On Agate Hill (27 page)

“Good morning,” I say, though I still want to die.

But I did not die.

I have not died yet.

I will write more to you later.

Now look in here. These little circular dormer windows seem to me like the portholes on a ship, and our attic bedroom is like the ship itself with its pointy peak in the roof, its wooden walls and low eaves—we go sailing along through the trees. Remember that poem we used to love,

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night

Sailed off in a wooden shoe,—

Sailed on a river of crystal light

Into a sea of dew.

Our attic bedroom is like that.

There are five girls’ bedrooms here at the Gatewood Academy and this is considered the worst because it is so cold, but we consider it the best because it is farthest away from all. No one minds the climb!

My room mates are these:

Emma Page
. Her father is a Presbyterian minister in Goldsboro, but she is tired of being good all the time. She has curly brown hair and lots of freckles which she hates.

Eliza Valiant,
tall and blond, she comes from a family of seven boys who all adore her, in fact she can run and ride a horse like a boy,
hell for leather,
as she says. She brought her horse Galahad to school, and boards him at a farm down the road, and rides in the country with Miss Vest and sometimes the Snow boys when they are here. She is fearless too, she will say or do anything she thinks is right. Even Mrs. Snow has been known to defer to Eliza.

Courtney Leigh Lutz
from Chinquapin Plantation who is merry and funny, she has shiny black hair and jet bracelets like I would love to have. Her mother jumped into a river and killed herself.

Mime Peeler
from Roanoke, Virginia, her mother made her practice the piano for three hours a day with weights on her wrists for years so she is better than anyone here except Monsieur Bienvenu. She has round blue eyes like my doll Margaret (don’t you remember Margaret?) and smooth white skin like china, she looks like a figurine.

Phoebe Taylor
who is plump and very shy and stutters but giggles and giggles when she gets going, she cannot stop. “Oh you d-d-d-d-don’t mean it!” she says. Mrs. Snow thinks Phoebe is a
good influence
but she is not. Phoebe is so sweet that she cries in class whenever we read a sad poem such as “The little toy dog is covered with dust, / But sturdy and staunch he stands” which brought her to tears yesterday.

In our attic bedroom we have six old spool beds and dressers, six frilled dressing tables with basins and pitchers of water which we must carry up here ourselves from the well which is about a hundred miles away, not to mention the slop jars! But we do not care. For here we can do whatever we
please, such as pillow fights and wrestling matches galore, why we have even had levitations and séances led by Courtney whose Aunt Delores is a famous spiritualist. Courtney has a Ouija board hidden under her bed.

On Saturday nights we are supposed to be getting ready for the Sabbath, so we can sing only hymns and read only serious books such as
Stepping Heavenward
which Mrs. Snow read aloud to us in the parlor last week until we thought we would die. At last we were released to our attic where we soon got into a serious pillow fight which ended with everyone piled on the floor in giggles.

“Listen!” Courtney raised her head just as Eliza pummeled her.

“No, really,” Courtney said again when she could get her breath. “Listen, it’s the Old Hoot Owl.” And sure enough, it was. Even I, on the bottom of the pile, heard the dreaded sound of heavy steps—punctuated by a little groan between each one—coming up our steep attic stairs.

“Girls,” Miss Barwick rasped. “All right now, girls, I hear you.”

“Quick!” Eliza said. “Let’s pray.”

“Oh, let’s!” said Emma, and we all scrambled over to kneel demurely beside our beds, hands folded, heads bowed and eyes closed, just as Miss Barwick flung open the door to stand there huffing and puffing. Miss Barwick has a big old square body and square-rimmed spectacles behind which her gray eyes look enormous, which is why everyone calls her the “Old Hoot Owl.”

“Amen,” Eliza sang out, and we all jumped to our feet.

Then, “Good evening. Miss Barwick,” we said as one, though I could scarcely speak from trying not to laugh.

Miss Barwick stood there huffing and puffing. “Don’t imagine that I have been fooled by this display. Everyone else has gone to bed. We could hear you girls all over the house.”

“It was a bat, Miss Barwick,” I said. This just came to me.

“A h-h-horrible bat,” Phoebe Taylor said. “It flew right at me.”

“Well, where is this famous bat now?” asked Miss Barwick.

We all looked at each other. Nellie raised her pretty hands in a questioning gesture. “We don’t know. It was the strangest thing . . . ,” she said in a wondering voice.

Courtney was taken by a coughing fit at that moment, she covered her face with her hands.

Old Hoot Owl smiled in spite of herself. “Well, you are very imaginative girls,” she said finally. “Let us hope that you will put the same degree of creativity and effort into your studies as you have put into this little performance here tonight. But remember, this is the Sabbath eve. Now I expect to see you lining up for dress inspection tomorrow morning in the proper frame of mind. And if I break my neck going back down these steps, girls, you will have it on your consciences forever.”

We held our breaths as she made her slow groaning way down the creaking stairs. Then we all went to bed but I read to the end of
Macaria
by the light of my own little lantern. The others do not care if I stay up reading all night long. Have you read this book, Mary White? It is all about sacrifice.

I do not see why sacrifice is so good for people, do you?

But Mrs. Snow says, “How sublime a thing it is to suffer and be strong,” for she loves suffering, Mary White, she takes an icy cold bath in the closet off the kitchen every day of her life, even in the dead of winter. She shrieks when she gets into it, you can hear her from the hall. We all gather round to listen. And Mrs. Snow prays out loud in the coat closet, too, Emma Page swears she is taking literally the Bible verse which says “Enter into Thy closet and when Thou hast shut the door, pray to Thy Father which is in secret.” Emma can quote the whole Bible from memory, it seems like. But Mrs. Snow can recite “Paradise Lost” by heart, she is famous for it. And for saying, “Young ladies, the best perfume is no perfume at all,” and for this advice

Have communion with
few
,
Be intimate with
one
,
Deal justly by
all
,
Speak evil of
none
.

She made us write this in our copybooks. But we are horrified at the thought of Mrs. Snow and Doctor Snow being intimate! It is too funny.

Mrs. Snow has headaches all the time and about a million children, she just had another one last spring. She is a foot taller than Doctor Snow who
reminds me of a little banty rooster with his red face and upswept red hair. On Sunday afternoons we have to talk to him individually about the state of our souls and then we have to kiss him, it is awful, his breath smells bad, like liquour, and his yellow whiskers are wet and brown with tobacco. His teeth are brown too. I will write you more, I will tell you everything. I am out of time. They are taking up the pie letters now. Oh Mary White, I am so sorry you are suffering, I guess you are the most sublime person that there is in the world. I remain

Your
best friend forever,
signed in blood,

Molly Petree

F
OR
N
O
O
NE’S
E
YES

November 13, 1875

So. My intuition was, as usual, correct; all my suspicions are vindicated. Words fail me when I consider Molly Petree’s evil Chicanery. (How stupid these girls are anyway, to think their “pie letters” will not be read!) I have made a fair copy of Molly Petree’s poisonous missive; I shall keep it as evidence until the time is right, which surely is not now, as Dr. Snow remains wholly enamored of her & her entire Situation. He has recently received another letter & a check from the mysterious Simon Black who holds us in thrall; we can never repay this debt. I cannot imagine what Dr. Snow thinks he is doing.

Sister Agnes is clearly on Molly Petree’s side as well, & I regret to add that Molly has just yesterday won the schoolwide Spelling Bee (with “catarrh,” though it appeared to me that Olive showed a certain favoritism in her word choices for the contestants). Never mind. Never mind. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. Patience is bitter but its fruits are sweet.

And as for that Mime Peeler, she has been severely Chastised, & Professor
Bienvenu dismissed. Him & his palmetto fan, indeed! How he cried & groveled & begged me to reconsider, as if that were even a possibility. I had to stick my fingers in both ears. “No matter how much you attempt to explain yourself & your Billets Doux, or try to tell me the details of your activities, I SHALL NOT LISTEN!” I told him. “God may forgive you if He chooses, but not I. Au revoir.” I ended our interview with a Flourish.

I pray there will be no repercussions from this regrettable Incident.

I have now engaged Mr. Lucius Bonnard, who comes to us highly recommended from Saint Mary’s Institute where he has been an Assistant Instructor for the past two years. Whatever his musical abilities turn out to be, I trust that his standards of Morality will exceed those of Professor Bienvenu. (This should not be difficult.)

Mariah Rutherford Snow
Headmistress, Gatewood Academy
Hopewell, Virginia

F
OR
N
O
O
NE’S
E
YES

December 4, 1875

Rain & more rain, the streets are a sea of mud, the girls tromp along to church like oxen. Tis really enough to give anyone the Blues to live in such a provincial Mud Hole where you see nothing & hear nothing & no one says a thing worth listening to. I think of Simon Black, whose last letter was postmarked St. Louis, his life is unimaginable to me. But what am I saying.

Mariah Rutherford Snow
Headmistress, Gatewood Academy
Hopewell, Virginia

F
OR
N
O
O
NE’S
E
YES

January 28, 1876

Today is gloomy, it snowed . . . you know Hopewell is not an interesting place anyhow.

Mariah Rutherford Snow
Headmistress, Gatewood Academy
Hopewell, Virginia