"Maunday, Tuesday, Thursday, Wednesday..."

Thursday evening

Really, one is a goose, and I had time to realize, even in this tumult of emotion, that there can be nothing so inconsistent as the feelings of a girl.

Monday evening

True dat.

And as for marriage, I shall have nothing to do with the horrid affair! Oh, dear, no! I shall go away free and be a happy adventuress.

Spoiler alert: She lies. She gets married in the end.
I, however, just may not.

Thursday night

"What are you going to do with your life now?" [Mr. Carruthers] asked, presently.
It was a bald question.
"I shall become an adventuress," I answered, deliberately.
"A what?" he exclaimed, his black eyebrows contracting.
"An adventuress. Is not that what it is called? A person who sees life, and has to do the best she can for herself."
He laughed. "You strange little lady!" he said, his irritation with me melting. And when he laughs you can see how even his teeth are, but the two side ones are sharp and pointed, like a wolf's.
"Perhaps, after all, you had better have married me!"
"No, that would clip my wings," I said, frankly, looking at him straight in the face.

She makes a good point. One I had realized before meeting Miss Evangeline Travers, and it's another reason I wanted to go to grad school this year. I am unattached.

"Do you know, you are a very disturbing person," he said, at last, by way of a beginning.
"What is that?" I asked.
"It is a woman who confuses one's thoughts when one looks at her. I do not now seem to have anything to say, or too much--"
"You called me a child."
"I should have called you an enigma."

Yeah, I render people of the opposite sex speechless, too. For months. (So, in deed unattached, although not necessarily in heart.)
All because of my silly, red hair.

Friday night

Then he told me he loved pictures, but not this sort.

"I like people to look human, you know, even on canvas," he said. "All these ladies appear as if they were getting enteric, like people used in Africa; and I don't like their halos and things; and all the men are old and bald. But you must not think me a Goth. You will teach me their points, won't you?-- and then I shall love them."

I said I did not care a great deal for them myself, except the color.

"Oh, I am so glad!" he said. "I shoud like to find we admired the same things; but no picture could interest me as much as your hair. It is the loveliest thing I have ever seen, and you do it so beautifully."

That did please me. He has the most engaging ways--Lord Robert-- and he is very well informed, not stupid a bit, or thick, only absolutely simple and direct. We talked softly together, quite happy for a while.

That is the only logical explanation I can come up with for the trouble I seem to have with the opposite sex. They love my hair--not me. And let's face it, hair is beauty that is barely skin deep.

I also realize that my trouble is because I apparently haven't met the right guy yet (details...). I have met one who I will always love (blasted unconditional Love), but who is incapable of loving me back.
My next move? Never see him again and squelch all chances of rekindling old flames (again).
Long story, making it short, I just wish the process of meeting the right guy wasn't so disorienting. Any hints, tips, advice, etc. are welcome (to my one reader, haha).

But, on the other hand, a man will not be able to love me if he does not also love my hair because, as you will learn, hair may be a beauty that is skin deep, but red hair truly is a character trait.
More of that to come.

'Til then, I am a goose.

P.S. Further proof that I am a goose.

When I got to my room, a lump came in my throat. Veronique had gone to bed, tired out with he day's packing.
I suddenly felt utterly alone--all the exaltation gone. For the moment, I hated the two downstairs. I felt the situation equivocal and untenable, and it had amused me so much an hour ago.
It is stupid and sill, and makes one's nose red, but I felt like crying a little before I got into bed.

Miss Evangeline Travers

Branches Park,
November 3

I wonder so much if it is amusing to be an adventuress, because that is evidently what I shall become now. I read in a book all about it; it is being nice looking and having nothing to live on, and getting a pleasant time out of life--and I intend to do just that!

Cluttered West Alabama Home
March 28

Elinor Glyn, some 82 years before my birth, published a novel about Miss Evangeline Travers, who just so happens to be my literary soul sister. Said novel, Red Hair (or The Vicissitudes of Evangeline), served as some of the best Christmas reading I have ever done.

As I am to be an adventuress, I must do the best I can for myself. Nice feelings are for people who have money to live as they please. If I had ten thousand a year, or even five, I would snap my fingers at all men, and say, "No, I make my life as I choose, and shall cultivate knowledge and books, and indulge in beautiful ideas of honor and exalted sentiments, and perhaps one day succumb to a noble passion." (What grand words the thought, even, is making me write!)

£10,000 = $14,919.32. $14,919.32 in 1905 was about the same as $351,683.03 in 2009.
Well, at least now women don't have to make that much money to snap their fingers at all men...
I know this one certainly does not.
It is strange to refer to myself as a "woman," when I still very much feel like a girl. The growing pains of this 22-going-on-23-year-old have been rather acute as of late, and thus the hunger pangs of wanting to start a new adventure. My big girl muscles are growing; they yearn to be stretched and exercised, and to acquire strength. What better way to do so than by earning my undergraduate degree (Graduation count down: 40 days), and then going off to somewhere other than here and getting my master's?

Now that I am an adventuress, instead of an heiress, of what good to chronicle all that! Sufficient to say if Mr. Carruthers does not obey his orders and offer me his hand this afternoon, I shall have to pack my trunks and depart by Saturday, but where to is yet in the lap of the gods.

True, it is of much good to chronicle one's adventures (or lack thereof)--hence the return to blogging. I am still waiting to see what kind of adventure I will start. I have been rejected by two graduate schools already, and am on the wait list for the other. If Roosevelt University does not offer me a space by May 10th, I shall not have to pack my trunks and depart, and the gods know where I will be: here.

I am not a type that would please everyone. My hair is too red--brilliant, dark, fiery red, like a chestnut when it tumbles out of its shell, only burnished like metal. If I had the usual white eyelashes I should be downright ugly, but, thank goodness! by some freak of nature mine are black and thick, and stick out when you look at me sideways, and I often think when I catch sight of myself in the glass that I am really very pretty--all put together--but, as I said before, not a type to please everyone.

This is true, for the most part, Evangeline. I am definitely "not a type that would please everyone." I do have red hair, my eyebrows and lashes are much darker than those of a typical red head, though not black and thick. And sometimes I do think I am pretty all put together, but I would hardly be female if I felt secure in my appearance.

"With that mixture, Evangeline," [Mrs. Carruthers] often said, "you would do well to settle yourself in life as soon as possible. Good girls don't have your coloring."

Hmm... That remains to be seen.

All I know is that I want to live, and feel the blood rushing through my veins. I want to do as I please, and not have to be polite when I am burning with rage. I want to be late in the morning if I happen to fancy sleeping, and I want to sit up at night if I don't want to go to bed!

And so much more...

I shall write more presently.