by Barbara Dana
I could play my piano whenever the spirit moved me, which was often indeed. Aunt Selby was with us for the summer. Not only is she the daughter of our Reverend Joseph Vaille but a fine musician. Good for her! I could hardly contain my delight when she offered to teach me. She suggested exercises from an instruction book by Bertini, which I worked on with admirable diligence. I also played some tunes, my favorite being “The Lancer’s Quickstep,” which starts as a march, with triplets for one measure only. My favorite part is the switch to the quickstep, where the time changes and the key goes from F to C. A merry piece!
And now for the best news! I put my hair up in a net cap! I had envied Olivia Coleman’s hair done up that way since I first saw her. I fancied I could look as comely as she with my hair in that selfsame style—a startling supposition. I knew better, but that don’t often help one bit! Abby had set me straight on the matter in her no-nonsense way, but when the time came I must admit I looked quite well. I wished Abiah could have seen it. I described it to her in elucidating detail, but it wasn’t the same as seeing it. It was really quite amazing to me that a child could stand before the glass of the parlor window, noting her exceedingly ordinary and childlike appearance reflected back at her, then grab the hair with two hands, pile it up and cover with a net cap and a young lady stares back! And don’t one see a carnal edge to the picture! Roguish of me to admit it, but Truth will out in the end, so why not now, I say?! It was grand to delight in my appearance. I was certain that by the time I was seventeen, I should have all sorts of admirers—if not before!—and all sorts of merry times selecting my favorite! ’Biah said we mustn’t choose too quickly as the enjoyment of many suitors was not a thing to pass over in haste, and I think she was right. I had had my picture made that spring, in the form of what is scientifically called a silhouette, that black shadow cutout that is so popular nowadays. Many praised the likeness. I could only wish the artist had waited some few months until my hair was up!
Almost as exciting as the styling of my hair was my first composition in Forest Leaves, the little paper at the Academy. There it was—printed for all to see! We were required to title our papers, a practice I am not wholly in favor of. However, in this case it appeared I had little choice. I called it “The Tea Party.” Our assignment was to write on the following theme: “Three or more influential citizens meet to discuss world affairs. Each expresses his”—note the choice of pronoun!—“particular point of view. Due Wednesday.” You can be sure I raised the issue of the exclusive pronoun contained in the instruction. I asked our teacher straightway whether any of those influential citizens might be female. He said that of course they could be and that it was understood. “Not by me,” I told him, adding that he would do well to include both sexes in any future descriptions of events in which both might be qualified to take part. No response from the man was forthcoming.
My imagination brought together the most interesting group of influential citizens. Mother Nature is the gracious hostess. Father Time—ever punctual—moves the party along. Jack Frost—that guiltless robber—chills the proceedings in ample measure. Death—eyes sunken—ever stoic—eats not a thing. For merriment Santa Claus shows up for a brief stop along his renowned route of gracious delivery. We were required to write our name below the title, a tawdry custom in my opinion, but I suppose the teacher must know to whom to apply the grade. Mine, of course, was the highest possible!
As I already felt closer to myself when writing than at any other time—poems most especially, but compositions as well—I always looked forward to our writing lessons. To watch and listen and then to set things down just the way one sees them—there is nothing like it! To step away just enough to see Life straight! Sometimes I quite forget myself when I see a caterpillar making its way across a stone, or a purple sunset, and I think that I am never closer to the Me of me. When I see people go around in some unusual way, it starts a laugh inside, or a knowing so terrible that my blood stops and I rush to my pen and my paper and beg them to take my sight and hold it clear before the sense is gone forever!
I find it remarkable how the mind goes. The summer had been the happiest of my life; then along comes the winter and my mind takes up residence in the darkest place. Or it may be that Dark moves into Mind’s domain. I’m sure I don’t know which. In two short years I would be off to Mt Holyoke Seminary, my sojourn in the “real” world. I was very much interested in exploring it. However, my feelings on the subject were mixed. Austin would be returning home to enter Amherst College just at the point of my departure, Hearthside Companion and yours truly together once more, our family whole, and then to leave? Life can be untimely.
I was ill much of the winter, which may have had something to do with my dark mood. I find my spirits to be very low when I am ill. The discomfort, the boredom and the fear of Death all conspire to pull me to a dark place. Both Abby and Eliza were sick that winter as well. Abby and I both missed nearly two full terms of school. For my part, I was in bed with cough and influenza and always the fear of consumption. Not only had it been with me as an infant, but there have been many cases of consumption in our family. They say if it’s in the family history, one’s chances of contracting the disease are enhanced many times over. I also hear that once you have had it, you always have it, only sometimes it’s quieter than a mouse guarding cheese. I worried that I might have it and would die. I thought to speak of my fear to Austin. Perhaps he could have offered some encouragement as regarded my situation, but I chose not to bring the matter up as the others might have gotten wind of it and fallen into the abyss. The treatment for consumption is no different than the treatment for influenza, so I said “Influenza!” and went about my way.
No Other Bread
When I was once again able to lift my head from the pillow, I decided to make an herbarium. Many of the girls were making them. Eliza was the champion despite her being the youngest girl. To make an herbarium you need a large book with blank pages—nicely bound, with strong paper—several sheets of yesterday’s newspaper, a pair of flower shears or a small kitchen knife, glue and a press, or if not that, several heavy books will do just as well. Along with these, one of course needs flowers and a little book of sorts, containing pictures so one may recognize each and know the Latin names. Oh!—and a Pen! Such a Friend one simply cannot be without!
And off we go!
Cut full sheets of newspaper in half. Lay five cut sheets in a stack. Take your flower and cut it to a size that will fit the page of the book, no larger. Include some leaves and joints, petals, buds and seedpods. Place the flower on the stack of newspaper and flatten, twisting and smoothing the stem and other parts of the flowers with your fingers. Carefully place five more cut sheets of newspaper on top. Place four to five heavy books on top of the newspaper. On the edge of the newspaper write the name of the flower below. Check your little flower book if you don’t know same. Alongside the flower name write the date of pressing. Leave alone for one week. If you have a press, use it instead of the books.
After week remove books. Carefully lift the upper five sheets of newspaper. Your dried flower will be revealed! Open your herbarium book. Pick up flower. It will be stiff and stand straight up from your fingers as many flowers do not do before pressing. Apply a small amount of glue to the back of the flower in several spots, excluding the petals, which might break. Place flower in the center of the page of your herbarium book, glue side down. Apply slight pressure with fingers. Count to ten. Consult flower book for the correct Latin name and spelling of your flower. Write English flower name on narrow label, with the correct Latin name underneath, then paste label across lower part of stem. A page is done. Repeat process to make a glorious book!
When my health improved sufficiently, Professor Coleman taught me German. Eliza thought I was very brave to study it as she felt it to be beyond understanding. Her father could not convince her otherwise. Father was sure I would forever lose the chance to force my tongue around such demanding syllables wer
e I not to study that very term. Mother wanted me to rest. As always, Father’s will prevailed. I enjoyed my German studies, though I am not altogether sure one “enjoys” German. One might rather respect it. German words are so demanding—I could even go so far as to say “punitive.” I sometimes have to laugh at their self-important attitude.
My greatest joy that cold winter of becoming fifteen was receiving letters from Abiah. There were not enough to suit me, but those that did arrive were welcome indeed. Most entertaining were the ongoing reports of “The Adorable Mr. Escott”—none other than her piano teacher! Each letter contained detailed renditions of her lessons, including the way Mr. Escott’s brown hair curled over the side of his forehead, how he sat on a chair next to her at the piano with far too much distance between them, how her heart raced with excitement when he reached out to turn a page for her and how for several bars after the page turn her fingers were so clumsy as not to respond to her mind’s design. I never heard much about what she played. Presumably it made little difference.
My other joy was learning to bake bread—Mother and I alone in the kitchen, with Vinnie at school and the cats asleep, awaiting her return. I can see the two of us, sleeves rolled up and laughing and flour all about, Mother’s hair covered by a pocket handkerchief, mine done up in its alluring net cap, soon with streaks of flour, foretelling my silver time. It was quite wonderful really and all the more wonderful because Mother and I seldom shared such moments.
As we baked, Mother and I got to laughing over the way Father insists upon judging the Cattle Show when he does not care for cows. Mother felt that a disinterest in cows was an acceptable quality as far as personal taste might travel, though she was, in her own words, “a cow enthusiast.” That being said, she had no easy time putting together Father’s disinterest in cows with his repeated insistence upon judging each and every Cattle Show in the greater Connecticut Valley. I stretch the point, but not as far as one might think.
That night after tasting my bread, Father made a surprising statement. He said that it was so delicious that henceforth he would eat no bread unless baked by me. Large praise—and Larger Responsibility. Must I be with him always, lest he starve?! Perhaps I should not have baked so well.
Later as I lay in bed and Vinnie snoring at my side, troubling thoughts gnawed at my brain.
What of Mother’s bread? Will Father refuse that now? And how will Mother feel?
New Year’s Day a gloom settled over me. I sat much of the day in my room, winter’s fleeting slant of light barely visible amidst the fog. And my thoughts?
A year gone. So much left undone. Much done should not have been. Resolutions strewn, questions unanswered, plans ignored by inattentive Hearts, desires trampled by Time’s relentless march. Old Year, you are gone now and the new one doesn’t fit.
There was no funeral that day, only the soundless gravestones—those relentless reminders of the evanescence of all save Death.
Revivals were sweeping through the Connecticut Valley like the plague. Abiah joined the church that year, as did others of my friends, and I on the shore, waving a farewell hand to the boatload of friends and family bound for a place I could not see. Not only that, the place had claimed a piece of their Souls, precious not only to them but necessary to our connection. I was happy they should know “the peace of God, which passeth all understanding,” but I could not give myself away—not to anyone! It seems to me that my Self is all I truly have—my one accompaniment to the grave—the most supreme gift of a generous God. The mind thinks its own thoughts—mine does at any rate. It wants to make its own sense of things, not always to follow. It wants to question. How does it seem to me? The question I had as a child remained. Why would God give me a brain and ask me not to use it? It made no sense. The mind and its beating partner—the one that so easily may break—are our greatest gifts. I could not give them up! I was only just beginning to know my Self—different, frail but strong, a lover of words, of Nature, of hills and sunsets, girl friends and Whiskers, laughing and music! To spend my days waiting for a Larger time, to give my Self away to anyone, be they neighbor, stranger, Reverend or King—it matters little—the very exercise defies Nature. I fear I may be ungrateful. But to receive a mind and heart and not to use them—that seems lacking in gratitude! I have seen the peace behind the eyes of those who have given themselves to Christ in exchange for his protection. I would claim that peace if it spoke in the center of my beating heart, but that has not been the case. I wait and listen.
Grandfather Norcross died in May. Mother suffered greatly the loss of her father—afternoons upon the lounge, blanket over, shades drawn—and I was sent away. Father said it was on account of my poor health, but my frailty was nothing new. I think it was because of Mother’s nerves—once again! I did not want to leave. Time at Home felt more precious to me than ever. I would be off to Mt Holyoke before I knew it. No matter.
I went to Boston as Father had instructed, feeling the better for the banishment, a fact that surprised me. It may have been the Chinese Museum did it—all those wax figures in exotic costumes. What fun! And so unusual—especially the Opium Eaters in all their mysterious and highly intriguing ways.
Austin returned home in August. How glorious to have his slippers under the kitchen chair once more and the many coats upon the hooks and most of all to have him! The 9. oclock bell would ring, sending the upstanding to bed, as we received our signal—Hearth Time! I wanted to know all about his time away at Williston, what he was thinking and what was in his heart. He would always tell me. No other in the family would tell. We are an uncommon group—closer than close—a Special Five—yet news from the heart is out of bounds. I felt quick joy at being able to share my truest Self with my brother and to know he was doing the same with me.
A Fate Worse Than Death
September 29, 1847.
As if without warning, it is the night before my departure for Mt Holyoke Seminary. Mother prepares my favorite dessert—ingredients being isin-glass, fresh milk, chocolate shavings and sugar. Father sits at the head of the table looking a most especially strong protector. He reaches for the bread—my bread!
What will he eat when I’m gone?
He spreads the butter.
How will he live without me?
He sets down the knife.
He can’t live without bread.
I watch as he chews.
He will be fine.
He lifts his teacup.
I don’t want him to be fine! I want him to miss me!
“Stop crunching.” Vinnie’s words bring me out of my reverie. “Emily is crunching and I can’t stand it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It bothers me.”
“She’s sorry,” says Mother, always the peacemaker.
“I hate it.”
“I’m sorry!”
“Emily will be gone tomorrow,” says Mother. “Let’s not find fault.”
“Mother is right,” says Father. “And don’t say ‘hate’.”
“You will miss her soon enough,” says Austin.
“I won’t miss the crunching.”
“And I won’t miss the cats!”
I got her with that one.
After dinner I go up the hill to find Abby. She is sitting on her uncle’s porch in a somber mood. I hand her our Latin book. She doesn’t speak. I sit next to her on the little bench. “I want you to keep this,” I say.
“Thank you.” Abby stares at her shoes.
“It’s yours now.”
Abby looks up. “I will miss you too much.”
“I will miss you too much too.” We sit in silence. “You must come and visit me.”
“How will I get there?”
“I will ask Austin to bring you.”
“Do you think he would?”
“He’d better, or he will have me to answer to!”
Abby smiles. “A fate worse than Death.”
My tears come over the dam.
My eye
s gave me trouble that evening. They were sore and disturbed by the light of the oil lamp. I feared it was the sign of a cold coming on but would not admit it, as I wanted so much to be well for school. Much as I hated to leave Home, I looked forward to the adventure. I was of two minds about the prospect of my further education. I would have to take my examinations upon arriving at school. If I did not pass, I would be sent home. I felt a desire that this might occur, while at the same time, a dread of disappointing Father. I was rent asunder! I longed to explore Earth and all its wonders. I wanted to stay in my room.
I went to bed early. My heart pounded, the sound reaching my ear through the pillow. I felt it was a mistake to be going away. No. That’s not how it was. I knew it.
Somehow I slept at last. When I awoke I had a soreness in my throat, a throbbing in my head and a tightness in my narrow chest. I decided to say nothing about it.
Father drove me to Mt Holyoke in the carriage. It was a drive of many hours in a gentle rain—down our street, past Mr. Cutler’s store, through the town, past the cows in the common, past the church, past the College, south along the road toward the hills, out past the dinosaur pit to places unknown.
Father was silent. I wondered what he was thinking.
Part II
Mount Holyoke
and Beyond
“Don’t let your free spirit be chained.”
Mount Holyoke Seminary
I could see the red brick building through the fog as Father and I approached in the carriage. It was a large rectangular vision set back from the road behind a white fence. Soon I could count the stories—four—and see the long even rows of square windows across the front. There were many chimneys along the front edge of the roof—seven! And that was just the beginning! There were chimneys in back as well, which were difficult to count as visibility was poor.