In thinking over my career at boarding-school I always recall three
remarks which were made to me in the smoky Hilton Station as I waited
for my train. Father and Alec and Juliet who, the dear old trump, had
actually cut school to see me off, were at the station.
Alec had said, "Go slowly, Bobbie, and know only the best girls," and I
had replied, pop-full of confidence, "Of course, Alec."
"And whatever else you do," exclaimed Juliet, "don't you dare to get a
swelled head, Lucy Vars." "I won't," I had assured her.
Father, dear kind Father, his hand on my shoulder, had commanded: "Dear
child, discover some one less fortunate than yourself and be kind to
her." And I had promised, tussling with the painful lump in my throat,
"I will, dear Father."
Father had slipped a paper bag into my hand then--a bag of lemon-drops
(Father always buys lemon-drops) and two sticks of colt's-foot. The
poor dear man had forgotten that I didn't like colt's-foot, but when
I opened the bag in the train and saw those two little brown sticks,
somehow I loved dear Father harder than ever. I put them into my
travelling bag very tenderly, and have kept them ever since.
I don't know how to explain my impressions of boarding-school. I
realise now that in spite of the pain at leaving home I did have
buried in the bottom of my heart dreams of the vague, unknown joys of
room-mates and spreads. Every young girl has such dreams, I guess. Even
as I sped along in the train, trying desperately to dissolve that lump
in my throat with Father's lemon-drops, I was wondering about the new
bosom friends I should make. Edith Campbell, an awfully popular older
girl in our town and a friend of Alec's, had been to a fashionable
boarding-school in New York ever since she was a child, and she was
forever bringing home girls to visit her, or whisking off herself to
ball-games and Proms with "a Room-mate's brother" or "a Best-friend's
cousin." I could hardly realise that I, Lucy Vars, was about to step
within the same fascinating circle. Fifty girls to eat and sleep and
walk with; fifty girls to choose my friends from; fifty girls to bring
home with me for over a holiday; fifty girls for me to visit; and fifty
girls with brothers or cousins at Harvard and Yale and Princeton.
Perhaps that very winter some college man would invite me to a Prom;
I would dance till morning, and become such a dazzling belle that by
Easter-time I would look upon the twins as mere _boys_. Probably by
summer I would be dashing about to house-parties, and talking to real
grown-up men over a cup of tea like Dolly in the "Dolly Dialogues."
Perhaps I would be president of my class at school, like Tom at
college. Perhaps--perhaps--oh, I am forced to smile at myself now as I
look back and see the funny little short-skirted, pig-tailed creature
that I was, sitting there in the train, gazing out of the window,
building my absurd little air-castles by the score, on the very way
to the destruction of every dream I ever had. I didn't make a single
friend at boarding-school. I didn't meet a man. Here it is almost
summer, and house-parties seem as remote from me as they did ten years
ago. I must try to explain why I made such a flat failure of things. It
isn't a pleasant story, but here goes:
The first instant that I stepped into that school I knew that I was a
curiosity to everybody there. Never shall I forget that first evening
when Miss Brown ushered me into the big school dining-room and seated
me beside her. It looked like fairy-land to me--red candles on a dozen
little round tables and all the girls in soft, light dresses with Dutch
necks. When I finally dared look up from my plate and glance round, I
thought I had never seen such beautiful creatures. I couldn't find a
homely girl among them; and such lovely hair as they had, done soft and
full and fluffy with large ribbon-bows tied at the back of their necks.
The girls at our table had the whitest hands and the prettiest soft
arms, with bracelets jingling on them.
After supper Miss Brown seated herself in a big armchair by a low lamp
in the drawing-room and read aloud from "Pride and Prejudice." The
girls all gathered about her and did fancy work on big hoops. I didn't
have any work and tried to make myself comfortable on a little high
silk-brocaded chair. I felt horribly embarrassed. Every time a girl
looked up from her work and scrutinised me from top to toe, I felt like
saying, "I know I'm a perfect mess. I see it. I know my hands are like
sandpaper, and my shoes thick-soled, and my dress a sight. I know my
hair is ridiculous braided and bobbed up with a black ribbon like a
horse's tail. I know it." I couldn't listen to a word that Miss Brown
was reading. I was awfully disturbed thinking about my trunk on its
way to me, filled with its queer collection, and wondering what in the
name of heaven I could put on the next night. My blue cashmere haunted
me like a bad dream. I think that first evening at boarding-school
was the first time I really missed having a mother. _She_ would have
known the blue cashmere was ugly; _she_ would have known that little
bronze slippers with stockings to match were the proper thing; _she_
would have known that girls at boarding-school wore Dutch necks and
wide ribbons tied low, at the back of their necks. I simply dreaded
unpacking that pitiful little trunk of mine. I wished it could be lost.
My room-mate's name was Gabriella Atherton, but when I entered the room
which I was supposed to share with her I wished she had been plain
Mary Jane. The bureau was simply loaded with silver things--silver
brushes and mirrors and powder-boxes, and at least three silver frames
with the stunningest men's pictures in them you ever saw. The walls
were covered with college flags, and the window-seat was banked with
college sofa-cushions. Why, I didn't know a single man, except high
school boys, great awkward creatures like the twins. I hoped Gabriella
wouldn't find out that I had never been to a college football game
in my life, nor been invited to one either. My one last hope for
consolation lay in the possibility that Gabriella was older than I. I
thought she must be at least twenty to know so many men. When we were
finally alone, getting ready to go to bed I asked her. My heart sank
when she announced that she was only sixteen. I know exactly how a
mother feels now when another person's baby born a month before hers
talks first and shows signs of greater intelligence. I remember I was
standing before my chiffonier braiding my hair for the night, pulling
it flat back as I always did and fixing it in one tight short little
braid, when Gabriella announced she was sixteen. Why, she looked old
enough to be married, and I--I gazed at my reflection--I looked like
poor Sarah Carew in the garret. No wonder the family wanted to send the
old spoon away to be polished. No wonder!
"One of the girls," Gabriella went on to say, "has had a Box from home.
She's asked the whole school to a Kimono Spread in her room. Do you
want to go?"
A Spread! My heart leaped! And then I got a glimpse of Gabriella in the
glass before me. She was a vision in a flowing pink silk kimono with
white birds on it. She had her hair fluffed up on top and tied with a
wide pink taffeta ribbon--she actually slept in it--and little pink
shoes on her feet.
"I guess I won't to-night, thanks," I said, not turning around, for I
didn't want her to see what a peeled onion I looked like; "the train
made me car-sick." And I snapped the elastic band around the end of my
braid.
After Gabriella had gone I turned out the light and crawled into the
little brass bed, which Miss Brown had said was mine; but I didn't
go to sleep. I just lay there listening to the muffled laughter and
chatter at the end of the hall. It was only nine o'clock and lights
were not due to be out until ten. I hated lying there wide awake and I
kept wondering how I could get dressed in the morning without letting
my room-mate see all my plain ugly things. Then I remembered that I had
left my common cheap little wooden brush, the shellac all washed off
with weekly scrubbings, on top of my chiffonier. I jumped up quickly
and hid it in the top drawer; then suddenly I turned on the light, sat
down in my horrid red wool wrapper, and wrote something like this to
Alec, blubbering and dabbing tears all through it:
"_Dear Alec_,
I'm here safely, I've met all the girls and they are perfectly lovely.
I'm going to love it. My room-mate's name is Gabriella Atherton--isn't
that a beautiful name?--and she is a perfect dear! I can't write long
for I am due at a spread; so, so-long until I have more time. This
place is full of corking girls. They would, however, consider the
twins mere babes-in-arms. Tell Aunt Sarah that Father will want his
flannel night-shirts as soon as there is a frost. They are in the
all-over leather trunk in the storeroom. The girls will be wondering
where I am, so good-night.
"Your enthusiastic
"BOBBIE."
Then I went back to bed and bawled like a baby, until I heard
Gabriella at the door. Another girl was with her and I heard her say,
"Good-night, dear," and Gabriella call back exactly as they do in books
and as they did once in my dreams. "Good-night, sweetheart." Thereupon
I ducked my head down underneath the covers and pretended to be asleep.
A half-hour later, when I felt sure that Gabriella was dead to the
world, I opened my eyes and lay awake until almost morning.
But no one needs to think that I was homesick. Wild horses couldn't
have dragged me home. I was bound to stick it out or die and I tried
not to be a little goose and cry my eyes out. That wouldn't help me to
make the best girls my friends and I didn't mean to disappoint Alec if
I could help it. I was there for business and I meant to accomplish it.
Alec had said he admired that quality.
But Miss Brown's-on-the-Hudson was awfully different from the
Hilton Classical High School. They played basket-ball as if it were
drop-the-handkerchief: there was no regular team. We exercised by
walking two by two for an hour every afternoon. There wasn't the
slightest chance for me to shine in athletics.
I was robbed also of my hope of being a genius. There was a girl who
could write ten times better than I. It was after one of her poems
was read out loud in class, that I discovered I wasn't gifted in the
least. She was the marvel of the school, and whenever there were guests
she was asked to read her poems herself. They were the deepest things
I ever listened to--about the soul, and sorrow, and "swift sweet
death." She _looked_ like a genius too. She had jet black hair and
wore it in long curls tied loosely behind, big dreamy eyes, and pale
transparent skin. She wasn't very healthy and always wore black. Her
mother was an artist in Florence, and Lucia (think of it, _my_ name,
but pronounced so differently) Lucia had always lived in Italy until
she came to school. I tell you, as soon as I saw her and listened to
her poetry, I was terribly thankful that I had never let any one know
that I had ever thought _I_ could write. I got A on my compositions,
and A in everything else, but no one imagined that I was a genius.
They considered _me_ just a plain everyday shark. But I tried not to
be offensively smart. I flunked on purpose once in a while; I passed
notes in class whenever I could find any one to pass them to; I got
so I could turn off a "darn" as neatly as any of them, and pout and
say "The devil!" when I pricked my finger pinning down my belt. For I
was determined they shouldn't think me a "goody-goody" or a "teacher's
pet." I even crocheted a man's tie and pretended it was for a friend of
mine at a fashionable preparatory school in Massachusetts. I went so
far in my frantic endeavours, as to cut out from old magazines all the
pictures I could find of an actor, whom, by the way, I had never even
seen, and stuck them in the corners of the glass over my chiffonier.
Oh, I tried to be like the other girls. I knew they hadn't liked their
first impressions of me, but I tried to show them that I wasn't as
queer as I looked. I tried to be pleasant and accommodating; I tried to
be patient and bide my time; I tried--heaven knows I tried, Alec--but
it was no use. From the start it was absolutely no go. I couldn't
make even the _worst_ of those girls my friends. I tell you I did my
level best, but I hadn't the clothes, nor the silver bureau-sets, nor
the frames, nor the men's pictures to put into them, nor the college
banners, nor the mother to send me boxes of food from home. Those girls
treated me as if I were the mud under their feet. If I was in the room,
I might as well have been the bed-post for all the attention they paid
to me. If I was told to walk with one of them during "Exercise," that
one was pitied by the rest. They looked upon my clothes as if I were a
Syrian or Turk in strange costume. I used to get hot all over whenever
I had to appear in a dress they had never seen. And, O Juliet--good
old loyal Juliet--you were afraid I would be spoiled by admiration! I
simply have to chortle with glee when I think of your warning to your
old chum. A swelled head! My _eyes_ got swollen instead, old Jule, with
tears! And Father--dear Father--there wasn't a single soul for me to be
kind to. _I_ was the most miserable one in the whole school, the most
unpopular, the most forlorn. And there's the truth in black and white.
After about five weeks of an average of ten insults a day, I got tired.
Too long a stretch on the diet of humble-pie doesn't agree with me.
There's an end to every one's patience. One day in late November little
Japan up and fought; and once started, there was no stopping her. You
see the girls had gotten into the habit of asking me to help them with
their lessons. At first I was pleased, for I naturally thought that if
they would let me see their stupid minds, they would admit me into a
few of their intimacies and secret affairs--and oh, I did long to be
friends with them! But I discovered they had no such intention.
One night I went into Beatrix Fox's room, by appointment, at quarter of
ten. She was waiting and ready for me, but I could see the remains of
a spread on the table and desk--crumbs, nutshells, olive-stones, and a
half-eaten bunch of Tokays.
"Oh, here you are!" said Beatrix, and with no attempt at concealment,
she went on. "I've been having half a dozen girls to a spread," she
said. "But I told them to leave one piece of cake for _you_, Lucy. Here
it is. Now let's get at the Latin."
I was awfully insulted. Beatrix Fox nor any one else had ever seen the
least fire or spunk in Lucy Vars before that night, but I couldn't hold
in a minute longer. I took the delicious piece of chocolate layer-cake
and went over to the waste-basket. I threw it in. "There's your cake!"
Beatrix stared as if I had gone crazy. "There's your old cake, Beatrix
Fox!" I repeated, and went out of the room.
After that night I was a changed person. I couldn't be touched with
a ten-yard pole. I became a regular bunch of fire-crackers--spurting
and going off in everybody's face and eyes at the least spark. And
oh, to speak out my mind, and to spit out my feelings at last, was
simply glorious! It was like getting the rubber-dam off your tooth
after a three hours' sitting at the dentist's. After that experience
with Beatrix, there was no more Cicero translated nor French sentences
corrected by Lucy Vars for a single one of those stupid-minded,
rattle-brained young ladies. I made a notice on pasteboard in black ink
and hung it on my door. It read: "A PUBLIC TUTOR CAN BE OBTAINED FROM
MISS BROWN. DON'T APPLY HERE! LUCY CHENERY VARS." The girls thought the
sign was perfectly horrid and I was glad of it. I wanted to be horrid.
I revelled in it. I wanted to be horrid to everybody who had been
horrid to me.
Once during "Written Exercise," I wrote a whole page of Latin
Composition wrong, so that little cheating snobbish Barbara Porter
next to me might copy it off on her paper and pass it in. At the bottom
of _my_ sheet I wrote, "I've made these mistakes on purpose. You may
give me zero." Miss Brown, in a long talk in her private office, told
me it was not a kind thing for me to do. But I didn't care. I had let
Barbara Porter copy my Latin Comp for five weeks without a murmur, and
she had never put _herself_ out to be kind to _me_. I wasn't going to
be anybody's door-mat!
At Thanksgiving all the girls "double up," which means that the ones
who live far away spend the holiday with the ones who live near. Of
course no one wanted me. Gabriella, who at times tried to be nice to
me, felt conscience-stricken, I suppose, for she said to me one day
when we were dressing, "It's too bad you're going to be here alone,
Lucy. Don't you suppose Miss Brown would let you to come down to
East Orange" (Gabriella lived in East Orange, New Jersey) "and eat
Thanksgiving dinner with us?"
I replied maliciously, "Why, I'm sure Miss Brown would let me spend the
entire three days with you, Gabriella."
Gabriella hedged then, as I knew she would. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I'm
taking Grace and Barbara home with me, and there's a dance I do want to
go to--and--if you--"
"O Gabriella," I broke in, "don't be alarmed. I shan't burden you for
one little tiny minute. I just wanted to frighten you. I wouldn't give
your friends at home such a shock as the sight of me would be, for
anything in the world. I shall enjoy, on the other hand, the quiet of
this room after my charming room-mate has departed."
That's the way I talked but I wrote home: "Gabriella wants me awfully
to spend Thanksgiving with her. There is a dance and all sorts of
plans, but in spite of all her urging I've refused. There's quite a
bunch of us staying here" (the bunch were teachers), "and jolly spreads
and sprees in store."
I didn't want my family to know--kind Alec, the arrogant twins, pretty
Ruth, and Father who used to be so proud of me--I didn't want them to
know what a poor little Cinderella I was. When I went home I wanted
every one to think I had had a glorious time at school, as all girls
do. I wanted my family to open their eyes and say, "My, how you're
changed!" and every one at church to whisper when I came in a little
late, "There's Lucy Vars home! Hasn't she grown up?" I wanted Dr.
Maynard to raise his hat to me when he met me on the street, and call
me Miss Vars. I wanted Juliet to gaze at me with envy. If there was any
real silver underneath the tarnish on me I was bound it should shine
when I went home at Christmas. And so it happened that I made up my
mind that if I couldn't make friends with my new schoolmates I could at
least learn something from them. I used to observe them very carefully
and jot down important points in my memory. Even the things that I
derided to their faces, I meant to copy when I went home. My brain
became a regular copybook of rules.
"My skirts," I recorded, "should be below my shoe-tops, not above.
"The way to keep a waist down, is to fasten it with a safety-pin
behind and a long black steel pin in front.
"My nails should be as shining as a dinner-plate.
"A shining face is not supposed to be pretty.
"Powder is used to remove shine, and isn't wicked like rouge.
"Girls of seventeen use hairpins and rats, and keep their hats on with
hatpins instead of elastics.
"Mohair and gingham underskirts and Ferris waists are not worn by girls
of seventeen.
"Huge taffeta bows underneath the chin, on the hair, or anywhere in
fact, is the rubber-stamp for a girl of my age.
"Automobiles, actors, college football, and allowances are popular
subjects for conversation.
"Don't break crackers into your soup.
"Don't butter a whole slice of bread.
"Don't cut up all your meat before beginning to eat."
I used to watch Gabriella dress like a hawk. She had lots of clever
little tricks, like pinning up her pompadour to the brim of her hat, or
rubbing her cheeks with a hair-brush to make them rosy. She used to put
a little cologne just back of her ears, which I thought very queer, and
she was forever asking me if I could see light through her hair. Every
week she gave her face what she called a cold-cream bath. She said her
mother always did, after riding in the automobile.
I planned to spend every cent of Alec's one hundred dollars on clothes.
I did all my shopping in New York. I adored New York! Saturday
afternoons when the other girls went to the matinée, the chaperone
allowed me to spend the time in the big department stores. I didn't
buy anything--just looked and looked, priced and priced, and when I
had a nice clerk, tried things on. Once I had my nails manicured, so
I would know how; once I went to a Fifth Avenue hair dresser, who
charged me a dollar and a half to make me look like a sight; and one
day I bought Father a necktie for fifty cents and Alec a scarf-pin for
seventy-five. That is all I spent until just before Christmas when I
blew in the whole hundred. For, you understand, it was not to impress
the girls at school, but the people at home, that I bought my new
outfit. It was not until after I had made a great many estimates and
carefully planned it all out on a piece of paper that I asked one of
the younger teachers, who I thought had good taste, if she would help
me buy a few trifling clothes on the following Saturday.
We started on the early train and reached New York at nine o'clock. I
think that Saturday was the happiest day of my life! I bought a suit
for thirty-five dollars at Kirby's; a hat marked down to ten dollars
at Earl & Kittredge's; a silk dress for twenty-five dollars; a spotted
veil for fifty cents; a barette for twenty cents; pumps for four
dollars; one pair of silk stockings for one dollar, and so on. I had
just seven dollars and sixty-seven cents left after I had bought my
last purchase--a lovely red silk waist for travelling. My suit was dark
blue, my boots tan with Cuban heels, and my blue velvet hat had two
reddish quills in it. I was awfully pleased with my selections, and I
confided to Miss Davis, the teacher, that I wasn't going to wear any of
the things until the very day I started for home.
"And now," I said, "I'm going to take you to luncheon, Miss Davis,
after which I want you to be my guest at a matinée."
It was simply grand to have money! It makes you feel like a queen to
fling it around as if it were paper. After I had spent almost a hundred
dollars Miss Davis thought I was an heiress in disguise, and to carry
out the part I left the whole of fifty cents as a tip for our waiter at
luncheon. I told Miss Davis to pick out the most popular play in New
York for us to see. We bought the best seats in the house.
Never, never as long as I live shall I forget those two hours and a
half of perfect happiness! I'd never seen anything but vaudeville in my
life, and I almost cry now when I think of that play. It was perfectly
grand. The hero kept looking right straight at me all the time and what
do you think? What do you suppose? He was the very actor whose pictures
I had cut out and stuck in my mirror! He was Robert K. Dwinnell, and I
hadn't known until I was inside the theatre and looked at the program
that he was in New York. It seemed to me too strange a coincidence to
be true. I don't believe in omens, but Miss Davis told me afterward
she hadn't the slightest idea that I had been collecting his pictures.
After that play I could hardly speak. The queer grey light of day after
the glow of the footlights, didn't seem real. Boarding-school and all
the girls seemed trifling. I couldn't think of anything except Robert
Dwinnell and that play all the way back in the train. I felt that I was
the beautiful heroine instead of Lucy Vars. I felt her joy at meeting
her lover instead of my anguish at going back to a lot of unfriendly
girls. I lived and breathed in the action of the plot I had just seen.
I couldn't get away from it. Before I boarded the train that night I
dragged Miss Davis into a small shop which we passed on the way to the
station, and with the last fifty cents of Alec's one hundred dollars I
bought a real picture of Robert Dwinnell. The picture is here now in
this very cupola, in the top drawer of my desk and is the only comfort
that I have. Mr. Dwinnell is sitting on the edge of a table swinging
one foot, just as he did in the play--I remember the place in the third
act--and his eyes are looking right at me.
I wonder, oh, I wonder sometimes, if he and I will ever meet.