The Lost Diaries of Susanna Moodie

by Cecily Ross

  I cannot endure it.

  Today, after four days of unrelenting rain that virtually cascaded through the patched roof, creating large puddles on the earthen floor and rendering the fireplace nearly useless, the weather has cleared enough that I am able to sit outside in the wan sunshine, on this overturned bucket, and jot a few lines. Moodie has disappeared into the woods with his new musket, determined to bring down a goose or even a squirrel if all else fails.

  “We shall have fresh meat for supper, my darling,” he said, chucking me under the chin and hurrying away from the wrath he knows I can barely contain. He has not looked me in the eye since we arrived in this place. But I have kept my temper in check and applied myself to the tasks at hand, only letting my anger show once on our second day, when Moodie suggested Hannah join us at the makeshift table for a hasty supper of hard biscuits, pork fat and cabbage.

  “Moodie . . .” I said, giving him a look that could not be misconstrued.

  “Damn it, Susanna, the poor girl . . . I mean, there is barely room to turn around in here. Where would you have her take her meals?”

  “Hannah,” I said, ignoring this, “you will wait until we have finished, and after you have cleared the table, you and James may sit down and eat your supper while we prepare for bed.”

  This brought on a renewed onslaught of tears, but she did as she was told.

  “Moodie,” I hissed in his ear later, after the candles had been snuffed and we lay in the rough bed he had constructed for us, “just because we are reduced to living like animals does not mean we should forget who we are and from whence we came. I will not let our current circumstances lower the standards of behaviour I hold dear. If we let propriety slip, then we will soon lose our way altogether.” I would have continued in this manner except that by the sound of his breathing, I could tell he had fallen asleep. I lay there seething in the darkness, clinging to this one idea as though it were a life raft in the swift current that has swept away the world I have always known, and that is my determination that this uncompromising country will not get the better of me easily, or change the person I am. I know my place, and in my household, the maid will always know hers. If I am doomed to live in a cowshed, then I will be the Duchess of Cowsheds.

  OCTOBER 8, 1832

  While Moodie and James carry on their farming activities during the day (the land, unlike the house, is at our disposal), sometimes travelling to Port Hope to spend what little of our capital remains on livestock and ploughs (and a new bake kettle for Hannah), and poor Tom lies shivering with the fever that comes and goes in unpredictable waves, I have been entertaining a parade of curious neighbours. I must say they are as varied a slice of humanity as God ever assembled in one place. One of them, a plain-spoken woman called Betty Fye, dropped by on what was obviously a reconnaissance mission, bearing a basket of apples. She planted herself in the centre of our shed, by now dressed up to resemble a rustic drawing room, and placing her hands on her broad hips, she looked around and snorted loudly, making no effort to hide her scorn.

  “Clark again. Right bastard,” she said as though to herself. Then, fixing her knowing eyes on me, she handed over the apples, saying, “You’ll be needin’ more firewood, I’m sure. I’ll send my Albert over with a load if you’ll part with one of them silver candlesticks. Can’t think why a body’d need more ’n one.” I saw her point immediately and agreed to the bargain. Mrs. Fye leaned down, gave little Kate a pat on the head and was gone. And so began a kind of rough barter system that allows me to lend or trade such prized possessions as lice combs, towels, a looking glass, assorted pots, even our new plough, in return for such necessities as milk and soap and starter for the rudimentary bread Hannah is learning to bake.

  Much of this trade also involves our resident squatter, Old Joe Harris, whose initial hostility has been dropped in favour of an aggressive familiarity. He and his children—seven daughters and one son—seem to think they are entitled to visit whenever they like in order to paw through my personal possessions, looking for goodies they might “borrow.” The utter lack of respect in this uncouth land for privacy, property and one’s betters is astonishing. That Yankee weasel himself dropped by one afternoon and, as though we were the best of friends, sat in our only chair and began telling me the story of how he came to find himself squatting on the farm, now ours, that he inherited from his father.

  “It was that bastard Mr. Clark what brought about our ruin,” said Old Joe. “Two years of failed crops, and there he was, knocking on our door, a proper angel of mercy, with enough cash to set us back on track again, to get us through a winter when the young ’uns might have starved had we not taken the loan. And then, when I could not repay him, that foul usurer”—here he spat energetically on the dirt floor—“forced me to bankrupt and practically stole the land my pa bequeathed me. Now,” he closed his eyes and curled his upper lip, “he’s sold the farm that’s rightfully mine to you, you waistcoated, tea-sipping fools with your servants and silk petticoats, for twice what he paid me fer it. Ah yes, Mr. Charles Clark, the settler’s best friend . . .” He leaned back in the rocker so far that I feared he would tip over. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn youse. But mark my words, that vulture is circling, just biding his time until he can swoop down and pick your old-country carcasses clean.”

  I couldn’t muster a response. The Harrises, with their low ways, have obviously been ill-used by Mr. Clark. Will we be next? Or will Moodie’s claim to a friendship with the land agent spare us a similar fate? I offered my guest a cup of rum (surely what he had come for) and asked him as politely as possible when he thought he and his family might be moving out of our house.

  He knocked back the liquor, grimaced briefly and laughed. “When hell freezes over, missy. When hell freezes over.” Which should happen in a few short weeks, I thought.

  “That house is ours, Mr. Harris. We paid good money for it.”

  “Bah. That house was built by my own father. I won’t be goin’ nowhere if I can help it. You folks’d be better off goin’ back to where you come from.” He slammed the mug on the table and walked out, leaving me half convinced he is right.

  Poor Tom Wales’s health continues to deteriorate and his appearance is fearful. He is as gaunt as a ghost; his feverish dark eyes, the whites as yellow as yolks, dominate a face obscured by a tirade of greasy hair and whiskers. Even little Kate, whom Tom adores, screams at the very sight of him. Now that he is determined to leave, his mood is sanguine, though he complains constantly about our diet, which, I admit, is an unending ritual of salted pork, bannock and the occasional cabbage or turnip, like those Old Joe contributed yesterday, in return for the cup of rum. But Tom’s most irritating habit is his tendency to regale us aloud with his dietary fantasies, daydreams that mainly concern freshly baked white bread slathered in butter. I was finally compelled this morning to cut short his gastronomic musings.

  “We are all suffering the same deprivations, Tom,” I said. “And Hannah is doing her best with limited resources, so I would appreciate it if you could refrain from deepening our collective misery with your constant reminiscing about luxuries that are beyond our ability to provide.”

  His innocent face under all that hair crumpled at my reprimand, and he turned his face to the wall and resumed shivering so violently that his whole bed closet shook. Before falling into a restless slumber, he observed that his wishes would soon be granted as he would be leaving for England aboard the William IV in a matter of days. And so Moodie and I are contemplating a diminished household. I confess I am looking forward to having some space to breathe and a civilized degree of privacy. Still, I shall miss poor Tom.

  A pewter sheen of frost covered the ground this morning, and as the sun rose, whispers of mist floated up from the creek bed and disappeared among the trees.

  OCTOBER 10, 1832

  Hannah is gone. She pleaded to be allowed to accompany James today when he drove Tom Wales to Cobourg and the awaiting William IV, and I relented a
fter giving her instructions (and the funds necessary) to purchase quills and paper (which I am sorely in need of). When she failed to meet James at the Steamboat Hotel for the return trip, he decided that “she’d likely taken up with a finer household than yourn and Mr. Moodie’s.”

  The hint of mockery in this observation did not go unnoticed and made me wonder if James is contemplating a similar move. I must say I am not particularly surprised by Hannah’s delinquency—her advanced pregnancy apparently no obstacle to her bettering her situation—or sorry to see the back of her. Her natural truculence has only worsened since we came to Canada. But dear God, what am I to do now? How am I to steal the time to keep up my correspondence and to attend to my poetry? Letters from home and the prospect of publication are the only things that brighten my days. I have nearly finished a thirty-stanza verse called “Autumn,” which expresses through the beauty of a dying summer the melancholy in my own heart.

  Moodie has said he will assist me with the household chores until a replacement for Hannah can be found. But with the fall planting to attend to, the idea of him pitching in with the laundry and the cooking as well is absurd. I considered hiring one of the Harris girls, but their slatternly demeanour makes me wonder if laundry is even within the realm of their experience. I am ashamed to say a part of me is in sympathy with their apathy, which, in my desperation, seems a kind of freedom. Indeed, I almost envy the possibility of giving up all thoughts of keeping up appearances. However, after taking a brief stroll around the perimeter of our farm in the brisk fall air, and then resting for a spell on a large, flat boulder to watch our plucky little creek bubble happily on its way, oblivious to all earthly cares, my spirits rallied, and I returned to my husband and child and whatever lies ahead.

  OCTOBER 14, 1832

  Thank God. Moodie returned last night from Port Hope with a packet of letters from home and new servant girl, a young Scottish lass called Isobel. She seems very young, but the sound of her misty Highland burr as she goes about her chores is as nourishing to my spirit as a bowl of porridge (and a welcome contrast to her predecessor’s blunt Yorkshire banter). For the first time in four days, we will sit down to a proper meal: leavened bread from the bake kettle, which the new girl has some experience with, and roasted quail! When Moodie returned from the woods this morning with a brace of birds, I was at a loss as to what to do with them. Then Isobel, in her quiet, competent way, set upon dipping them one by one in boiling water, a process that rendered the feathers as loose as leaves in autumn. We sat in the clearing, the four of us, and plucked the grey-brown plumage until the ground and our clothing were littered with feathers, and for a short time, I was distracted from my woes by that comical sight.

  In the end, we were obliged to share our bounty. And the thought of wasting those delicacies on such an unscrupulous intruder still makes my teeth ache. Just as Isobel was readying the bake kettle for the anticipated feast, Mr. Clark rode up to our door, and Moodie, with his usual bonhomie, invited him to dinner. It was the first time I had laid eyes on the author of our misfortunes. Thin and narrow-shouldered, with a sallow complexion, he was nothing like the dashing figure I had imagined from Moodie’s enthusiastic stories, though he did seem tolerably well mannered.

  “Mrs. Moodie, my pleasure,” he said, taking my hand and pressing it to his lips. “Now that your husband and I are doing business together, I do hope that you and I shall have a chance to become better acquainted.”

  Bel and I managed to set a respectable table, using, for the first time, the silver flatware I had brought from home. As we pulled apart the crisp-skinned, pink-fleshed quail, Mr. Clark ran his greasy fingers through his lank hair, picked up his glass of beer and raised it in a toast.

  “To our mutual prosperity,” he said.

  “Prosperity?” I could not keep quiet. “We are living in a shed and you talk about prosperity?”

  Clark picked up a tiny drumstick with his thumb and forefinger and nibbled daintily. He shook his head and a look of great sorrow came over his face. “Ah, Mrs. Moodie, I agree, it is unfortunate. But temporary, I assure you—a temporary setback. I predict that before long, you will be the envy of every woman in the township.” He leaned closer. “And if I may say so, you are certainly the most handsome.”

  If Moodie heard this, he gave no sign.

  Mr. Clark clapped my husband on the shoulder and spread a slab of lard on the heel of his bread. “It’s all part of the plan, eh, Moodie?” He raised his glass. “Here’s to the greater good.”

  After he had gone, I quizzed my husband and learned to my dismay that he and Clark have banded together to “clean up” Hamilton Township by repossessing farms from indigent locals such as Joe Harris and his ilk, and selling the land to respectable English settlers such as ourselves. Since we have no funds to invest, Clark has agreed to let Moodie in on the scheme on the strength of his signature alone. We stand to make a fortune, Moodie claims. I heard him out, and not wanting an altercation, I took my shawl and fled the claustrophobia of these four walls, hoping that a little fresh air and a few moments staring up at the great big sky would once again silence the roaring in my head. When I returned, Moodie had fallen asleep in his chair.

  OCTOBER 24, 1832

  The Cobourg Star published my “Autumn” poem this week, as well as the first part of Moodie’s sketch “The Elephant Hunt.” Part two is to appear next week. Judging by my husband’s bragging, you would think he had made the pages of The Spectator. Each evening, instead of performing his usual flute serenade, the author reads his memoir aloud to our small household, a captive but increasingly unwilling audience. Only Katie’s enthusiasm has endured in the face of such nightly repetition. The rest of us long for the return of a few Scottish airs. I am delighted, of course, at my dearest’s success and the fact that Mr. Chatterton has asked for more. Meanwhile, the editor kindly described my poem as “full of feeling and sensibility.”

  On seeing my words in print again, I briefly entertained a fantasy that I might aspire to a life of letters here in Canada. But the sight of a skiff of snow on the fallen leaves this morning and my frozen fingers as I hold this quill quickly destroyed my illusions.

  Now that the weather has turned cold, the close quarters are affecting us all, and tempers have been running short. Indeed, The Weather is all anyone talks about. In the absence of culture or any kind of intelligent social discourse, weather is the only thing that happens here. And everything seems to depend upon it. The old-timers are predicting an early, harsh winter. And so we wait. The glories of autumn have given way to a muted stasis. The days darken and the nights grow longer. And yet a remorseless beauty prevails. A stand of beech and maples on the far side of the marsh seems to rise out of a mist of blood-red dogwood, the trees like dark skeletons limned against a sullen sky. And the constant chatter of the little creek outside the door continues to console me, a reminder that all things come and go in an unending process, and this too will pass.

  DECEMBER 5, 1832

  The snow began yesterday, falling thick and furiously throughout the afternoon and evening. Fierce, howling winds pummelled the shed all night long, the snow coming in through the cracks, forming thin white drifts across the cabin floor. By morning, a veneer of frost coated the four inside walls and ice crusted the water buckets. The single window was transformed into a jewelled kaleidoscope through which the brilliant morning sunshine glinted in wild fluorescence. Our first blizzard has spent its fury, but we woke up to find ourselves entombed, the front door blocked nearly to the eaves by snow. While Moodie and James began digging us out, Bel and I huddled by the rejuvenated hearth with little Kate and marvelled at the spectacle slowly revealing itself outside.

  A blinding whiteness, a million sequins spread out under a sky as blue as heaven. The creek, a silver-and-ebony ribbon struggling gamely through cliffs of ice, each rock shellacked and shining in the sunlight. The monumental spruce shivering, their blue-black boughs weighed down by snowy pillows that explode in slow
motion with each breath of air, letting loose a veil of whiteness. And silent. And still. As still as a painting.

  The woollen skirts and capes that only a few weeks ago rebelled against the heat are no match for this cold, and we are obliged to wrap ourselves in blankets before venturing outdoors. Bel and I wear gloves at all times; I have snipped the fingertips off one pair so that I can hold a needle and this pen in my numb fingers. Our boots, though they spend all their spare time by the fire, never really dry out, and so every trip to the woodpile or the new privy is an ordeal. Poor Katie, bundled in multiple layers of bunting, creeps around the damp dirt floors as best she can. She is as filthy as any London beggar, but it is much too cold to bathe her. I think back to the oppressive chill of Reydon Hall’s rambling decrepitude in winter, but nothing, nothing compares with this.

  Moodie and James have not returned from checking on the livestock. Though the barn is only a few hundred yards from our door, I cannot imagine how they made it through snow that in places is waist-deep. Now the morning’s quiet brilliance has turned sullen, and a fitful wind blows curtains of white that block out the sky. The longed-for winter season is here. And with it, some hope that once this storm has passed, Old Joe and his family will move on.