Jessica Brockmole: Letters from Skye

I got a box camera for Christmas. Here’s a picture of me, so you can see your humble correspondent. Now you’ll have to respond likewise! Also, more handkerchiefs than I can ever hope to need, courtesy of my mother, a crisp copy of Gray’s Anatomy from my dad, and a set of stereo cards of the British Isles. This last was a special request; I want to see more of the land you call home. And finally, from my sister, one of your earlier books, which she amazingly tracked down somewhere. She stole a peek before wrapping it up, and I’m afraid you have another convert! Now that the new term has begun, I’ve been rationing myself with a poem a night, with the whole saved as a sort of reward for a job well done on my midterm exams.

My favorite books? Without a doubt, Mark Twain is my favorite author, but to pick just one of his books? I don’t know if it can be done! Of course, none can compare to Huckleberry Finn , but A Connecticut Yankee is rollicking. I suppose about as far from your Lewis Carroll as one can get, though I confess I’ve read Through the Looking-Glass forward and back. I do like Jack London, Wilkie Collins, and H. Rider Haggard. Stories full of mystery and adventure. Poe can’t be beat for a thrill. I like a good western too and read things like Zane Grey when I want to take a break from “literature.” And who is “W. S.” if not Will Shakespeare? I’m afraid I’ve never read The Lord of the Isles .

No, I wouldn’t have pegged you for an Elinor Glyn sort of girl. I have only a passing acquaintance with her books. And I do literally mean “passing,” as Three Weeks circulated from room to room in my dorm. One enterprising young man found a faux tiger skin rug for his floor, hoping, perhaps, “to sin/With Elinor Glyn.” She never paid a visit to our dorm, nor do I remember any other ladies taking him up on the offer.

How did I end up in the hospital? Well… I was trying to ride a cow and fell off. Cow-riding isn’t a risky sport in itself—I’ve done it on numerous occasions—but we were leading the cow up the stairs of the Natural History Building toward the president’s office. She wasn’t as keen on the idea. I can only say that I don’t recommend this as a form of transportation. And what do you mean, I end up in the hospital a lot?

Back to the grindstone, with a new term. I can’t say that this term is looking to be any easier than the last, but at least I’m almost finished!

Isle of Skye

27 February 1913

Dear David,

Many thanks for the picture. You look so serious! And much younger than I thought. I can see a glint in your eye, though, that suggests a boy capable of stealing a tree or riding a cow. What became of your class tree?

Don’t look for a picture from me. No camera over here, and I don’t think I could draw myself objectively. I would keep modifying and erasing until you had a picture of Princess Maud. We always want to appear more attractive than we really are, don’t you think? I mean, if you had been sketching your picture instead of snapping it with a camera, would you really have drawn in that dreadful checked jacket?

Now that I’ve seen your picture, I can imagine you and your mates passing around Three Weeks . You wait on tenterhooks for your turn, and when you get the book in your eager hands, you race to your room, homework forgotten for the night. And as you start reading, your cheeks get quite pink as you realise just how unlike Henry James this is.

I’ve never read Mark Twain, but I agree that Poe is thrilling. I remember reading “The Tell-Tale Heart” as a girl one night, in bed with a candle stub I pilfered from church. I was certainly punished for stealing the candle, because after I finished the book and blew out the candle, I couldn’t sleep a wink. I was quite positive that I heard the beating of the heart downstairs. When dawn broke, my mother found me sitting stiffly in bed, quite awake, clutching my blanket around me. I was convinced God was punishing me for my sin of stealing the altar candle. So what did I do the following Sunday to atone for my sin? I pilfered a candle from our cupboard at home and left it at the church!

And, dear boy, W. S. is, of course, Walter Scott. I’m sure they have a few of his knocking around that enormous university library of yours. Regardless, if you’ve read Through the Looking-Glass more than once, you and I will get on beautifully. “Jabberwocky” is my favourite.

In your very first letter (yes, I save all your letters!), you spoke of having been in hospital recently. What sort of livestock had you been using inappropriately at that time? Trying to waltz with a horse? Play football with a ram?

Urbana, Illinois, U.S.A.

March 21, 1913

Dear Sue,

I had to put aside my books to answer immediately and defend myself and my poor checked jacket. You obviously have no sense of style on the Isle of Skye, as my jacket and I are at the height of fashion here on campus! And I had to look serious in the picture; it’s my first mustache. I’m curious now, how old do you think I look?

All right, if you won’t sit in front of the mirror and draw me a picture with your pencil, please sit in front of the mirror and draw me a picture with your words. Look in the mirror, right now, and tell me what it is that you see. I’ll put together my own picture.

No, no previous abuses of livestock, at least not any that landed me in the hospital. That earlier hospital visit was due to trying to scale the walls of the Women’s Building and sneak into Alice McGinty’s room. I shinnied up the drainpipe and had almost made it to the top when my hands slipped. My leg was broken and so was my heart, as Alice didn’t even appreciate my effort. I can understand her displeasure, as she was nearly kicked out of the dormitory over the incident. And do you know the most frustrating part of it all? I had climbed that very same drainpipe on more than one occasion, often with a jar of grasshoppers tied in my jacket or, on one memorable evening, a sack of squirrels.

And our tree (we christened him “Paulie”) is still inching up. We may win this war yet!

I was quite shocked when you said you had never read Mark Twain. What sort of education do you get in Scotland? This is a deficiency I shall have to rectify. Please accept this copy of Huck Finn —as a belated Christmas gift, if you like—excusing its battered appearance. I found it in a secondhand bookshop and it appears quite well loved, if recently kicked to the curb. I couldn’t give it a good home, already having a copy above my desk, but knew I could entrust you with its well-being.

Isle of Skye

9 April 1913

Dear David,

And what a splendid mustache it is!

Oh, I am so horrid at guessing ages. I think with those round cheeks (so perfect for pinching, Davey-boy!) and that lock of hair falling into your face, you look about eighteen or so. A lady never reveals her age, but I’m not much older.

All right, sir, I will attempt your challenge. And I will try to be honest with my description as well.

Looking in the mirror, what do I see? I have a thin face and somewhat pointed chin. Small nose, narrow lips. My hair is brown and as straight as a line. I have it pulled back in a knot low on my head, as severe as I can make it, but it is so fine that I already have strands escaping and flying about my face. My eyes are the amber colour of my da’s good malt whisky. Although Màthair (that’s Gaelic for “Mother”) tries to keep me neat, I tend to wear my brothers’ old sweaters and skirts far too short to be fashionable. Don’t tell, but I’ve even been known to wear a pair of trousers—tailored down to my size—when out hiking.