by Cecily Ross
Say didst thou never feel within thy soul
That strange mysterious link which doth unite
The thoughts and sympathies of absent friends
Bringing them back though distant to the view
All fresh with the realities of life?
Oceans may flow between us but the soul
Bound in this viewless chain can traverse space
And hold communion with a kindred spirit
E’en in the cold dark chambers of the tomb.
JANUARY 14, 1829
Another stimulating evening at Mr. Ritchie’s. The discussion was lively indeed, as our host held forth most convincingly on the subject of religious freedom and the virtues of the Congregationalist Church. The reverend objects strenuously to our having to pay taxes that solely support the Anglican Church when free-thinking dioceses such as his own modest, nonconformist chapel must go begging. I have attended services there the past two Sundays and have been impressed with the quiet dignity and simplicity of worship.
Agnes tells me I have turned into a pious bore. Katie refuses to discuss religious matters with me. She (and the others) steadfastly adheres to the tedious and pretentious rituals at St. Margaret’s, while I walk the three miles to Wrentham to spend the Sabbath among common folk for whom I am developing a growing affection. There is something pure about singing hymns without the ponderous moaning of an organ or the distraction of hymnals. The sight of the young men in their homespun—their faces ruddy, their feet bare and dirty with the grime of honest labour, singing with the lusty enthusiasm of true disciples—sends tingles through the very centre of my being.
At lunch today, Agnes scolded me for giving up my Sunday school class at St. M’s, but truly, I have always loathed ramming the catechism into the spoiled, overfed little dunces of the neighbourhood. It is certainly not my calling. She is apparently so concerned with my spiritual well-being that she came to my room again this afternoon to plead her case for the Church of England. At first, her tone was patient, cajoling, but when I pulled the counterpane over my head, she lost her temper.
“For heaven’s sake, Susanna, give up this dalliance with, with the devil. What about your reputation?” (Speaking of pious bores . . .) “Consider us, your family. You are the talk of the neighbourhood. And what’s more, you look like a common strumpet lately. It’s one thing to consort with the rabble, but must you resemble them as well? For the love of whatever God it is you are worshipping these days, do something about your hair and dress. You would be well advised to spend less time on prayers and more on grooming.”
And become a preening, self-satisfied society matron like you? I wanted to say. “Fine clothes and curls are nothing to me!” I retorted. “They are the stuff of vanity and self-indulgence. I can assure you, Sister, our dear Lord is unimpressed with such matters.”
It seems everyone is against me. Mr. Harral has rejected my story “The Curate’s Daughter,” saying it is too “didactic.” And when I showed it to Papa Pringle, he concurred gently, saying it is not my best work, although he, like Reverend Ritchie, supports and encourages my wish to find a better path to true goodness and redemption.
(How cruel of Agnes to say such things about my hair. She knows these impossible locks are my nemesis. She can take her crowning glory and stuff it in her bonnet for all I care!)
JANUARY 30, 1829
Smith and Elder have accepted my Enthusiasm poems. I think this is the most important work I have ever done, a tribute to the simple faith of the unlearned and those of low estate. When I showed the poems to Agnes, she said if they are published, she will have nothing more to do with me. I do not care, for they express what is in my heart, the true way to God.
Harp of the soul, by genius swept, awake!
Inspire my strains, and aid me to portray
The base and joyless vanities which man
Madly prefers to everlasting bliss!
—Enthusiasm, and Other Poems
APRIL 5, 1829
Yesterday, on a moonless, starless, rain-filled night, I attended the chapel at Wrentham, and after a beautiful service and touching sermon, as I quietly prayed at the back of the chapel, my heart humbled by the enormity of what I was about to undertake, Reverend Ritchie walked down the aisle to where I sat and placed his hand lightly upon my bowed head.
“Come, child, and be received by our Lord Jesus Christ so that you may find everlasting peace.”
There were tears in my eyes as I turned my face up to his, and I felt a release deep inside me such as I have never before known, as though my free will had been taken from me and placed in the hands of a gentle and forgiving God.
“Yes, Father,” I whispered, and I rose and followed him to the vestry, where he left me alone while he read to the congregation my reasons for dissent from the church of my birth, and then proposed me as a member. As I listened, there was no joy in my heart, for I understood too well how this decision would alienate me from my old friends and family. All that is left to me is a deep conviction that our Saviour would surely bless this simpler form of worship, and the knowledge that I am following my conscience. With unusual tenderness, the reverend gave me his arm and led me to stand before the congregation as their clear voices rose in a torrent of song, “My Shepherd Will Supply My Need,” welcoming me into their midst. So great was the storm of emotion in my heart that I covered my face with my hands and wept, whether with joy or sadness I cannot say. Perhaps both. (No more a stranger, nor a guest, but like a child at home.)
And thus I have severed forever my ties with England’s church. I regret the shock this has been to Mama and my sisters, but it is beyond my control; it is the will of God. Agnes’s only response has been an icy and unbending silence. Poor Katie is distraught at the rupture and has pleaded with both of us not to let these matters of conscience come between us. Sometimes I fear my sweet sister’s naïveté is boundless.
APRIL 23, 1829
Kate woke me this morning, bearing an astringent message from Agnes. I was barely awake when she knocked, and she let herself in before I could raise my head from the pillow. Wringing her small hands and leaning against the door jamb, she began in a voice quivering with distress.
“I am to tell you,” she said, “that until you abandon this preposterous campaign to discredit the Strickland name, you will henceforth take all your meals here, alone in your room . . .”
“I beg your pardon?” I said.
She nodded and her face started to crumple. “It’s Agnes, Susie. She is apoplectic over your conversion. They all are. But Agnes . . .” She threw up her hands and sat down heavily on the side of my bed. “Why, Susie? Why are you doing this? I can’t bear it. Mama says she is ashamed to set foot in St. Margaret’s. She will not leave her room. Agnes calls it heresy—”
“Heresy? Don’t be ridiculous. Is this really necessary? Sarah declared herself a Quaker more than a year ago, and none of you so much as caught your breath. My beliefs are my own affair. Why do Mama and Agnes care so much? Why do you?”
“I don’t. You know I don’t. But I cannot bear such animosity between my sisters. I feel crushed under the weight of it. And as for Sarah, her beliefs are her own affair. No one takes any notice. But you, Susanna, you know perfectly well you are a celebrated authoress now. What you do and say matters to people.” She clasped her hands together as if in prayer.
“Katie,” I said, “sometimes I think Agnes will do anything to silence me. I believe she considers herself the only poetess in this family, that she is jealous of my successes.”
Kate covered her face with her hands. “And when your Enthusiasm poems appear, what then? I think Agnes will explode.”
“That would be one solution,” I observed, and threw back the bedclothes.
“The Harrals too are most distressed at your conversion,” she continued in a small voice. “Mr. Harral says he fears for your sanity. And, Susie, you must be aware that this has only given Mrs. Harral more ammunition in her campaign agai
nst me. I fear they may withdraw their consent altogether.”
I had not considered this. Indeed, the entire affair has caused far more gnashing of teeth than I ever expected. But I have taken a stand and I cannot back down now. Can I? Oh dear. Is it my pride or my principles that I am defending?
“I’m sure it will not come to that, Katie,” I said. “Now, please leave me alone.”
Later, I met Agnes in the front hall as she was preparing to leave for London. She brushed by me with no acknowledgement at all. It’s going to be a long, cold spring.
OCTOBER 20, 1829 (NEWMAN STREET)
I am staying with Cheesman, the only relative who will have me since my descent into certain damnation. I am persona non grata at cousin Rebecca’s, and Eliza and Agnes continue to have nothing to do with me. Mama sighs and sputters when I am around. Thank heavens Kate, Sarah and Jane are not so judgmental. And if it were not for Papa Pringle, whose support has been unconditional, I am sure I should not have been able to cling to my convictions this long.
Anna Laura has remained loyal despite her father’s disapproval. She has grave reservations about the direction my beliefs have taken, but after long discussions, she says she can see they are the result of a great deal of soul-searching on my part. I appreciate her patience and understanding, and at the risk of giving her false hope, I have assured her not to despair, that I may yet return to my senses. And so we have agreed not to discuss the matter further. A relief. Rebellion can be so tiring. She visits me here when she feels strong enough, and if it isn’t raining, we walk around Bloomsbury and talk and talk. Like me, Anna Laura does not think she will marry, though for different reasons.
“I doubt I will live long enough,” she said the last time we met. The words caught me by surprise and I could see she regretted them immediately. Her obvious fragility and the polite but persistent coughing are things we do not speak of. I worry terribly about her health, but she always dismisses my concern. This admission of weakness was unlike her. I tried to make a joke.
“Now that would be taking the easy way out,” I said.
“Perhaps you’re right.” She laughed. “I should miss you, though.”
“And I you.” An uncomfortable silence ensued. We passed an old man in Bedford Park selling roasted chestnuts from a cart. I bought a bag and we found a bench and sat down, scorching our fingers as we tried to peel them.
“Promise me something?”
“Anything,” I said.
“Promise me that whichever of us goes first will come back, will appear somehow from the other side.”
These words unloosed a flutter in my throat like a sparrow trapped in a chimney. “I promise,” I said.
“And I too.”
MAY 13, 1830 (REYDON HALL)
My darling Anna Laura is with the angels. Why is it that the most resilient natures are so often the most fragile in body? As though God endows the frailest people with a compensating spiritual strength. Despite our rupture over my nonconformist beliefs, I have written her father to express my condolences. She was the light of his life. Both Kate and I are bereft and have been doing our best to console one another. With the coming of warmer weather, Anna Laura had seemed so much better, but then, unaccountably, her cough worsened and she was gone within three days.
She was the dearest of friends to us both. It seems impossible that she was here, in all her freshness and laughter, and now there is nothing except the sense of her in the breezes that lift the curtains of my bedroom window, in every flower that blooms. Her very absence is like a living thing.
The funeral was last week. Kate and I travelled up from Reydon. She was not invited to sit with the family, and so we remained discreetly at the back of the chapel. It was the first time I have attended an Anglican service in more than a year, and the familiar music and ritual touched me in places I had forgotten about. I deeply regret the awkwardness between me and the Harrals, and the ways in which my behaviour may be contributing to my sister’s woes. Kate’s engagement to Francis shows no sign of culmination. They have been betrothed for two years and have yet to set a date. The subject is a sensitive one, but I decided that after we returned to Reydon Hall, I would raise it anyway.
In the end, Kate brought it up. We were climbing the hill overlooking the orchard, now a sea of apple blossoms, a sight as matrimonial as nature has ever provided. We stood contemplating the perfection of the morning, and Kate took my hand in hers.
“I know he loves me, Susie, and I am certain the impediments to our happiness—”
“I fear I am one of them.”
“Yes.” She smiled and walked on ahead of me. “Having a heretic for a sister has not exactly endeared me to Mrs. Harral. But I have come to believe nothing about me pleases her. You are a small part of it. I know we will sort it out in due course. Let’s not cloud this beautiful morning with any further speculation.”
And so I let the matter drop. But my actions have caused so much woe that I cannot tell if God is testing my new faith or condemning it. He cannot be on both sides at once.
One good thing: Agnes asked if I would consider collaborating with her on a literary project. Of course I accepted. Not a word was said about our differences. We are to compose a collection of eight poems, four each, in celebration of England and the monarchy. It is to be called Patriotic Songs, and our lyrics will be set to music and published by J. Green of Soho. With Agnes’s growing notoriety as a writer and my own modest successes, we have high hopes the project will prove lucrative. I am certain Kate had a hand in this unexpected reconciliation. How else to explain Agnes’s change of heart? The forgiving spirit of Anna Laura lives on though she is gone.
MAY 31, 1830 (HAMPSTEAD, MIDDLESEX)
How quickly things change! Yesterday, I was resigned to the prospect of lifelong spinsterhood, the gradual but inevitable slide into the shrill and severe domain of the unmarried middle-aged woman. And today, in my twenty-seventh year, I find myself the object of one man’s ardent courtship. Today, I am like a girl again, blushing and foolish, my heart so stirred that I can scarcely eat or sleep or concentrate. All morning, I have been preening and battling my wretched tangled curls, trying to tame them into some semblance of order. I have changed from one to the other of my only two decent, albeit threadbare, afternoon dresses so many times that I have torn the best one and now must settle on the pale green muslin, so hopelessly out of fashion that I blush with shame. Yesterday, I could not have cared a whistle for the state of my wardrobe. Yesterday, I would have sneered at any of my sisters for displaying such vanity. Today, I am the perfect example of feminine frivolity. Can this be happening?
John Wedderburn Dunbar Moodie. How to begin? He is six years older than I am. And short, shorter than me by a scant few inches. Sturdy—no, muscular; strong from a decade spent wrestling sustenance from the arid soils of his South African farm. (Already, I know all this about him, and that he fought against Bonaparte and was grievously wounded. His left wrist bears the scar.)
Chestnut brown hair. A weathered complexion and dancing blue eyes. A ready smile, infectious laugh. A Scot of ancient, distinguished lineage. A writer and lover of books and ideas. An excellent flautist. Ebullient, voluble, charming where I am reticent and intense. He called on the Pringles without notice yesterday afternoon. Mr. Moodie and Papa P. knew one another well in South Africa and worked together diligently to curb the evils of the slave trade. My patron had no idea Mr. Moodie was in London and received his unexpected visitor joyfully. We had just sat down to tea.
“Moodie! My most excellent and dear friend,” exclaimed Papa, leaping from his chair as the maid ushered the ruddy-faced stranger into our midst. After a hasty introduction, Papa clapped his comrade on the back and bade him join us—Margaret and me and Mary Prince, who has begun taking tea with us at Papa’s insistence. Her status in the household is somewhere between servant and poor relation, and whereas it would be unthinkable to extend such liberties to a common housemaid, there is something so noble
in the former slave’s bearing that she seems to belong to a class all her own. In any case, I am becoming accustomed to this breach of convention, but I thought I detected a brief ripple of surprise cross Mr. Moodie’s brow as he realized he was to sit down with a Negro. Papa Pringle seemed oblivious.
“My dear Moodie. What on earth brings you back to civilization? Why, only this morning I was thinking of you, picturing you outrunning elephants on foot and chasing thieving Bantus across the veldt.”
Mr. Moodie laughed heartily. “Why yes, sir, I am so worn out from wrestling lions with my bare hands and fording crocodile-choked rivers that I felt sorely in need of a rest, so here I am returned to your tame and gentle city environs, to take tea and biscuits in the company of beautiful ladies.” He raised his teacup and, to my astonishment and discomfiture, fixed his sapphire eyes directly on my own, holding my gaze in a most direct and brazen manner until I could only lower mine and pray that my blush was not as noticeable as it felt.
It seems Mr. Moodie is in London to locate a publisher for a book he is writing about his African adventures. Later, while the maid and Mary Prince were clearing the tea things and Mr. and Mrs. Pringle were occupied in the front parlour, I stood by the French doors, looking out onto the bustle of Claremont Square, at the comings and goings of people and carriages, both fashionable and rudimentary, a veritable hive of activity, of business and civility, playing out under a benevolent late-afternoon sun. I was reflecting on how good it was to be alive and part of all this, and I did not notice Mr. Moodie approaching until he stood close behind me.
“It is a fine sight indeed,” he said softly.
And when I turned quickly, I found he was looking not out the window, but rather directly into my eyes again. I felt myself colour.