I could not finish. Although married and forever
beyond me, I could still hear his manly tones as issueing
from the door of the Bath-house. I thrilled with
excitement. As the curtain rose I closed my eyes
in ecstacy.
“Bab!” Jane said, in a quavering tone.
I looked. What did I see? The bath-house
itself, the very one. And as I stared I saw a
girl, wearing her hair as I wear mine, cross the stage
with a Bunch of Keys in her hand, and say to the bath-house
door.
“Can’t I do somthing to help? I do
so want to help you.”
My very words.
And a voice from beyond the bath-house door said:
“Who’s that?”
His words.
I could bare no more. Heedless of Jane’s
Protests and Anguish, I got up and went out, into
the light of day. My body was bent with misry.
Because at last I knew that, like mother and all the
rest, he to did not understand
me, and never would. To him
I was but material, the stuff that plays are made
of!
And now we know that
he never could know,
And did not understand.
Kipling.
Ignoring Jane’s observation that the tickets
had cost two dollars each,
I gathered up the scattered Skeins of my life together,
and fled.
HER DIARY: BEING THE DAILY JOURNAL OF THE SUB-DEB
January 1st. I have today recieved this
dairy from home, having come back a few days early
to make up a French Condition.
Weather, clear and cold.
New Year’s dinner. Roast chicken (Turkey
being very expencive), mashed
Turnips, sweet Potatos and minse Pie.
It is my intention to record in this book the details
of my Daily Life, my thoughts which are to sacred
for utterence, and my ambitions. Because who
is there to whom I can speak them? I am surounded
by those who exist for the mere Pleasures of the day,
or whose lives are bound up in Resitations.
For instance, at dinner today, being mostly faculty
and a few girls who live in the Far West, the conversation
was entirely on buying a Phonograph for dancing because
the music teacher has the meazles and is quarentined
in the infirmery. And on Miss Everett’s
couzin, who has written a play.
When one looks at Miss Everett, one recognises that
no couzin of hers could write a play.
New Year’s resolution—to help some
one every day. Today helped Mademoiselle to put
on her rubers.
January 2nd. Today I wrote my French
theme, beginning, “Les hommes songent moins
a leur AME QU A leur corps.” Mademoiselle
sent for me and objected, saying that it was not a
theme for a young girl, and that I must write a new
one, on the subject of pears. How is one to develope
in this atmosphere?
