Viola
The Red and Blue. Volume 20. December, 1907. No. 2. P. 20
May 1. I made two discoveries to-day, one, that we have a library, and the other, that there are things in it besides books. Of course the Profs. have often mentioned the building, but till now I have been too busy to look it up. Jimmy asked me to get a “reference” for him, so I wandered around looking for an ugly thing like a fort at one end and a greenhouse at the other. I went into the greenhouse part, and was referred to Mrs. Snooker, who lived in the fort. Why she did, I’m sure I don’t know, for she would have been just as safe in the greenhouse or anywhere else. She didn’t need any protection. Weil, she gave me the volume, and I was thanking her for it when a vision came down some stairs like those in “The Spider and the Fly.”
“Who’s that?” asks I, sudden-like.
“Why, don’t you know?” answered Mrs. S., provokingly, tilting up her nose and brushing back her aerated pompadour.
“No,” says I, “she can’t be a co-ed, ’cause she’s too pretty and ditto she can’t belong—” I was going to mention a specific nearby locality, but stopped short.
“Well,” says Mrs. S., after the vision had fluttered into the greenhouse, “she’s Miss Viola Budd, who has charge of this desk every evening from six to ten, and you must be very kind to her, because she’s new, and frightfully afraid of you boys.” Then I took Jimmy his book.
May 5. Haven’t had time to write regularly, as I’ve been very busy in the library the last few evenings. Most interesting books there. This morning Jimmy asked what I’d been reading. ’Pon my word, I didn’t remember, so I told him “Gibbon’s Rome.” I never had seen the book, but had heard tell of it.
“Finish it?” asks J., yawning.
“Yep,” says I.
“When did you start?” inquires the artful.
“Last night,” I replied, dreaming of Viola.
“Who is she?” plumped out Jimmy, sitting up.
But I didn’t tell him. Then he thought I was jollying him and got mad, so I took solace in the fort. Really it’s a very jolly place in the evening, there are so few people there. It’s no end of fun, too, though a trifle drowsy at times. I’ve gotten there every night this week before Mrs. Snooker leaves, and we’ve become quite friends. She says I’m very studious. Last night we talked of Viola—we call her Miss Budd for form’s sake. The poor little girl must have an awfully stupid time. Mother dead, and she lives with two old hobgoblins of a father and uncle. I feel very sorry for her, she has such lovely flaxen hair and pretty teeth. But her smile! I can just sit there and watch it. She looked sad to-night, so I tilted over backwards to cheer her up, and bumped my head so hard that I couldn’t enjoy her laughing; but when the fort closed she smiled as I went out. I feel much encouraged, for this is the first time she has smiled at me for my sake alone. I will do anything for another; stand on my nose if necessary.
May 12. Had to go home for a week because my sister was sick. She fell in love with a man that just married somebody else. Silly girl, always was that way, kind of runs in our family—I mean among the daughters. Thank heaven the men haven’t got it.
Was in the fort all the evening and watched Viola from one of the alcoves. She certainly is a darling. She remembered me and shook hands. But I can’t become familiar with her—confound it, she is sort of freezing at times. Viola is mighty reserved, and sometimes when I ask for too many books she looks haughtily and coldly at me and doesn’t speak much. She’s quiet with other fellows. I think I’m the only one she smiles at.
May 13. Warm night. Was in the library at 5.59. Mrs. Snooker was just going out, and told me Viola was inside, prettier than ever. Asked Mrs. S. if it would be proper to invite Miss Budd out to dinner. She snickered and said we’d need some mutual friend along. Drat it, Mrs. Snooker is our only mutual friend, and she knows it; but she’d coagulate the grin on an iceberg.
Viola was entrancing. Had short sleeves also. Never saw such round white arms before. No fuzz—not the least bit on them, just like marble. Her fingers were white as bleached water lily stems. Had a new way of wearing her hair; a sweet wave in front and odd wisps floating around here and there. But her face was pale. I’m sure it’s getting paler all the time now, and if it’s on my account, I think I ought to tell her of my adoration. That’s just the trouble: it may be some other man. If it was, Id throttle him. She is so innocent, too like a dear, furry white lamb.
May 15. Short sleeves. One smile. Yesterday was Sunday. I hate Sunday. Fort was closed, and I always detested church, anyway.
May 16. Three smiles and a nod. Short sleeves.
May 17. Long sleeves. Not so attractive.
May 19. Found out from Mrs. Snooker where Viola goes to church.
May 20. Rainy. Loaned Viola an umbrella. Said I would see her in church. She seemed surprised.
May 21. Delightful church. Really attractive. Sat back of Viola the whole time. She looks ever so much fluffer and prettier on Sunday. Took her home and was given the umbrella. I admired one of her rings—she took it off, and I slipped it on her finger again. Such a soft little finger! Saw one of the hobgoblins. He is a terror. Also a young man; must have been her brother. I shall rescue her if she’ll let me.
May 22. Discovered young man was not her brother.
May 23. Couldn’t find out who young man was.
May 24. Mrs. Snooker encouraged me. I hated her for it. I don’t need encouragement. Told her I admired her greatly.
May 25. Mrs. Snooker in short sleeves. Viola was stunning.
May 26. Horrors! Viola is going away. Her health’s poor. I’m afraid the dear little thing will be lonely. Short sleeves, four smiles, very kind. But she won’t talk to me about anything except books. I thought of standing on my nose, but am not altogether in favor of it. If it gets out of joint she won’t even look at me.
May 27. Satin a corner and wrote poems to her. If I could only get her to read some, accidentally. I think I shall drop a few around. I’ve shown one to Jimmy, but he’s born sarcastic anyway. ‘They’d be sure to affect her. She is more beautiful than ever. I am simply mad about her. She is the hope of my future life, she is the tree upon which the fruit of my heart is ripening for her devouring. She is the fairest of women.
May 28. Went to Viola’s church. No Viola. I have decided to propose. Suggested a hypothetical case to Jimmy with the elements of my situation. In fact, I left out all the elements except the dad question. That worries me. Jimmy says dads are tough nuts.
May 29. Dad question too many for me, so I gave it up. Went to ask Mrs. Snooker’s advice instead, and found her eating a cold baked potato. She said it was good for the complexion and induced a dreamy look to come into the eyes. I suggested to her that Miss Budd was a fine girl. She acquiesced and finished the potato. What could I do with such a cold-blooded old idiot?
May 30. Viola’s last night. Took the situation by the horns and sent her a huge bunch of white carnations anonymously. Didn’t have nerve enough to appear myself. This was the second most important step of my life. The first was in choosing my parents. I bungled that, but hope for better luck this time. I included my best poem, beginning:
When fickle proves a lovely maid,
And freezingly provokes my love;
I must perforce become a shade,
And sing to quivering harps above.
It was really very touching and quaint, and the faint touch of suicide was sure to bring her around.
May 31. Been excited all day. Asked Mrs. S. about the weather. She said I must have a terrific rival, and told me the tale of my carnations.
June 1. Had to go to a dance. Wish Viola had been there.
June 2. Decided to lay my heart at Viola’s feet to-night, but went first to ask Mrs. Snooker when Miss Budd was going West.
Oh! tarnation! Oh! the fickleness and inconstancy of woman! Oh! the deceiving sex!
Mrs. Snooker told me all without stint. This was it: Miss Viola Budd had long admired a young man whose ardor was becoming cooler. He was wary, and thought he could always be sure of her. The night she received my carnations he took her home and got thanked for them. Also she went into rhapsodies over the poem—said she would love anyone immortally who could write such poetry. That young devil laid low and never hinted it wasn’t his. But it made him look to his guns, stirred him up like, jealousy, or whatever you call it, and they’re engaged on the strength of my flowers and my poetry.
And his name is Mister Tubbygrubb!
I could have endured infamy, slander, remorse, oblivion, anything but that! To be beaten by Tubbygrubb! Oh, the sting of it!
T. Wistar Brown.