A Voice of Her Own

by Barbara Dana

  I will not be happy here.

  The building was too large, too straight, too far from Home.

  Father stopped the carriage. I stepped to the ground. My head ached. My eyes hurt. My lips burned as, mouth agape, I took my first breath with feet upon South Hadley soil. Ahead the land was flat, but a gentle hill lay just behind the school and to the right, barely visible through the fog, a welcoming sight in all the straightness. Father came around the side of the carriage with my valise. “This way,” he said.

  We moved along the walkway and through the gate. My feet went slowly, as if tied down by weights. Before me levels of porches stretched across the length of the formidable structure, narrow spaces from which to view the seldom trees dotted about the yard.

  I can’t live here.

  My heart beat fast. Excitement? Dread? A little of both, maybe.

  I was taken straightway to my room by a Miss Whitman, who was second only to the Principal, Miss Lyon, who was otherwise engaged. Father followed with my valise. “Here we are,” said Miss Whitman, as we reached the doorway to a small, cold, top-floor room. Inside were two narrow beds, a bureau and two desks. Father set down the valise. Miss Whitman looked at Father. “You can go now,” she said.

  “Good-bye, Emily,” said Father.

  “Good-bye,” I said, and he was gone.

  I felt lost—without my skin. I must have looked pale.

  “Are you not feeling well?” Miss Whitman asked.

  “Not very,” I managed. I was feeling feverish.

  “You’d best lie down.”

  “What about my examinations?”

  “Those will have to wait.”

  I slept for several hours, wrapped in my shawl and under several blankets. When I woke, there was a girl sitting on the bed across from mine. “You slept through supper,” she said.

  “What?” I was still partway asleep and not entirely sure of where I was, or to whom I was speaking.

  “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  Just then I realized it was my dear and pious cousin Emily Norcross who spoke. She was to be my roommate. I had known this fact for some time. It had eased my concern about coming to the school. She held a small package wrapped in a napkin. “I brought you some bread.”

  “Thank you.” I sat up and took the package she offered, holding it in my lap. We smiled then and embraced. I almost dropped the bread, but caught it just before it fell off the edge of the bed.

  “Miss Whitman said you were sick,” Cousin Emily continued.

  “Yes.”

  “And that you must wait to take the exam in ations.”

  “Yes.” “I bet you wish you could get them over with.”

  “I do.”

  “They are not so bad.”

  Her words offered comfort. Cousin Emily was a senior and in my opinion knew all about everything. “Is it true that those who don’t pass their examinations get sent home straightway?” I asked.

  “It can happen.”

  “I hope it doesn’t happen to me.”

  “It won’t.” “One never knows. I would hate to disgrace myself the moment I arrived.”

  “It’s too late for that,” she said. “You’ve been here for several hours.”

  It was good to laugh. I pulled my shawl around my shoulders, then grabbed the blanket as well. “It’s freezing in here.”

  “I know.”

  “Is it always like this?”

  “Mostly.”

  “I feel as if we’re in the Arctic.”

  “At the very least.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t bring my plants.”

  “A wise choice. Let me help you unpack.” Cousin Emily was exceedingly kind. She had experienced terrible things, having lost both parents to consumption, yet she never failed to consider other people. I was extremely grateful for her presence. A good roommate may be the single most important thing to have when one is away at school. Abiah had told me this and she was right.

  My cold improved quickly, a welcome and unusual occurrence for yours truly in the illness line. I was able to take my examinations in three days, applying myself with a determination unknown even to me. I seemed to have left my heart—my very breath—outside the door. A separate faction took up the pen, answering the questions with an ease that was really quite amazing. But when I set down my pen, I was seized by a terror so intense as to chill the blood. It was as if I had been tossed off the side of a ship and me not knowing how to swim. I sat alone in the small examination room at the wooden desk by the window, pen down, work done, afraid and wondering.

  How are they at Home? Do they need my smile? Will Father do without my bread?

  It was a troubling thought that he might die for lack of it, yet a thought more troubling that he would not die, but would live in good health, well satisfied without me.

  That night was a sleepless affair, feet cold, pillow unfamiliar. Comfort was not my friend. I longed for my brother, our Night Talks, the slant of his mind, the red contrariness of his hair. And Vinnie! Oh, I missed her too, my bed partner lo these many years. I missed our little dramas. Where was Father’s sureness, his steady hand, Mother’s quiet way, her meals to warm the heart? Where was my Abby, my ’Biah, my garden, my white House, my piano, my apron, the cows, the common, Mr. Cutler’s store, the Pelham Hills in all their glory?!

  Light began outside the window. I had not slept at all.

  After breakfast and half awake, I learned that I had passed all my examinations. I was greatly relieved. There were three classes, Junior, Middle and Senior. I was placed in the Junior class for review, with a plan to move ahead to Middle Studies as soon as possible. I was glad not to have disappointed Father.

  When we left the dining room, Cousin Emily showed me about the school. Everything went on in one building. Over 230 girls resided here and 12 teachers as well, all living, learning, eating, sleeping and dreaming beneath a single roof. As we walked along the main-floor hallway, a woman came toward us from the far end of the passage. I watched the woman approach, a veritable tornado of energy! Cousin Emily tilted her head in my direction. “Miss Lyon,” she whispered.

  The “storm” greeted us warmly, welcomed me as “one of the new ones” and proceeded on her way.

  “She may be the most energetic person I have ever known,” said Cousin Emily, when we found ourselves out of ear’s reach of our Seminary’s lively Queen Bee.

  “I believe it.”

  “She never stops. Her primary concern is that women should be educated.”

  “An obvious position.”

  “Many consider the matter to be of little importance.”

  “That doesn’t make it so,” I declared as we started up the stairs to our Arctic Hide-away.

  As I came to know our Principal, I saw that my cousin was right. Miss Lyon had made the imperative issue of the education of women her life’s work, and for that I hold her in high esteem. I soon discovered that my first impression of her was right as well—a tornado of energy! I sometimes doubted she slept at all. She appeared tireless, determined and very much involved in all matters of the school. It would not be unusual to find her in the kitchen, cooking stew! She believed in expanding the mind, in exercising the body, in experiencing the arts and in becoming a Christian.

  That evening, after meeting Miss Lyon, I suffered greatly as I was extremely homesick. I wrote Abiah about it. I told her I thought I could not stay another day and would have to return to my beloved Home straightway if I could be expected to go on living. This may sound overly dramatic, but dramatic or not, that is the way it was.

  The Dungeon Fear and the Condition of My Shoes

  On the morning of my fourth day at school I awoke in the company of Possibility. I cannot say why. As I dressed that freezing morning, I had trouble understanding the earlier torment in my brain. My life at Mt Holyoke Seminary had begun!

  I threw myself into the activities with no small amount of enthusiasm. Oh, and my beloved Jennie was there as well!�
��my bed-jumping partner from the golden days of Home! Jennie was a senior, along with Cousin Emily. Both were extremely busy with separate activities, but they were there just the same! It seemed as if I would be quite happy after all.

  Austin came to visit in but two weeks—time, bringing Abby and Vinnie! What joy to embrace them once more and to hear how they missed me! It is a grand thing to be missed by those you love, too grand almost, for one is in danger of one’s miserly thoughts claiming their viselike grip—wanting the far-off beloved to pine. “Be unhappy without me!” the mind calls out. “Find no rose without I be at your side!” I must confess to hearing thoughts like these echo within my wicked mind and I know they should be whipped! What is to be done with me?

  Austin arrived on a Saturday, bringing not only Abby and Vinnie but cake, gingerbread, peaches, pie, apples, chestnuts and grapes! A feast! Mother had selected the items with considerable care, polished the apples and of course done all the baking concerned. What a time we had! I showed my dear ones all about the school and we talked and laughed—oh, it did the heart good! It was an auspicious day. The leaves put all their colors on—a dome of flaming gold!

  I watched from the window until the three were gone. When they could be seen no more, I went straightway to my room to count my treasures and to share those remaining with my dear cousin, who appreciated them greatly. After that I decided to blacken and brush my shoes, as Mother had apparently expressed concern to Austin as to their well-being. I had instructed Austin to tell Mother not to worry, that Cousin Emily had all the equipment needed to keep my shoes looking finely and that I would polish them that very evening in Mother’s honor.

  I missed hearing from Mother. I had warned myself not to expect her to write, as she seldom wrote to anyone. When Father was away, her letters to him were brief. “A few sentences,” she confessed to me one day, “and then I don’t know what else to say.” I often thought that if Mother ever got started, she might enjoy that grand gathering of the humble members of the alphabet to spell a truth, the thoughtful selection of just the ones needed to form the Words to speak one’s Voice! Somehow she preferred dusting, or cleaning leaves from the eave spout.

  Father wrote frequently—warnings and encouragements along the path of life—as did Austin and Abby, Abiah and Vinnie too. I wrote them back just as often as I could. I liked to play with our names. Vinnie became Viny. Why not? And I was sometimes Emilie. I felt the name to be more romantic. I have always considered “Emily” a serious name. “Emilie” is suited to petticoats and ribbons and dancing in the meadow in May.

  I grew fond of my new home. There were many exceedingly pleasant young ladies in attendance. And the food! I never expected it to be so delicious! Cooking for so many girls cannot be easy, but the meals tasted finely.

  It was not long before I had a grand surprise. It was a Wednesday—why I remember that fact I cannot say—and as I looked from my window, in the direction of the hotel, there were Mother and Father, walking toward the Seminary! And did they not look the respectable pair! I ran from my room and down the stairs and onto the road, flying—as one with wings—to meet them. I could not have been more delighted, or more surprised, as they had said nothing to me about their plan to come.

  It was hard to let them go.

  And then it happened.

  Just when it seemed that all was well and that I really would one day join the others as a grownup and on my own in the Large World, I experienced a terror too Large to qualify. I could tell no one. I felt that to speak of it would make it real, and that I could not bear. Did I belong in Father’s favorite Lunatic Asylum, the one in Worcester he had so fervently insisted I visit?

  Here is how it was.

  I am in the basement, where the dining room and kitchens are found. It is just after dinnertime. It will soon be time for singing. We are to receive the music for our fall concert. I hope for my favorite Monteverdi, a merry piece with a strong soprano part.

  I set down my napkin. As I stand up, my heart skips a beat, tumbling over the side, then in an instant, bouncing back, catching pace with its appointed rounds. I hold the edge of the table to steady myself. I hear the voices of the other girls, leaving the dining room, chatting amongst themselves—noise only, no words.

  What are they saying?

  I try to breathe. Can’t seem to. I look down at the table—knives, forks, plates and bits of food abandoned.

  Collect the knives. Save your life.

  Daily I must carry the knives from the first tier of tables, then wash and wipe the selfsame number of knives at night. I pick up a knife. And another. My hands are cold, the knives too heavy. I drop one. I pick it up. I am sleepy-tired. My legs feel heavy. The kitchen looks far away. I can’t breathe below my throat.

  What is happening to me?

  My heart pounds!

  What am I afraid of?

  No answer save the ceaseless pounding, the nameless dread, the gaping zero at the center of Nothing.

  I try once more to breathe, but cannot.

  How does one breathe?

  Girls push in their chairs, mill about, carrying plates. I think I should ask someone how to breathe. They all seem to know. But I can’t speak.

  I have to get to the kitchen.

  One foot.

  Other foot.

  One foot.

  Other foot.

  I cannot!

  Heart pounding.

  It’s too far.

  Terror!

  Where am I?

  Terror.

  Who am I?

  Terror.

  Does it matter?

  I don’t exist.

  All I can feel is the fear.

  “Ky-ri-e e-le-i-son!”

  Somehow I was with the others, singing. As we joined our voices in song, the awesome fear began to lift. I cannot say where it came from and that is by far the most terrible part. Even as the Terror lessened, a fright was in my bones that would never be gone, always with me—the Fear of the Fear returning—the Dungeon Fear—never knowing when it would come, never knowing why. These thoughts were in my mind as I sang, and all the while Monteverdi’s beautiful music comforting me, fighting with the dark, winning.

  But really?

  Silent Friend

  I was back in my room, under three blankets and shawl on top, exhausted from my Terror in the basement. Soon it would be time for supper. I must go back down to face the Dungeon Fear, wash and dry the knives and hope to get out alive. I told myself there was nothing to be afraid of. It would not happen again. But I did not believe myself. That’s when I thought of the peas—when I was young, of needing to eat them all lest their feelings be hurt, lest they feel abandoned. It was more than childish fancy. I had to eat them to avoid disaster.

  I pulled the covers tight about my chin. I was tired, but could not sleep.

  Will I ever sleep again?

  I thought of the day I had been unable to leave my bonnet on the bed. It was no game. Once again I was avoiding disaster. And that was my thought in the basement. Disaster was coming.

  I did not have the Dungeon Fear that night, for which I was most grateful. I felt I must get a grip on it, lest it throw me to the wind. The most terrible part of the Dungeon Fear is that when it comes I cannot find myself. The fear is so great as to dispel all knowing—even the knowledge that I exist. And that is the worst.

  I will write a poem.

  I remembered the sense I had when composing verses that I was with my Self—that sense of knowing who I was, of having a voice, of existing! One must realize that one exists, or life is a dreary tale at best. I thought of my elephant box, my childhood reminders within, those poems that brought me to my Self: the dog demands his birthright, the worm craves the moist black earth, a place for Father’s shoes, my flower with the grandest friends. In my brain I was there, writing them, feeling the joy of connection to my Self. When writing those poems, I had had that connection more than with anything—like breathing deep on a summer day, la
ughing with Jennie, or digging in the garden—only more!

  I lit the lamp. Cousin Emily was fast asleep. I took up my pencil and paper.

  I cannot remember more than the first line. “There is a fright so awful, it gathers meaning up.” The line pleased me. And best of all, I was there! The edges of a poem serve to hold a fear or joy or other and make it governable. They hold a thing in such a way that one may see it and not be overcome.

  Later that week Miss Lyon gave a lecture entitled “We May Become What We Will.” While I enjoyed the sense of possibility in her viewpoint, it did not entirely correspond with my own. I raised my hand. “What if a poor child were crippled and willed to be the fastest runner in the world?” I asked. “I don’t see how any measure of will could be of assistance in her determination to run the fastest.”

  I don’t think Miss Lyon was pleased with my query. She said I had raised an interesting question but had missed the point she had so carefully attempted to make. I was by no means sure of what that point was, so in that respect I suppose she was correct.

  That first lecture served as a send-off to the numerous ones to follow, all given by Miss Lyon on the weighty subject of Religion. If the Seminary had a basic purpose in the mind of our fearless leader, it was to turn all its well-brought-up young ladies into Christians. I daresay the pinnacle of excellence might be attained by first off accepting Christ into one’s heart and after that becoming the wife of a missionary. The first of these events was by no means against my better judgment, assuming that I in all honesty felt the calling to do so, but the idea of traveling to some far-off place to smile at members of a differing society while hoping they might trade their well-established ways for those of my husband was by no means an appealing thought. I would sooner converse with the daisies!

  Every day we were called upon to give ourselves to Christ before it was too late. The matter was of no small concern to me, as I felt an emptiness growing inside my heart, a split from the other girls, who seemed to have an ease with life that I had not been granted. Were I to give myself to Christ would all be assuaged? I did not think so, but more important still, I was not moved in that direction. Father had often praised the Puritan Ethic—self-reliance, hard work, economy and a refusal to accept any way of life that would take away the responsibility of deciding for oneself what was true. Why would I give myself to Christ to decide for me?