A Voice of Her Own

by Barbara Dana

  It was the “Spring of Sue”! I wanted to be with my newfound Love—not to clean! I wanted to tend my garden, to read, to play upon the piano, to write! But Father was insistent. “Your Mother is down with neuralgia and your sister is gone. The housework falls to you.” It seemed to me it had fallen some time back, as I had been carrying the burdensome duty upon my frail but able shoulders for several months. However, I chose not to challenge Father. I was not pleased with the Circumstance. To add Spring Cleaning to the already dizzying number of household tasks—it was too much! Up with the carpets! Out to the yard! Hang them! Beat them!—I needn’t describe the vigor with which that was done! Those bad carpets, taking me from my Verses—my Sue! Surely they had to be whipped!

  In stolen time Susie and I shared our girlish fancies. She read my verses, and didn’t she find them exceptional! She was candid in offering suggestions for improvement, which I appreciated very much indeed. She rarely found the need to offer such suggestions—which I appreciated at least as much, if not more! I knew she was honest. And I knew she loved me. I cannot tell you how I knew. The greatest things are often indescribable. What heresy for a Poet to express that thought! But it was mine and therefore must be claimed.

  Susie shared her writing with me as well. The sharpness of her mind was exceptional. Right to the very center she went, no questions asked! She spoke it as she saw it and her vision always her very own. I especially admired her essays. We began to exchange books—some great, some not great but merry—as well as many outrageous opinions on Life, both passing and Eternal. I knew straightway that Susie was a thinker of deep thoughts but was surprised by the level of enjoyment she displayed as regards Life’s simple pleasures, good times, foolish things and all those imaginings still alive in so many girls at the grown-up age of nineteen! Before we knew it we had developed a secret language divulged to no one, not even Austin, who was taking a shine to both the Gilbert sisters. And who could blame him?! I found his interest in Susie to be thrilling. The thought that the two I loved more than any in the world might fall in love—why, it took my breath away! Should it happen, I would be sure to feel utterly responsible, not to mention an indispensable part of the entire arrangement!

  “What thoughts do you have about Austin?” I asked Susie one morning as we sat beneath the Elm, Carlo in the pond—splash—paddle—and us two reading some book or other.

  “I’m reading,” said Susie.

  “I can see that,” I said, “but tell me. It won’t take long. Do you like him especially?”

  Sue kept her eyes on the page. “I think I do.”

  “You don’t know?”

  Sue, eyes down. “Not entirely.”

  “What kind of an answer is that? ‘Not entirely’!”

  “That’s all I can say on the subject at present.”

  “He likes you.” I had not intended to share this tasty bit of information, given to me by my brother the night before, but could not help it.

  Susie looked decidedly intrigued, then answered casually. “Good.” She was embarrassed, I could tell, and not in the least disinterested! I determined to let the matter rest for the moment and wait to see what life had in store.

  It was a glorious spring. Even Spring Cleaning could not mar its glory; however, there was something that nearly did. The “Great” Revival of 1850! It seems there is no end to the need to save all the poor sinful souls born to this world with no hope of redemption. I alone, it seems, have never felt that certainty of guilt that starts the ball rolling. All around me they were falling like flies.

  One evening in June, when the Great Revival Frenzy was at its peak, Carlo and I went to the meadow to walk in the tall grass and sit awhile among the wildflowers by the pond. Carlo did not go into the water as was his usual custom, but stayed at my side. He knew his charge was troubled. “I shall never be a Christian,” I told him.

  He looked at me, brown eyes deep.

  Carlo is not a Christian either. We are two of the lingering bad ones.

  Well, that thought didn’t stick! Carlo bad? It seemed to me we were both somehow all right. I noticed the buttercups all about in profusion. I hadn’t seen them when we sat down. I do love buttercups. I want that selfsame flower for my funeral—that is, if I shall ever die—and deep down I know I shall.

  The summer brought many changes. Unfortunately, the state of Mother’s neuralgia was not one of them. She remained resting on the lounge, occasionally feeling well enough to rise and dust the stairs. Carlo slept outside, the heat once more dictating his whereabouts. Austin graduated and Vinnie returned from Ipswich, lifting many burdens. She brought a feeling of the Festive back to the House and reminded us all not to snivel.

  Before August was done there was Large news. Father became a Christian! Yes, the Great Revival had claimed his Soul for Christ. Abby followed into those Waiting Arms, as did nearly the whole of Amherst, including my Sue. Mother had long since been on the protected side and Austin and Vinnie were on the Threshold. Only Carlo and I remained on the shore of the impenitent. I cannot speak for the cats.

  Of all those mentioned I was most upset by Sue’s decision to give herself to Christ. Was I jealous? The idea was too miserly to consider and yet I was suspicious of its truth. I had been noticing a possessive strain in my love for Susie, more so than for any other girl. Was that strain rearing its ugly head? I asked my mind the question, but received no answer. Sue and I had endured many serious discussions as pertained to the matter of becoming Christians, during which I never failed to feel judged by her and not fairly. It was so unlike her to judge any person—especially me! How self-important that sounds. How miserly of me to assume I was the one most especially not to be judged. I am not proud of it, but that is the way I felt and I must live with it. And now I will judge my Susie. For one who enjoys such openness of spirit, she shows a surprising distaste for departing from traditional religious beliefs, a fact that disturbs me very much.

  As August proceeded on her perennial march to flame, Susie and I put our religious differences aside, once more sharing fine times, simple, but Large where it matters most. One such time began with a group of girls, Susie’s sister, Martha—or Mattie, as we called her—Susie, Abby, Tempe and yours truly, all out for a trip to Mr. Cutler’s store. Carlo accompanied us, as usual. After completing our various purchases—I can’t remember any—we decided on a stroll to the College. With graduation over and so many Whiskers gone from Amherst we were attempting to rekindle the spark of livelier times.

  On the way home it was just Susie and me. Susie had taken up the black—wearing only that somber color and none other—some weeks before, at the time of the death of another sister—Mary, who had died in childbirth. It was awfully sad. We walked along the east side of the common, the sun bright, the cows under such trees as could be found. Carlo was behind us, followed by a large yellow cat. I had never seen the cat before and wondered what he might have in mind. He must surely have been a “he.” Such size and rough demeanor could point to no other conclusion as far as I could tell.

  Susie was extremely quiet. She was of that selfsame persuasion much of that summer and the following fall as well, on account of her sister’s death. I was not in the habit of attempting to rouse her from so formal a state, as such endeavors generally served to make the situation worse.

  Without warning I heard her voice. “Mr. Stubbins has pain in his back.” And there, some yards ahead, was Mr. Stubbins, employing a cautious gait, shoulders round, bent at the waist and carrying a large sack. “Too bad his brother couldn’t have done the errand for him,” Sue continued.

  “Perhaps he’s out of town.”

  “Perhaps.”

  We had taken up a favorite game of ours called Observation. We had both been enjoying its basic precepts informally for some time, but shortly after meeting we designed a formal structure to the affair. Artists of any persuasion must see life before attempting to express their sense of it. This had been Susie’s point to me the day we desig
ned the game. She said the best painters see, as do the best sculptors, dancers, musicians and all. It may be said that musicians must hear, but consider Beethoven, deaf to sound without, yet hearing within, all the senses alive with the glory of life and the Pain—seeing it All! So it is with every artist. And Poets are no exception!

  The game goes like this. One person mentions a thing she sees. The small things are best as they are often the most telling. Upon hearing the thing mentioned, the other looks at that selfsame and mentions her next thought. It can build from there, but it don’t have to.

  Mr. Stubbins turned right on Main Street. “He will need to lie down when he gets home,” I said as he passed out of sight, taking his burden with him.

  At the north end of the common two cows lay side by side in the mud. Frances was the smaller of the two, black and white, not full-grown, while Clarissa, her white coat brown with mud, had met her lasting weight. They lounged contentedly, their mouths in timeless cross-round chews as we approached. “Frances and Clarissa are in their summer spot,” I observed.

  “Winter on the rise, summer in the mud,” said Sue.

  “And peace in the ever-returning familiar.” That was my comment. Was it not poetical?

  Do Girls Marry for Love?

  When we reached home it was nearly 2½ oclock. As it was not yet time to cook the supper, we decided to prolong the afternoon in another of our loving talks in the tall green grass. Carlo followed us to the spot, lying down in easy collapse beneath the tree. Susie looked serious all in black and the softness of summer in all directions. My Susie—uncommon, deep, sorrowful, honest, bold—the black magnified these essences with all the power of a microscope. I think it is truly amazing how she came to wear black for three years. One could sail around the world in such a Time!

  The black separates her from others.

  This was my thought. I did not care for the perception. I felt left out. Susie looked down at the grass.

  The black gives her strength.

  Sue smoothed her skirt.

  It tells her where she is.

  Sue swept a strand of hair from her face.

  With her sister.

  She closed her eyes.

  In the grave.

  She was so still. The black of her blouse was etched in sharpest line against the summer sky.

  The black connects her to her loss.

  She leaned back on her elbows.

  Unusual comfort, but Comfort nonetheless.

  She closed her eyes.

  She finds her Self in all the pain.

  She tipped her face to the sky.

  And where such pain is not—where life goes on and no one knows—one can so easily get lost.

  Sue remained still. The Sun beat down on the bones of her cheeks and the rounded lids of her shut eyes.

  I would wear white. Not after Death perhaps, but as a way to ground the brain, if the need should arise. Bride of Me! Of Truth, plain, pure, unwavering, real! And Oh! Revelations! Worthy, not defiled! Overcometh! Name mentioned before the Angels!

  Susie sat up. Chin to chest she stretched her neck, straightened her head and opened her eyes. We both took a Large breath of Life—in the same moment! Life-giving nourishment, a ground for our Souls, exhaling soon in spacious relief. There was such rest then, such loving Silence. No need to speak, no need not to.

  Carlo broke the spell by snapping at a fly that buzzed about his nose. I watched the fly stagger—uncertain it seemed. There is a verse in that! Thoughts took up my mind, grand, troublesome. I felt such love for Susie. I knew she was worthy of my love. I knew her to be in possession of an honest, steadfast heart and that heart close to my own as well. We shared such manner of things—thoughts, opinions, talents, desires, a character far from the ordinary and a particular boldness in the face of convention, to name a few. But why I felt such love I don’t know. It was beyond reason when considered in view of the facts. It scared me some.

  “I have a question,” I said at last. Sue looked at me. “I know that love is love.” Sue appeared unsure of what my mind was about. She listened, her eyes upon me, deep and steady. “All love comes from the same source,” I went on, “but is there a line of difference?”

  “What sort of line?”

  “A place where the fabric changes?”

  “The fabric?”

  “The depth, the purpose.”

  “Love is its own purpose.”

  “I suppose. But there are different kinds of love, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Oh, I think so. In fact, I know there are.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know. And so do you. We haven’t lived for nineteen years for nothing.”

  “And here is another question.”

  “My Emily is full of them today.”

  “Every day! I just don’t ask them all.”

  “Thank God for small favors!” Sue was smiling. We were playing now.

  “You would have time for nothing but my questions!”

  “And I might not know the answers.”

  “Oh, I doubt that!”

  “Ask me your second question and we shall see.”

  I rose up on my knees. “Here it is. . . .”

  “Go!”

  “If there are many kinds of love . . .”

  “There are. . . .”

  “Yes, all right, there are many kinds of love, and if one shuts out one of these same . . .”

  “Why do that?”

  “Let’s say that one does—just for example. If one shuts out one kind of love, does that shut out all the rest?”

  “I think it does.” Susie thought for a moment. “I would say it dulls them at the very least.” I was quiet then. I had more to ask, but feared to ask it. My mind went far away. Susie’s voice called me back. “Do you have another question?”

  “How can you tell?”

  “I can read your mind.”

  “You joke.”

  “Perhaps.” Then in her teasing way, “Don’t stop the questions now. You are in good practice!”

  The dam broke. “I feel such love for you, Susie, I think my heart will burst! It scares me. I know girl friends love as deep as the Sea itself! Don’t you think they do?”

  “They do.”

  “When girl friends love it is a joyous adventure! Not only that, it prepares them . . .”

  “Us . . .”

  “Us! It prepares us for the future and we all know what that is!”

  “Men!”

  That stopped me. “I like many of the Whisker set . . .”

  “I know you do . . .”

  “ . . . Emmons and Lyman, Gould and Cousin John and Ben—I love Ben!—but Susie, I think I shall never love another as I love you and what does that say for the future?” Carlo snaps at the fly. “Will I ever love a man as I love you?”

  Sue is quiet.

  “I don’t know!” I sit up on my knees, no proper young lady here. “You know what Jane Eyre said about love!”

  “Many things, as I recall.”

  “‘To be together is for us to be at once as free as in solitude, as gay as in company.’”

  “Yes.”

  “That is how I feel with you! It used to be like that with Austin, but no more. I feel it some with other girls, but not so much as with you. And not with any of the Whisker set! Oh, Susie that is how it must be with a man when I make my final decision! Marriage would be a sour thing without it held such Comfort!”

  “Marriage is often sour.”

  “I would rather die!”

  Sue looks at the ground.

  “Do you think of marriage?” I ask.

  “On occasion.”

  “What occasion is that?”

  “On many occasions.”

  “Do you think of marriage to Austin?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you feel such comfort with him as our beloved Jane describes?”

  “Perhaps one day I will.”

  “I fear I shall never ha
ve it—not again—and never with a man to call my Husband.”

  “Time will tell.”

  “Time will tell many things if we live long enough. But it does trouble me, Susie, when I think of it—to give my Life to another! And that is what it is to have a husband nowadays. My deepest part cannot be lost!” Carlo turns to me, puzzled by the fervor of my tone. “I want to write. I must write! There is more to life than dusting!”

  “I like a clean house.”

  “I don’t like it that much!”

  “I want to be a hostess.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Most girls look forward to it.”

  “Since when have you cared what most girls do?”

  “I comment merely.”

  “Well, I comment merely that most girls don’t know which end is up!”

  Susie smiles. I feel the warmth of her accepting Love. We sit in silence for a while. A bird comes down the walk, a wren, with plans of her own. I watch her timid steps. “Here is a question,” I say.

  “Another!”

  I sit back down, no feeling in my legs after having knelt for such a lengthy spell. “Most all girls marry. You know they do. It’s the chief thing nowadays.”

  “And your question?”

  “Do you think they marry for Love?”

  “Some do.”

  “Only some?”

  “I surmise.”

  “Well, I have one thing to tell you. I will never marry but for Love, no matter how many hours I spend alone, no matter how many nights there’s no one but me to warm my bed! Others do not feel as I do, but I am used to that.”

  Father and the Aurora Borealis

  Temperance was all the rage that fall, and who should be lecturing on the matter but Father. It was very like him, despite our lovely decanter and four wineglasses—deep bloodred, clear stems, frosty chains of flowers encircling the Circumference—and despite his enjoyment of currant wine!

  Father had been at Yale, then back to lecture me on the need for taking better care of myself, as he felt I was too thin. His constant harping on the matter only served to make matters worse. I was feeling none too well, but kept the matter to myself as best I could. Along with his health warnings Father made quite a point of not having been able to eat any bread while away, as he needed me to bake it. One can only assume that if he and his attentive oldest daughter were to be in a different location for any length of time he would die. I cannot say I hold this to be entirely implausible. The thought made me angry and quickly short of breath.