely opened the door, and with my own hands I chucked it in. I
felt as though I had cremated my only child!
I went to bed last night utterly dejected; I thought I was never going to
amount to anything, and that you had thrown away your money for
nothing. But what do you think? I woke up this morning with a
beautiful new plot in my head, and I've been going about all day planning
my characters, just as happy as I could be. No one can ever accuse me of
being a pessimist! If I had a husband and twelve children swallowed by
an earthquake one day, I'd bob up smilingly the next morning and
commence to look for another set. Affectionately,
Judy
14th December Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
I dreamed the funniest dream last night. I thought I went into a book
store and the clerk brought me a new book named The Life and Letters of
Judy Abbott. I could see it perfectly plainly-- red cloth binding with a
picture of the John Grier Home on the cover, and my portrait for a
frontispiece with, `Very truly yours, Judy Abbott,' written below. But just
as I was turning to the end to read the inscription on my tombstone, I woke
up. It was very annoying! I almost found out whom I'm going to marry
and when I'm going to die.
Don't you think it would be interesting if you really could read the
story of your life--written perfectly truthfully by an omniscient author?
And suppose you could only read it on this condition: that you would
never forget it, but would have to go through life knowing ahead of time
exactly how everything you did would turn out, and foreseeing to the
exact hour the time when you would die. How many people do you
suppose would have the courage to read it then? or how many could
suppress their curiosity sufficiently to escape from reading it, even at the
price of having to live without hope and without surprises?
DADDY-LONG-LEGS
84
Life is monotonous enough at best; you have to eat and sleep about so
often. But imagine how DEADLY monotonous it would be if nothing
unexpected could happen between meals. Mercy! Daddy, there's a blot,
but I'm on the third page and I can't begin a new sheet.
I'm going on with biology again this year--very interesting subject;
we're studying the alimentary system at present. You should see how
sweet a cross-section of the duodenum of a cat is under the microscope.
Also we've arrived at philosophy--interesting but evanescent. I prefer
biology where you can pin the subject under discussion to a board.
There's another! And another! This pen is weeping copiously. Please
excuse its tears.
Do you believe in free will? I do--unreservedly. I don't agree at all
with the philosophers who think that every action is the absolutely
inevitable and automatic resultant of an aggregation of remote causes.
That's the most immoral doctrine I ever heard-- nobody would be to blame
for anything. If a man believed in fatalism, he would naturally just sit
down and say, `The Lord's will be done,' and continue to sit until he fell
over dead.
I believe absolutely in my own free will and my own power to
accomplish-- and that is the belief that moves mountains. You watch me
become a great author! I have four chapters of my new book finished
and five more drafted.
This is a very abstruse letter--does your head ache, Daddy? I think
we'll stop now and make some fudge. I'm sorry I can't send you a piece;
it will be unusually good, for we're going to make it with real cream and
three butter balls. Yours affectionately, Judy
PS. We're having fancy dancing in gymnasium class. You can see
by the accompanying picture how much we look like a real ballet. The
one at the end accomplishing a graceful pirouette is me--I mean I.
26th December My Dear, Dear, Daddy,
Haven't you any sense? Don't you KNOW that you mustn't give one
girl seventeen Christmas presents? I'm a Socialist, please remember; do
you wish to turn me into a Plutocrat?
DADDY-LONG-LEGS
85
Think how embarrassing it would be if we should ever quarrel! I
should have to engage a moving-van to return your gifts.
I am sorry that the necktie I sent was so wobbly; I knit it with my own
hands (as you doubtless discovered from internal evidence). You will have
to wear it on cold days and keep your coat buttoned up tight.
Thank you, Daddy, a thousand times. I think you're the sweetest man
that ever lived--and the foolishest! Judy
Here's a four-leaf clover from Camp McBride to bring you good luck
for the New Year.
9th January
Do you wish to do something, Daddy, that will ensure your eternal
salvation? There is a family here who are in awfully desperate straits.
A mother and father and four visible children-- the two older boys have
disappeared into the world to make their fortune and have not sent any of
it back. The father worked in a glass factory and got consumption--it's
awfully unhealthy work-- and now has been sent away to a hospital.
That took all their savings, and the support of the family falls upon the
oldest daughter, who is twenty-four. She dressmakes for $1.50 a day
(when she can get it) and embroiders centrepieces in the evening. The
mother isn't very strong and is extremely ineffectual and pious. She sits
with her hands folded, a picture of patient resignation, while the daughter
kills herself with overwork and responsibility and worry; she doesn't see
how they are going to get through the rest of the winter--and I don't either.
One hundred dollars would buy some coal and some shoes for three
children so that they could go to school, and give a little margin so that she
needn't worry herself to death when a few days pass and she doesn't get
work.
You are the richest man I know. Don't you suppose you could spare
one hundred dollars? That girl deserves help a lot more than I ever did.
I wouldn't ask it except for the girl; I don't care much what happens to the
mother--she is such a jelly-fish.
The way people are for ever rolling their eyes to heaven and saying,
`Perhaps it's all for the best,' when they are perfectly dead sure it's not,
makes me enraged. Humility or resignation or whatever you choose to
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86
call it, is simply impotent inertia. I'm for a more militant religion!
We are getting the most dreadful lessons in philosophy--all of
Schopenhauer for tomorrow. The professor doesn't seem to realize that
we are taking any other subject. He's a queer old duck; he goes about
with his head in the clouds and blinks dazedly when occasionally he
strikes solid earth. He tries to lighten his lectures with an occasional
witticism--and we do our best to smile, but I assure you his jokes are no
laughing matter. He spends his entire time between classes in trying to
figure out whether matter really exists or whether he only thinks it exists.
I'm sure my sewing girl hasn't any doubt but that it exists!
Where do you think my new novel is? In the waste-basket. I can see
myself that it's no good on earth, and when a loving author realizes that,
what WOULD be the judgment of a critical public?
Later
I address you, Daddy, from a bed of pain. For two days I've been laid
up with swollen tonsils; I can just swallow hot milk, and that is all.
`What were your parents thinking of not to have those tonsils out when
you were a baby?' the doctor wished to know. I'm sure I haven't an idea,
but I doubt if they were thinking much about me. Yours, J.
A.
Next morning
I just read this over before sealing it. I don't know WHY I cast such a
misty atmosphere over life. I hasten to assure you that I am young and
happy and exuberant; and I trust you are the same. Youth has nothing to
do with birthdays, only with ALIVEDNESS of spirit, so even if your hair
is grey, Daddy, you can still be a boy. Affectionately,
Judy
12th Jan. Dear Mr. Philanthropist,
Your cheque for my family came yesterday. Thank you so much! I
cut gymnasium and took it down to them right after luncheon, and you
should have seen the girl's face! She was so surprised and happy and
relieved that she looked almost young; and she's only twenty-four. Isn't it
pitiful?
Anyway, she feels now as though all the good things were coming
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together. She has steady work ahead for two months--someone's getting
married, and there's a trousseau to make.
`Thank the good Lord!' cried the mother, when she grasped the fact
that that small piece of paper was one hundred dollars.
`It wasn't the good Lord at all,' said I, `it was Daddy-Long-Legs.' (Mr.
Smith, I called you.)
`But it was the good Lord who put it in his mind,' said she.
`Not at all! I put it in his mind myself,' said I.
But anyway, Daddy, I trust the good Lord will reward you suitably.
You deserve ten thousand years out of purgatory. Yours most gratefully,
Judy Abbott
15th Feb. May it please Your Most Excellent
Majesty:
This morning I did eat my breakfast upon a cold turkey pie and a
goose, and I did send for a cup of tee (a china drink) of which I had never
drank before.
Don't be nervous, Daddy--I haven't lost my mind; I'm merely quoting
Sam'l Pepys. We're reading him in connection with English History,
original sources. Sallie and Julia and I converse now in the language of
1660. Listen to this:
`I went to Charing Cross to see Major Harrison hanged, drawn and
quartered: he looking as cheerful as any man could do in that condition.'
And this: `Dined with my lady who is in handsome mourning for her
brother who died yesterday of spotted fever.'
Seems a little early to commence entertaining, doesn't it? A friend of
Pepys devised a very cunning manner whereby the king might pay his
debts out of the sale to poor people of old decayed provisions. What do
you, a reformer, think of that? I don't believe we're so bad today as the
newspapers make out.
Samuel was as excited about his clothes as any girl; he spent five times
as much on dress as his wife--that appears to have been the Golden Age of
husbands. Isn't this a touching entry? You see he really was honest.
`Today came home my fine Camlett cloak with gold buttons, which cost
me much money, and I pray God to make me able to pay for it.'
DADDY-LONG-LEGS
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Excuse me for being so full of Pepys; I'm writing a special topic on
him.
What do you think, Daddy? The Self-Government Association has
abolished the ten o'clock rule. We can keep our lights all night if we
choose, the only requirement being that we do not disturb others-- we are
not supposed to entertain on a large scale. The result is a beautiful
commentary on human nature. Now that we may stay up as long as we
choose, we no longer choose. Our heads begin to nod at nine o'clock,
and by nine-thirty the pen drops from our nerveless grasp. It's nine-thirty
now. Good night.
Sunday
Just back from church--preacher from Georgia. We must take care,
he says, not to develop our intellects at the expense of our emotional
natures-- but methought it was a poor, dry sermon (Pepys again). It doesn't
matter what part of the United States or Canada they come from, or what
denomination they are, we always get the same sermon. Why on earth
don't they go to men's colleges and urge the students not to allow their
manly natures to be crushed out by too much mental application?
It's a beautiful day--frozen and icy and clear. As soon as dinner is
over, Sallie and Julia and Marty Keene and Eleanor Pratt (friends of mine,
but you don't know them) and I are going to put on short skirts and walk
'cross country to Crystal Spring Farm and have a fried chicken and waffle
supper, and then have Mr. Crystal Spring drive us home in his buckboard.
We are supposed to be inside the campus at seven, but we are going to
stretch a point tonight and make it eight.
Farewell, kind Sir. I have the honour of subscribing myself,
Your most loyall, dutifull, faithfull and obedient servant,
J. Abbott
March Fifth Dear Mr. Trustee,
Tomorrow is the first Wednesday in the month--a weary day for the
John Grier Home. How relieved they'll be when five o'clock comes and
you pat them on the head and take yourselves off! Did you (individually)
ever pat me on the head, Daddy? I don't believe so-- my memory seems
to be concerned only with fat Trustees.
DADDY-LONG-LEGS
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Give the Home my love, please--my TRULY love. I have quite a
feeling of tenderness for it as I look back through a haze of four years.
When I first came to college I felt quite resentful because I'd been robbed
of the normal kind of childhood that the other girls had had; but now, I
don't feel that way in the least. I regard it as a very unusual adventure.
It gives me a sort of vantage point from which to stand aside and look at
life. Emerging full grown, I get a perspective on the world, that other
people who have been brought up in the thick of things entirely lack.
I know lots of girls (Julia, for instance) who never know that they are
happy. They are so accustomed to the feeling that their senses are
deadened to it; but as for me--I am perfectly sure every moment of my life
that I am happy. And I'm going to keep on being, no matter what
unpleasant things turn up. I'm going to regard them (even toothaches) as
interesting experiences, and be glad to know what they feel like.
`Whatever sky's above me, I've a heart for any fate.'
However, Daddy, don't take this new affection for the J.G.H. too
literally. If I have five children, like Rousseau, I shan't leave them on the
steps of a foundling asylum in order to insure their being brought up
simply.
Give my kindest regards to Mrs. Lippett (that, I think, is truthful; love
would be a little strong) and don't forget to tell her what a beautiful nature
I've developed. Affectionately, Judy
LOCK WILLOW, 4th April Dear Daddy,
Do you observe the postmark? Sallie and I are embellishing Lock
Willow with our presence during the Easter Vacation. We decided that
the best thing we could do with our ten days was to come where it is quiet.
Our nerves had got to the point where they wouldn't stand another meal in
Fergussen. Dining in a room with four hundred girls is an ordeal when
you are tired. There is so much noise that you can't hear the girls across
the table speak unless they make their hands into a megaphone and shout.
That is the truth.
We are tramping over the hills and reading and writing, and having a
nice, restful time. We climbed to the top of `Sky Hill' this morning
where Master Jervie and I once cooked supper-- it doesn't seem possible
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that it was nearly two years ago. I could still see the place where the
smoke of our fire blackened the rock. It is funny how certain places get
connected with certain people, and you never go back without thinking of
them. I was quite lonely without him--for two minutes.
What do you think is my latest activity, Daddy? You will begin to
believe that I am incorrigible--I am writing a book. I started it three
weeks ago and am eating it up in chunks. I've caught the secret. Master
Jervie and that editor man were right; you are most convincing when you
write about the things you know. And this time it is about something that
I do know--exhaustively. Guess where it's laid? In the John Grier
Home! And it's good, Daddy, I actually believe it is--just about the tiny
little things that happened every day. I'm a realist now. I've abandoned
romanticism; I shall go back to it later though, when my own adventurous
future begins.
This new book is going to get itself finished--and published! You see
if it doesn't. If you just want a thing hard enough and keep on trying, you
do get it in the end. I've been trying for four years to get a letter from
you--and I haven't given up hope yet.
Goodbye, Daddy dear,
(I like to call you Daddy dear; it's so alliterative.) Affectionately,
Judy
PS. I forgot to tell you the farm news, but it's very distressing.
Skip this postscript if you don't want your sensibilities all wrought up.
Poor old Grove is dead. He got so that he couldn't chew and they had to
shoot him.
Nine chickens were killed by a weasel or a skunk or a rat last week.
One of the cows is sick, and we had to have the veterinary surgeon out
from Bonnyrigg Four Corners. Amasai stayed up all night to give her
linseed oil and whisky. But we have an awful suspicion that the poor
sick cow got nothing but linseed oil.
Sentimental Tommy (the tortoise-shell cat) has disappeared; we are
afraid he has been caught in a trap.
There are lots of troubles in the world!
17th May Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
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91
This is going to be extremely short because my shoulder aches at the
sight of a pen. Lecture notes all day, immortal novel all evening, make
too much writing.
Commencement three weeks from next Wednesday. I think you
might come and make my acquaintance--I shall hate you if you don't!
Julia's inviting Master Jervie, he being her family, and Sallie's inviting
Jimmie McB., he being her family, but who is there for me to invite?
Just you and Lippett, and I don't want her. Please come.
Yours, with love and writer's cramp. Judy
LOCK WILLOW, 19th June Dear
Daddy-Long-Legs,
I'm educated! My diploma is in the bottom bureau drawer with my
two best dresses. Commencement was as usual, with a few showers at
vital moments. Thank you for your rosebuds. They were lovely.
Master Jervie and Master Jimmie both gave me roses, too, but I left theirs
in the bath tub and carried yours in the class procession.
Here I am at Lock Willow for the summer--for ever maybe. The
board is cheap; the surroundings quiet and conducive to a literary life.
What more does a struggling author wish? I am mad about my book. I
think of it every waking moment, and dream of it at night. All I want is
peace and quiet and lots of time to work (interspersed with nourishing
meals).
Master Jervie is coming up for a week or so in August, and Jimmie
McBride is going to drop in sometime through the summer. He's
connected with a bond house now, and goes about the country selling
bonds to banks. He's going to combine the `Farmers' National' at the
Corners and me on the same trip.
You see that Lock Willow isn't entirely lacking in society. I'd be
expecting to have you come motoring through--only I know now that that
is hopeless. When you wouldn't come to my commencement, I tore you
from my heart and buried you for ever. Judy Abbott, A.B.
24th July Dearest Daddy-Long-Legs,
Isn't it fun to work--or don't you ever do it? It's especially fun when
your kind of work is the thing you'd rather do more than anything else in
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the world. I've been writing as fast as my pen would go every day this
summer, and my only quarrel with life is that the days aren't long enough
to write all the beautiful and valuable and entertaining thoughts I'm
thinking.
I've finished the second draft of my book and am going to begin the
third tomorrow morning at half-past seven. It's the sweetest book you
ever saw--it is, truly. I think of nothing else. I can barely wait in the
morning to dress and eat before beginning; then I write and write and
write till suddenly I'm so tired that I'm limp all over. Then I go out with
Colin (the new sheep dog) and romp through the fields and get a fresh
supply of ideas for the next day. It's the most beautiful book you ever
saw--Oh, pardon--I said that before.
You don't think me conceited, do you, Daddy dear?
I'm not, really, only just now I'm in the enthusiastic stage. Maybe
later on I'll get cold and critical and sniffy. No, I'm sure I won't! This
time I've written a real book. Just wait till you see it.
I'll try for a minute to talk about something else. I never told you, did
I, that Amasai and Carrie got married last May? They are still working
here, but so far as I can see it has spoiled them both. She used to laugh
when he tramped in mud or dropped ashes on the floor, but now--you
should hear her scold! And she doesn't curl her hair any longer. Amasai,
who used to be so obliging about beating rugs and carrying wood,
grumbles if you suggest such a thing. Also his neckties are quite dingy--
black and brown, where they used to be scarlet and purple. I've
determined never to marry. It's a deteriorating process, evidently.
There isn't much of any farm news. The animals are all in the best of
health. The pigs are unusually fat, the cows seem contented and the hens
are laying well. Are you interested in poultry? If so, let me recommend
that invaluable little work, 200 Eggs per Hen per Year. I am thinking of
starting an incubator next spring and raising broilers. You see I'm settled
at Lock Willow permanently. I have decided to stay until I've written 114
novels like Anthony Trollope's mother. Then I shall have completed my
life work and can retire and travel.
Mr. James McBride spent last Sunday with us. Fried chicken and
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ice-cream for dinner, both of which he appeared to appreciate. I was
awfully glad to see him; he brought a momentary reminder that the world
at large exists. Poor Jimmie is having a hard time peddling his bonds.
The `Farmers' National' at the Corners wouldn't have anything to do with
them in spite of the fact that they pay six per cent. interest and
sometimes seven. I think he'll end up by going home to Worcester and
taking a job in his father's factory. He's too open and confiding and kindhearted
ever to make a successful financier. But to be the manager of a
flourishing overall factory is a very desirable position, don't you think?
Just now he turns up his nose at overalls, but he'll come to them.
I hope you appreciate the fact that this is a long letter from a person
with writer's cramp. But I still love you, Daddy dear, and I'm very happy.
With beautiful scenery all about, and lots to eat and a comfortable fourpost
bed and a ream of blank paper and a pint of ink--what more does one
want in the world? Yours as always, Judy
PS. The postman arrives with some more news. We are to expect
Master Jervie on Friday next to spend a week. That's a very pleasant
prospect--only I am afraid my poor book will suffer. Master Jervie is
very demanding.
27th August Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Where are you, I wonder?
I never know what part of the world you are in, but I hope you're not in
New York during this awful weather. I hope you're on a mountain peak
(but not in Switzerland; somewhere nearer) looking at the snow and
thinking about me. Please be thinking about me. I'm quite lonely and I
want to be thought about. Oh, Daddy, I wish I knew you! Then when
we were unhappy we could cheer each other up.
I don't think I can stand much more of Lock Willow. I'm thinking of
moving. Sallie is going to do settlement work in Boston next winter.
Don't you think it would be nice for me to go with her, then we could have
a studio together? I would write while she SETTLED and we could be
together in the evenings. Evenings are very long when there's no one but
the Semples and Carrie and Amasai to talk to. I know in advance that
you won't like my studio idea. I can read your secretary's letter now:
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`Miss Jerusha Abbott. `DEAR MADAM,
`Mr. Smith prefers that you remain at Lock Willow. `Yours truly,
`ELMER H. GRIGGS.'
I hate your secretary. I am certain that a man named Elmer H.
Griggs must be horrid. But truly, Daddy, I think I shall have to go to
Boston. I can't stay here. If something doesn't happen soon, I shall
throw myself into the silo pit out of sheer desperation.
Mercy! but it's hot. All the grass is burnt up and the brooks are dry
and the roads are dusty. It hasn't rained for weeks and weeks.
This letter sounds as though I had hydrophobia, but I haven't. I just
want some family.
Goodbye, my dearest Daddy. I wish I knew you.
Judy
LOCK WILLOW, 19th September Dear Daddy,
Something has happened and I need advice. I need it from you, and
from nobody else in the world. Wouldn't it be possible for me to see you?
It's so much easier to talk than to write; and I'm afraid your secretary
might open the letter. Judy
PS. I'm very unhappy.
LOCK WILLOW, 3rd October Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
Your note written in your own hand--and a pretty wobbly hand!-- came
this morning. I am so sorry that you have been ill; I wouldn't have
bothered you with my affairs if I had known. Yes, I will tell you the
trouble, but it's sort of complicated to write, and VERY PRIVATE.
Please don't keep this letter, but burn it.
Before I begin--here's a cheque for one thousand dollars. It seems
funny, doesn't it, for me to be sending a cheque to you? Where do you
think I got it?
I've sold my story, Daddy. It's going to be published serially in seven
parts, and then in a book! You might think I'd be wild with joy, but I'm
not. I'm entirely apathetic. Of course I'm glad to begin paying you--I
owe you over two thousand more. It's coming in instalments. Now
don't be horrid, please, about taking it, because it makes me happy to
return it. I owe you a great deal more than the mere money, and the rest I
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will continue to pay all my life in gratitude and affection.
And now, Daddy, about the other thing; please give me your most
worldly advice, whether you think I'll like it or not.
You know that I've always had a very special feeling towards you; you
sort of represented my whole family; but you won't mind, will you, if I tell
you that I have a very much more special feeling for another man? You
can probably guess without much trouble who he is. I suspect that my
letters have been very full of Master Jervie for a very long time.
I wish I could make you understand what he is like and how entirely
companionable we are. We think the same about everything-- I am afraid
I have a tendency to make over my ideas to match his! But he is almost
always right; he ought to be, you know, for he has fourteen years' start of
me. In other ways, though, he's just an overgrown boy, and he does need
looking after-- he hasn't any sense about wearing rubbers when it rains.
He and I always think the same things are funny, and that is such a lot; it's
dreadful when two people's senses of humour are antagonistic. I don't
believe there's any bridging that gulf!
And he is--Oh, well! He is just himself, and I miss him, and miss
him, and miss him. The whole world seems empty and aching. I hate
the moonlight because it's beautiful and he isn't here to see it with me.
But maybe you've loved somebody, too, and you know? If you have, I
don't need to explain; if you haven't, I can't explain.
Anyway, that's the way I feel--and I've refused to marry him.
I didn't tell him why; I was just dumb and miserable. I couldn't think
of anything to say. And now he has gone away imagining that I want to
marry Jimmie McBride--I don't in the least, I wouldn't think of marrying
Jimmie; he isn't grown up enough. But Master Jervie and I got into a
dreadful muddle of misunderstanding and we both hurt each other's
feelings. The reason I sent him away was not because I didn't care for
him, but because I cared for him so much. I was afraid he would regret it
in the future-- and I couldn't stand that! It didn't seem right for a person
of my lack of antecedents to marry into any such family as his. I never
told him about the orphan asylum, and I hated to explain that I didn't know
who I was. I may be DREADFUL, you know. And his family are
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proud--and I'm proud, too!
Also, I felt sort of bound to you. After having been educated to be a
writer, I must at least try to be one; it would scarcely be fair to accept your
education and then go off and not use it. But now that I am going to be
able to pay back the money, I feel that I have partially discharged that
debt--besides, I suppose I could keep on being a writer even if I did marry.
The two professions are not necessarily exclusive.
I've been thinking very hard about it. Of course he is a Socialist, and
he has unconventional ideas; maybe he wouldn't mind marrying into the
proletariat so much as some men might. Perhaps when two people are
exactly in accord, and always happy when together and lonely when apart,
they ought not to let anything in the world stand between them. Of
course I WANT to believe that! But I'd like to get your unemotional
opinion. You probably belong to a Family also, and will look at it from a
worldly point of view and not just a sympathetic, human point of view--so
you see how brave I am to lay it before you.
Suppose I go to him and explain that the trouble isn't Jimmie, but is
the John Grier Home--would that be a dreadful thing for me to do? It
would take a great deal of courage. I'd almost rather be miserable for the
rest of my life.
This happened nearly two months ago; I haven't heard a word from
him since he was here. I was just getting sort of acclimated to the feeling
of a broken heart, when a letter came from Julia that stirred me all up
again. She said--very casually--that `Uncle Jervis' had been caught out
all night in a storm when he was hunting in Canada, and had been ill ever
since with pneumonia. And I never knew it. I was feeling hurt because
he had just disappeared into blankness without a word. I think he's pretty
unhappy, and I know I am!
What seems to you the right thing for me to do? Judy
6th October Dearest Daddy-Long-Legs,
Yes, certainly I'll come--at half-past four next Wednesday afternoon.
Of COURSE I can find the way. I've been in New York three times and
am not quite a baby. I can't believe that I am really going to see you--
I've been just THINKING you so long that it hardly seems as though you
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are a tangible flesh-and-blood person.
You are awfully good, Daddy, to bother yourself with me, when you're
not strong. Take care and don't catch cold. These fall rains are very
damp. Affectionately, Judy
PS. I've just had an awful thought. Have you a butler? I'm afraid
of butlers, and if one opens the door I shall faint upon the step. What can
I say to him? You didn't tell me your name. Shall I ask for Mr. Smith?
Thursday Morning My Very Dearest Master-Jervie-Daddy-Long-
Legs Pendleton-Smith,
Did you sleep last night? I didn't. Not a single wink. I was too
amazed and excited and bewildered and happy. I don't believe I ever
shall sleep again--or eat either. But I hope you slept; you must, you
know, because then you will get well faster and can come to me.
Dear Man, I can't bear to think how ill you've been--and all the time I
never knew it. When the doctor came down yesterday to put me in the
cab, he told me that for three days they gave you up. Oh, dearest, if that
had happened, the light would have gone out of the world for me. I
suppose that some day in the far future-- one of us must leave the other;
but at least we shall have had our happiness and there will be memories to
live with.
I meant to cheer you up--and instead I have to cheer myself. For in
spite of being happier than I ever dreamed I could be, I'm also soberer.
The fear that something may happen rests like a shadow on my heart.
Always before I could be frivolous and care-free and unconcerned,
because I had nothing precious to lose. But now--I shall have a Great
Big Worry all the rest of my life. Whenever you are away from me I
shall be thinking of all the automobiles that can run over you, or the signboards
that can fall on your head, or the dreadful, squirmy germs that you
may be swallowing. My peace of mind is gone for ever--but anyway, I
never cared much for just plain peace.
Please get well--fast--fast--fast. I want to have you close by where I
can touch you and make sure you are tangible. Such a little half hour we
had together! I'm afraid maybe I dreamed it. If I were only a member
of your family (a very distant fourth cousin) then I could come and visit
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you every day, and read aloud and plump up your pillow and smooth out
those two little wrinkles in your forehead and make the corners of your
mouth turn up in a nice cheerful smile. But you are cheerful again, aren't
you? You were yesterday before I left. The doctor said I must be a
good nurse, that you looked ten years younger. I hope that being in love
doesn't make every one ten years younger. Will you still care for me,
darling, if I turn out to be only eleven?
Yesterday was the most wonderful day that could ever happen. If I
live to be ninety-nine I shall never forget the tiniest detail. The girl that
left Lock Willow at dawn was a very different person from the one who
came back at night. Mrs. Semple called me at half-past four. I started
wide awake in the darkness and the first thought that popped into my head
was, `I am going to see Daddy-Long-Legs!' I ate breakfast in the kitchen
by candle-light, and then drove the five miles to the station through the
most glorious October colouring. The sun came up on the way, and the
swamp maples and dogwood glowed crimson and orange and the stone
walls and cornfields sparkled with hoar frost; the air was keen and clear
and full of promise. I knew something was going to happen. All the
way in the train the rails kept singing, `You're going to see Daddy-Long-
Legs.' It made me feel secure. I had such faith in Daddy's ability to set
things right. And I knew that somewhere another man--dearer than
Daddy-- was wanting to see me, and somehow I had a feeling that before
the journey ended I should meet him, too. And you see!
When I came to the house on Madison Avenue it looked so big and
brown and forbidding that I didn't dare go in, so I walked around the block
to get up my courage. But I needn't have been a bit afraid; your butler is
such a nice, fatherly old man that he made me feel at home at once. `Is
this Miss Abbott?' he said to me, and I said, `Yes,' so I didn't have to ask
for Mr. Smith after all. He told me to wait in the drawing-room. It was a
very sombre, magnificent, man's sort of room. I sat down on the edge of
a big upholstered chair and kept saying to myself:
`I'm going to see Daddy-Long-Legs! I'm going to see Daddy-Long-
Legs!'
Then presently the man came back and asked me please to step up to
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the library. I was so excited that really and truly my feet would hardly
take me up. Outside the door he turned and whispered, `He's been very
ill, Miss. This is the first day he's been allowed to sit up. You'll not stay
long enough to excite him?' I knew from the way he said it that he loved
you--an I think he's an old dear!
Then he knocked and said, `Miss Abbott,' and I went in and the door
closed behind me.
It was so dim coming in from the brightly lighted hall that for a
moment I could scarcely make out anything; then I saw a big easy chair
before the fire and a shining tea table with a smaller chair beside it. And
I realized that a man was sitting in the big chair propped up by pillows
with a rug over his knees. Before I could stop him he rose--rather
shakily--and steadied himself by the back of the chair and just looked at
me without a word. And then-- and then--I saw it was you! But even
with that I didn't understand. I thought Daddy had had you come there to
meet me or a surprise.
Then you laughed and held out your hand and said, `Dear little Judy,
couldn't you guess that I was Daddy-Long-Legs?'
In an instant it flashed over me. Oh, but I have been stupid! A
hundred little things might have told me, if I had had any wits. I
wouldn't make a very good detective, would I, Daddy? Jervie? What
must I call you? Just plain Jervie sounds disrespectful, and I can't be
disrespectful to you!
It was a very sweet half hour before your doctor came and sent me
away. I was so dazed when I got to the station that I almost took a train
for St Louis. And you were pretty dazed, too. You forgot to give me
any tea. But we're both very, very happy, aren't we? I drove back to
Lock Willow in the dark but oh, how the stars were shining! And this
morning I've been out with Colin visiting all the places that you and I went
to together, and remembering what you said and how you looked. The
woods today are burnished bronze and the air is full of frost. It's
CLIMBING weather. I wish you were here to climb the hills with me.
I am missing you dreadfully, Jervie dear, but it's a happy kind of missing;
we'll be together soon. We belong to each other now really and truly, no
make-believe. Doesn't it seem queer for me to belong to someone at last?
It seems very, very sweet. And I shall never let you be sorry for a single instant.
Yours, for ever and ever, Judy
PS. This is the first love-letter I ever wrote. Isn't it funny that I
know how?
The end