The Lost Diaries of Susanna Moodie

by Cecily Ross

  DEDICATION

  For Basil

  EPIGRAPH

  (you find only

  the shape you already are

  but what

  if you have forgotten that

  or discover you

  have never known)

  —MARGARET ATWOOD, The Journals of Susanna Moodie

  Nothing in the world is single;

  All things by a law divine

  In one spirit meet and mingle.

  Why not I with thine?—

  —PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, “Love’s Philosophy”

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One GIRLHOOD (1815–1819)

  Part Two LITERARY LIFE (1827–1830)

  Part Three LOVE AND MARRIAGE (1830–1832)

  Part Four THE NEW WORLD (1832–1833)

  Part Five THE BACKWOODS (1834)

  Part Six REBELLION (1835–1838)

  Part Seven DARK DAYS (1839)

  Afterword

  Fact and Fiction

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  MARCH 2, 1815 (REYDON HALL, SUFFOLK)

  So this is how it ends. Agnes, that scourge of the imagination and paragon of joylessness, discovered our manuscript this morning hidden at the bottom of the Indian chest and, after the most cursory examination, reprimanded Kate and me for “scribbling such trash” and carried it away, threatening to burn it. Kate immediately asked our eldest sister to intervene, but (as I knew she would) Eliza too expressed horror that we should waste our time with such trivialities, calling our nascent novel “a waste of good paper.”

  How many evenings have Kate and I spent huddled together in the attic amid the cobwebs and the dust, by the light of a sputtering candle, spinning this harmless fiction, this meagre escape from the dullness and damp? All winter long, the composition of a small tale of love and survival, of an Alpine boy and his loyal pet, has been our secret joy, a bright light in the endless darkness, a haven for spirits weighed down by the cold. How dare they?

  When I protested, Agnes smiled a superior smile, said that our little project was “unsuitable” and announced that instead of occupying ourselves with such “juvenile nonsense,” we are to gather in the library after supper for an impromptu reading of Hamlet (act 3, scene 1). Sarah, understandably, is to be Ophelia, and Jane will take the part of Gertrude; Eliza, the King and Polonius; while Kate and I and the two boys, Sam and Tom, have been relegated to playing attendant lords who will start a scene or two and then be sent to bed, I imagine. Of course Agnes, that quintessence of dust, has reserved the lead for herself. Sarah threw herself into her character immediately, laying a limp hand upon her porcelain forehead and lamenting the lack of flowers for her hair this time of the year. Jane, her brow rearranging itself into the contours of a ploughed field, demanded to know how many costume changes would be required of her. And with that, The Swiss Herd Boy was doomed to oblivion.

  But not by me. As much as I love Shakespeare, I had no intention of being distracted by Agnes’s theatrical ambitions. I continued to object loudly to the injustice of my sisters’ interference, saying that burning our manuscript was surely an even greater “waste of paper.” Agnes looked down her impossibly straight nose at me and smiled. “You have a point, Susanna. Why consign to flames a pile of trash that will serve perfectly well as curling papers? I’ll talk to Eliza. Now, hurry off. You have lines to memorize.”

  I threatened to go to Papa. “You cannot do this. I will tell,” I protested as Agnes slid out of the room like Hamlet’s ghost. I was about to run after her when Kate, who can’t bear unpleasantness of any kind, placed a cajoling arm about my waist and, squeezing rather harder than was necessary, told me not to worry. “I’ll get it back. You’ll see.”

  How shall I ever achieve greatness when the stars, and all my sisters, are against me? Eliza’s disapproval does not surprise me, but I had hoped Agnes might encourage our writing—Agnes who, when she is not bettering her mind reading Hobbes and Locke, has been known to compose the occasional poem in a style that Papa says is vaguely reminiscent of Mr. Dryden. But I now realize Agnes’s dismissiveness toward our modest literary effort was entirely predictable. Ever since Mama and Papa charged Eliza and her with authority over the rest of us, Agnes has become chief judge, jury and tormentor. Oh, how I wish the others would stand up to her occasionally so that I am not always the sole object of her condescension. But Kate, my supposed ally, appears entirely unconcerned about the whole affair. Curling papers indeed.

  Sam, who watched the sordid scene without raising a single objection (but then he is still a child with little regard for the life of the mind), came to my room later. He has discovered a clutch of newly hatched starlings nesting in the elderberry at the back of the milk house and promised to take me to them after supper. “Perhaps you would sketch them for me, Susie,” he said. He was trying to distract me and I humoured him, but I will not be thwarted. Our manuscript is gone, and since that avenue of expression is closed to me, I have decided to begin this journal, an outlet for my most secret thoughts and desires. I swear they will never find it.

  MARCH 3, 1815

  When Mama and Papa did arrive home from Norwich late yesterday, no mention was made of the confiscation of our manuscript for fear of dampening our father’s obviously heightened spirits. We are all, but Mama in particular, keenly sensitive to his moods, as the world of business, of which (she is forever reminding us) we know nothing, is a place of such unpredictable flux that our dear father is constantly at the mercy of dastardly conspiracies and designs on his property, and it would be cruel to further burden him with our silly domestic concerns. Though he seldom complains, Papa is also subject to a dizzying array of physical afflictions, and now that Eliza and Agnes have assumed responsibility for educating the rest of us, tending to Papa has become our mother’s life’s work. Kate and I and the boys hardly see her, and when we do we are like those little starlings, chirruping madly until she seems relieved to be rid of us. Between them, Eliza, Agnes, Sarah and Jane Margaret form a kind of palace guard around our mother that we, “the little ones,” dare not penetrate. I often hear them laughing together behind closed doors in the small parlour off Mama’s bedroom. Sarah says Mama’s nerves are fragile and we must not bother her with our childish concerns. But I am almost twelve, no longer a child and tired of being treated like one.

  The reason for Papa’s elevated mood at present seems to be his acquisition of a townhouse in Norwich, where he and Mama will live while he attends to business. The source of this newfound prosperity is a partnership he has entered into with a coach-maker of “impeccable reputation.” Now that Papa has left his position as manager of the Greenland Docks in London to become an independent investor and a country squire, Mama says that “our position and our fortune are assured, because coaches, like coffins, will never fall out of fashion.”

  After coming in and removing his silk hat and riding boots, Papa ran up the stairs two at a time (his gout has apparently relinquished its grip) and returned moments later wearing a canvas overcoat and tweed breeches, a battered straw boater on his head.

  “It is much too fair a day to be indoors,” he said. “I am going fishing. We shall have trout for supper.” And then he turned to my sister and uttered the words that were like a knife in my heart: “Catharine, bring your satchel; we will gather specimens for tomorrow’s botany lesson on our walk. Agnes, Eliza, you will see to the little ones while we are gone . . .”

  Little ones! I threw down my book and demanded to go with them. Sarah and Jane gasped at
my impertinence. You would think I was challenging the Almighty himself. Why are my sisters so meek and agreeable when our father has never raised a hand to any of us? Papa’s face darkened, but then the cloud passed and he smiled and gave my hair a tug. As though I were an amusing pet.

  “Now, now, Susie . . .” he began.

  And smug, sweet-tempered Kate joined in. “Dear Susanna, don’t be angry.”

  Eliza took me by the hand. “Susanna, we will have drawing lessons. Outdoors in the garden. The daphne is in bloom.” I ignored her and turned my full wrath upon Kate. Kate, the perfect little botanist with her satchel of wilted weeds and notebooks full of Latin hieroglyphics.

  “I hate you. I hate you,” I said. Then, sweet-tempered Kate, my closest ally and friend, struck me in the face with her open hand, a blow so sharp it brought tears to my eyes. But the pain in my heart was even greater. Papa sent me to my room. How I detest my place in this litter of simpletons: the youngest girl, the runt.

  MARCH 4, 1815

  Katie has forgiven me (or was it I her?). No matter, we are closer than ever. No lessons again today. Mama heartily disapproves and has kept to her room all morning with one of her headaches. Papa ordered Lockwood to bring round the new barouche and the pair of greys. Surely Mama will want to be with us to show them off to the neighbours. Although we have lived at Reydon Hall for seven years, we are still considered newcomers, and our neighbours, the local gentry, regard us with a chilly reserve, as though waiting for some divine sign that we will do. The Stricklands are a respectable family, Agnes says, but our father and grandfather were engaged “in trade.” (The disdain in Agnes’s voice as she said this was acid enough to peel wallpaper.) We are not of noble lineage like old General Howard, the Earl of Suffolk, who lives in a vast stone mausoleum near Yoxford. (It is said he fought in the American War of Independence and that his wife is third cousin to the Queen.)

  Nevertheless, the barouche is positively stunning, with brass side lamps and green velvet seats. It is pulled by a fine pair of dappled grey hackneys decked out in shining new harness. Even Lockwood is outfitted with proper coachman’s livery complete with gold epaulettes and spurs. This marvellous equipage will convey us to the market in Bungay after lunch—all of us except Sam and Tom, who will remain at home with Nurse. At eight, Tom is still a baby, but poor Sam, who is ten and my favourite next to Katie, is being punished for ruining Mama’s best hat box. I feel I am in part to blame, since yesterday’s expedition was my idea. I thought how pleased Papa would be with our “specimens.” Not the collection of wilted flowers and leaves that he and Kate spent all evening pressing into scrapbooks, but real living botany: a silky green frog, a warty toad and two perfectly darling baby ribbon snakes, all of which Sam and I gave up our tea time to procure. But it was Sam’s idea to transfer them from the bucket to the blue hat box after we returned from the river. Mama found it where Sam had left it, on General Wolfe’s desk in the library, and nearly passed out with fright when she opened it.

  “You little chit,” Father said when she reported my part in the affair. “If you’re not careful, Boney will get you one day.” (This childish threat means nothing now that I am grown. Indeed, I have decided that I am half in love with General Bonaparte.)

  “No, he won’t,” I retorted, “because he’s exiled at Elba.”

  For an instant, I thought my impertinence might land me in the nursery with poor Sam, but then I could see that Papa was more amused and proud than angry.

  Oh, my most fervid imagination! How my heart pounds, my mind pitches and plunges like a sloop in a storm. While Agnes and Eliza helped Mama pick through bonnets and cooking pots at the Buttercross, Kate and I walked over the Broads beyond the village to see the ruined Bungay Castle. It is said to be more than seven hundred years old. And though it is in a sorry state, a collapsed mass of stone and charred rafters, the magnificent twin towers of the gatehouse still stand, rugged and fearless sentries defying the ravages of time and the elements. My sister and I clung to one another in the lee of the crumbling curtain wall while a fierce breeze buffeted the screaming gulls that hovered above the billowing marsh grasses. Shutting our eyes, we thought we could hear the battle cries of the approaching Roman hordes. (On the ride home, Eliza assured us it was likely just the sound of windmill sails on the slope behind us.) We returned to the village, tired and thrilled, and sat on the sun-warmed steps of St. Mary’s, listening to the old men talking endlessly of war in France. Finally, noticing the four of us—Jane, Sarah, Katie and me—old Jonas, who they say lost his leg at the Gulf of Roses under Lord Collingwood, related a fearful tale, that of Black Shuck, the black dog of Bungay, a murderous creature that roams the countryside at night and whose flaming eyes portend certain death to all who encounter it. Kate thinks the story is perfect for a children’s novel and says we must begin writing it at once. How could she suggest such a thing, knowing as she does my horror of the darkness and the mad mastiffs that lurk in the shadows? I shall not sleep tonight.

  (And in any case, I reminded Kate, it would surely be seized by our duly appointed guardians.)

  MARCH 5, 1815

  Now that I have begun, I am resolved to continue this journal no matter what obstacles I encounter. Only here, in these pages, am I free to reveal the real, true Susanna. To the world, if it notices me at all, I am just a girl, third youngest of eight children, one insignificant member of a large and boisterous household. Most days, I feel invisible, as though there were no me separate from them, as though my voice will never be heard above the din, and I am nothing more than one part of a many-headed monster that is slowly choking me to death. Oh, my dear diary, only here can I become someone. I swear upon these modest pages that I will be true to myself and to myself only! I shall endeavour to keep these writings secret, for they are emanations from my true heart and expressions of my darkest soul.

  A few words, then, about the family prison that I inhabit, about the benevolent gaolers of my mind and spirit, the Stricklands of Reydon Hall. First, of course, is Papa. Thomas Strickland. How shall I describe him? A man of modest height and weight, with fine brown hair, a high forehead and even features, he would be unexceptional in appearance were it not for his eyes: wide-set and as brown as acorns, they are windows onto a soul that is intelligent, kind and fair. Of them all, it is Papa’s favour I most seek and it is his quiet disapproval that compels me to rein in my temper, as much as his unspoken encouragement compels me to apply myself to my lessons (and secretly to these pages, for he has always urged us all to write). His new business takes him to Norwich for long periods, and the household grows restive when he is gone. When he returns, weariness and care are etched upon his open face like cracks in a dry stream bed, and his gout plagues him woefully, but after a few days among us, organizing our lessons and tramping through the woods and beyond, he becomes himself again.

  Our mother, Elizabeth, was beautiful once. Her portrait over the fireplace in the library depicts a slender young woman with dark, mischievous eyes. The mischief is gone now, replaced by a vagueness I cannot penetrate. Sometimes, when I am sad, I stand in front of the woman in the painting and tell her things, and if I close my eyes, I can almost feel her hands holding mine, even though I know it is only the warmth of the fire. Our real mama is no longer slender and I would not call her beautiful, but her skin is still smooth, her hair glossy. In truth, I do not know her well. In matters of comportment and etiquette, she is firm and assured, but in matters of the heart, she is aloof and impatient. The education of the boys interests her greatly, and she and my older sisters share many secrets. (I have seen them whispering.) And Kate has Papa to herself most of the time. But me? I fear I am little more to Mama than a “noisy nuisance.” Sometimes I think her primary concern is what the neighbours will think, as she talks of little else these days. And when she is not nursing Papa, she spends more and more time in her room and leaves most of the household matters to Eliza and Agnes. It is to them I turn for advice or even comfort when Papa is
away.

  Eliza, the eldest at twenty-one, has, with Mama’s endorsement, appointed herself chief disciplinarian. She is bad-tempered and disapproves of nearly anything she cannot claim as her own idea. Her severity is matched only by her shyness, or perhaps one is the product of the other, I do not know. But sadly, these qualities are manifest in her person, which, like her character, is without adornment. Her strengths are a notable talent for drawing and a passion for rules and schedules.

  Stronger and more confident than Eliza, Agnes (nineteen) is tall and solemn with thick, shining black hair that I envy dreadfully. She is certainly a handsome woman and the smartest of us all, according to Papa, but still without a jot of humour to soften her increasingly austere, though fine, figure. She adores the limelight and seems to expand in proportion to the attention she receives. She is competitive in all things. And I firmly believe that her efforts to prevent Katie and me from writing were motivated partly by her perception that we were trespassing on her territory. She can be domineering and careless of the feelings of others and lacks sympathy for the plight of those weaker than herself (Sam and Tom and me, for instance, and our constant banishment to the nursery). Nevertheless, I love both Agnes and Eliza dearly, though it is difficult, despite Mama’s grand plans, to imagine them as anything but the severe spinsters they have already become.

  Not so Sarah. At seventeen, she is nothing like the rest of us. Papa thinks that the stork that brought her to Reydon Hall must have been a little off course. Mama openly declares—to Sarah’s obvious discomfort—that her third daughter, beautiful and serene, is the best hope for a brilliant match with a handsome (and prosperous) young squire, who is surely out there somewhere poised to bring fortune and enduring respectability to the “genteel nunnery,” in Papa’s words, that is Reydon Hall. (That, at least, is the dream.) Sarah is known as “the baker” for her cheerful competence in certain domestic occupations, tasks for which the rest of us display no talent whatsoever. Reading and literature bore her, and her application to her studies is woefully lacking, the pantry rather than the library being her chosen milieu.