by Barbara Dana
The New Year brought heavy snow and ice and a plan for “the girls” to visit Father in Washington, D.C. Not only that, as we would be coming home through Philadelphia, it was decided—and who can it have been who decided it?!—that we should spend some short time with our long-missed friends, the Colemans, in that Cradle of Independence so vastly admired. Eliza was the only daughter now—since the death of her beautiful sister, Olivia. We were set to leave in early February, the caprices of Old Jack Frost permitting. Carlo eyed the valises, head low, denoting curious concern. His mood mirrored my own. It seemed to me that all was well enough at Home and that leaving might cause some unmarked danger. I also worried that the Dungeon Fear might return while I stood on some freezing train platform in the middle of nowhere and no place to hide. But we would be meeting Father. That fact served to get me on my way.
The morning of our leaving nothing could ease Carlo’s mind save breakfast. Mother was in our room, fussing about with our luggage, being sure nothing had been forgotten that might save us from Death. I led Carlo downstairs. “Don’t worry,” I told him. “We shall be back and all will be well.” I said this for my benefit more than for his own. He sat—Perfect Dog—waiting as I added the meat to the vegetables. When I began to stir, he stood up. All thoughts of desertion had flown. His drool told all. Eyes on his breakfast, he backed up as I put the bowl down on the wide plank by the oven. He quickly collapsed flat, his large front paws on either side of the bowl, rear legs out, ears in the food. I would have to wash his ears before leaving for the train.
Mother cried when we left. She said it was because she was so happy for us, but I believe it was more a question of her own Dungeon Fear—that she might never see us again.
It was a day’s trip to New York City. It seemed we were forever asking for directions, changing trains and dealing with the luggage. As endless walking was required, I was extremely grateful for my decision to wear sensible shoes. The cars admitted much draft; however, the view was often pleasant. I don’t believe I have ever seen so many cows.
Father met us in New York. We stayed the night in a hotel near the station, then off for the next round—a ferry to a place called Jersey City—and many more changes of trains, to Camden, another boat and the night spent in less than comfort at the Philadelphia Station! Father was extremely pleased with the efficiency of the railways, commenting several times about Progress and how it made the world smaller. I was none too sure a smaller world was necessary, or even advisable, but kept my thoughts to myself.
I was not overly impressed by our Nation’s Capital. It’s a lovely-looking city with large, stately buildings in which important decisions are made, but I could do without the bustle. The most wonderful aspect of the city in my view is its profusion of blossoms in the early spring. One is fortunate, indeed, if one is able to visit our Seat of Government at this time. Why, even in February the maples are in bloom and the birds announcing their delight and the sun on the green below, while in New England all is frozen and gray!
I was not well during a large portion of our three-week stay at the Willard Hotel in Washington, which may have altered my impression of the city. I spent much time inside, keeping company with my cough and resting from the rigors of travel. I did, however, visit the Capitol Building, where Father had been offering many fine resolutions on subjects ranging from the Territory of New Mexico to the Wilkes report. After my visit there, I made a drawing of Father approaching the building, briefcase in hand and a little bomb like an apple, its wick nearing extinction. It was not a bomb in the literal sense of the ability to explode a building, but only a stirring up on the inside, where the meanings are. It was meant to express the thought “Where Father goes—watch out!”
I have two principal memories of my stay in Washington and environs. The first, standing by the window in the room at Willard—the ax in my chest—and looking out at all the fine ladies and gentlemen in their fancy clothes, hurrying this way and that, and me wondering what I was doing there. I also wondered what they were doing.
The other memory is far more pleasant, glorious in fact! Mount Vernon!—The Quiet at the tomb of General George Washington, the beautiful Potomac and the charming painted boat we rode in! That was a day to lift one’s hat to! Along the path on the way to the tomb a couple was “playing spoony,” trading kisses beneath an arbor of blossoms. Vinnie was transfixed and didn’t I have to pull her along by the hand?! I myself did not take a great interest in the scene, picturesque as it was. However, before I knew it I would be experiencing a longing for such pastimes one could not have thought possible! I will soon get to this extraordinary happening, but must approach the day in orderly transport.
After three weeks among the Society of Lawmakers, Father adjourned his Congressional duties and saw us to Philadelphia. It was grand to see the Colemans. They had been through such terrible suffering after Olivia’s death. How can Consumption be so mean? How can God? There is much to understand in this life. I shall never know the smallest part of it, but must continue on despite my ignorance.
The house was grand indeed, three stories in all, with white shutters gracing the narrow cobblestoned street. And what conveniences—water inside and toilets! And a handsome bathtub! Why, it made one want to bathe incessantly!
I took advantage of the opportunity to rest, visiting with Eliza, talking for hours and lazing about. Vinnie took advantage of the shops. There were many fine stores on Chestnut Street, to be outshone only by the Hospital for the Insane. We did not visit there—thank God Father had not instructed us to inspect the dreary establishment!—thereby missing one of the most depressing sojourns offered in the entire city. But one cannot have everything. We did, however, enjoy touching the Liberty Bell and tasting the finest ice cream west of Boston!
After partaking of our ice cream delight, Eliza mentioned that we must hear the minister preach at their church. The three of us were lounging in the parlor, after our traipse throughout lively downtown Philadelphia. “He is simply the best!” exclaimed Eliza, stretching out her legs and exercising her toes inside her stockings. Her shoes had long since been tossed to a nearby corner. “His sermons are better than anything!”
“Anything?” said Vinnie. Her mischievous tone suggested something in the carnal line.
Eliza sat up, serious now. “I mean it,” she said. “Everyone wants to hear our Reverend Wadsworth.” The next morning we had our chance.
It was a large church. I followed Vinnie, Eliza and Mr. And Mrs. Coleman into the pew, a few rows back from the pulpit. It was welcome to experience the quiet, as my brain had been addled by the fluster of city life. I sat a moment, then retrieved my hymnal from the rack on the rear of the pew in front of me. The hymnal had a dark blue cover. I opened it. The pages were gossamer thin. I looked down. The letters were finely rendered, as in some ancient manuscript. I touched the page, enjoying its gentle feel.
I looked up and he was there.
Time stopped.
There he is again.
What did that mean?
A charge passed through my body.
He was slender, with dark hair and eyes—gentle, sad eyes—touched by the beauty of Life—and the pain—humble, intelligent, dynamic, inspired, shy. All this I knew before he spoke. I knew him—and Centuries before—and always and ever.
There he is again. The way he stands. The way he holds his hand at the side of his robe, feeling bursting within that hand—shyness and a bold reserve in one. Man and boy, innocent and wise, compassionate and hurting, tender upon tender, consoling and knowing of pain—consoling because knowing of pain—and more. I will know more and more of him and remember more, as we shall be connected for life. And after? Let there be no after! I could not bear the parting!
“That’s him,” whispered Eliza.
My Philadelphia
His voice was deep and warm, in his words and in the silence between, with space for contemplation. I had heard none like it in all my life and at the selfsame moment
had known it always. I knew the point he was about to make, the flow of what would follow. Not only that—I knew the mental attitude with which it would be spoken.
I am wrapped in the depth of his vision, the compassion, the originality of thought, the boldness, the sense of humor—that attribute without which all is lost! Never had I heard a minister put things that way. Innocent Christians and pitiful impenitents alike are forever and everywhere being subjected to a Religion resembling the terror of Bears! Original thought?! That is proposed to be almost as sinister a contemplation as Original Sin—and we all know how sinister that is! This Reverend Wadsworth speaks of Love—how intellect is useless without that most crucial of qualities—how affection is the noblest attribute of beings. He means Carlo too, I know. My loyal companion is not excluded from this man’s care.
He continues. Clarity, Common Sense, Wonderment, Daring—all reign supreme! And such power to console!
He knows pain. He is hopeful in spite of the knowing.
My thoughts tumble end over end.
His spirit is large from overcoming. He admits the tiny bird that comes again and still and never fails to come.
“Help comes in many forms,” he continues. “We must only look for it.”
Yes.
“We find it in the sunrise, in an unexpected kindness, in a poem.”
My blood runs cold.
“Poet means Creator.”
My tears come over the dam.
“The poet can heal.”
Handkerchief to brimming eyes.
“The poet can light the way.”
He tells a joke. The congregation is laughing. He pulls a severe face, mock disapproval at such inappropriate expression. Silence. No one stirs. And then—a smile to light the Heavens! The congregants are laughing. My Soul is inside out.
I love him!
The thought shoots through my body.
I love this man!
My “other self” attacks.
You think of him as a man?!
My scolding voice is after me now—
He is a minister!
A surer voice declares—
One and the same.
My thoughts are giddy now, heedless, with a voice of their own.
I love this Dr. Wadsworth—this Charles Wadsworth—this Charlie!
My heart stops.
You call him “Charlie”?
My truer mind answers.
Yes, I call him Charlie! Helpmate, Protector, Lover!
Breathing stops.
How dare you call him “Lover”?!
The voice is unforgiving.
He is not your Lover! He is a minister!
A timid challenge from my boldest part—
And so?
My being opens wide—at Home! In Port!
Who is to say whom I shall love? My loving is my own!
“Kindness matters,” I hear him say.
Yes.
He speaks of the value of independence, of freedom, of the need for contemplation and a faith matched with common sense. He praises a bond with Nature, the “nourishment of reading” and the value of “looking as children look.” He closes his eyes. Moments pass before he speaks. “We must remember it takes courage to have Life.” He looks up. “Life is given to us by God and yet it is for us to take it. We must pray for the courage.”
The service is over.
“What did you think?” Eliza whispers. “Isn’t he great?”
I cannot speak.
“We are so lucky. Everybody says so.”
I look down to adjust my shawl. When I look up he is gone.
I did not meet my love that day. He did not greet his congregation, as I thought he might. No handshakes, no pleasantries, no mulling. My Shepherd was gone. It may have been just as well, as I cannot imagine in the wildest portion of my brain what I would have said—Heart pounding, head spinning, knees weak, breath Nowhere! I would have cut quite the caper and would have been fortunate not to swoon in a dead faint at his feet!
Once back at the Colemans’, I questioned Eliza, enlisting as much propriety as could be employed. “I quite enjoyed the sermon,” I said in apparent calm demeanor as we adjourned to the parlor after dessert.
“I told you,” said Eliza. “The entire congregation has never been so pleased with a minister, ever!”
I did not care about the entire congregation and almost said so before catching myself, and not a moment too soon! I had nearly released the cat from the proverbial bag, and we all know what disaster that can lead to! It was hard to frame my questions. I did, however, obtain a small number of facts. I was told by Eliza that “her” minister had suffered in life, although she did not know what had caused that suffering. He was a Poet—be still, my Heart!—or had been a Poet, she wasn’t sure which. He was a deep thinker—well, that I knew—and he always took great care to console members of the congregation in their times of difficulty. That I assumed. And he was shy. I knew that too, although I’m not sure how I knew it. Last came the bit of truth too horrible to bear. He was married, “happily married,” I believe was Eliza’s way of putting it—a knife in my jealous heart!
On the trip back to Amherst I was filled with the sensation of moving in the wrong direction. As always, a force drew me to the sanctity and peace of Home. Yet, even as I was being drawn steadfastly to the nest, at one and the same moment I felt I was being torn away from my Life. I felt I belonged with this man forever, my Protector, my “understander,” my Charlie—this Soul I had known for eons of time, this one who had given me a Place to land! Religion and I could be one—were one! He was certainly religious and his thoughts on the matter were the same as mine—the same as those I had held for as long as I could remember—thoughts of faith and common sense, independence and freedom, a sense of humor and kindness, the importance of Nature and reading—and the writing of Poetry! I loved this man with the All of all I had ever loved, or ever would love! I wanted to cling to him forever! I decided straightway I would do just that.
It is fair to say that since the day I beheld My Philadelphia I have not been the same. I daresay I shall never be and that is all to the good. Oh, there is an ache in my Heart, but I don’t care for that. The joy of my Love is a gift I would not trade for any manner of riches, any place on this Earth.
Home
As we set our valises down in the hall, Carlo bounds about in delight, welcoming us Home, where we belong. Mother is there with her warm smile and tears of joy that we are not dead—and all the questions! Are we thirsty? Are we hungry? Are we more hungry than thirsty? Are we more thirsty than hungry? Are we both thirsty and hungry? Do we want dinner straightway? Vinnie and I smile at each other, enjoying Mother’s familiar fuss. Vinnie asks about the cats.
“They’re fine,” says Mother, although she has not a clue as to where they might be. Trapping innocent sparrows, no doubt.
Vinnie and I are just about to go upstairs for a rest when Father, briefcase in hand—home some time ahead of us—enters the hall, a serious expression on his face. “Well, girls,” he says. “What do you suppose?” I of course have no idea what to suppose, nor it appears does Vinnie.
“We are moving back to the Homestead.”
Father made additional pronouncements after that, but I heard nothing. I was numb. If blood did indeed flow through my veins, I was not aware of the fact. I hesitate to consider why a return to my birth house should strike terror in my heart, but it did. My mind leaped instantly to my first move—I but nine and very much afraid. It seemed no different now. That same fear was in my blood. Had I learned nothing from Life’s experience in fifteen years? The question was vexing to me, making my current circumstances all the worse.
I discovered myself on the stairs, Carlo behind, hurrying up to my room, in my mind a desperate wish that I might reach the door before fainting and causing all manner of commotion. How could I explain myself to others when I couldn’t explain myself to myself?
We reach the door—cut glass of k
nob reflecting colored light—hand to knob—shafts of crystal rainbow—reached! Turn knob—open door—bed—fall—pillow—soft—cool—quiet—safe. I cry many tears, Carlo at the side of the bed, wondering.
Life is too formidable a business. I am ill equipped for such a journey!
Each new thought brings more alarm and more until I feel I will surely expire.
My Protector, my Shepherd, my Charlie—in faraway Philadelphia! How can he comfort me? How can he love me when he does not know I exist?
And more thoughts, terrible, frightening, lonely thoughts and nothing to stop them!
Susie! Will you forget me now that you and Austin are one? I need you! I must have you!
After some time the tears stop. I am too exhausted to be their host. Carlo is asleep now. I can hear his even breathing, sure, comforting. I think of Charlie. I will write to him. I will tell him how I heard his sermon, how I know he could help me. I will speak of my distress. Eliza will deliver the note.
No. I will write him one day, but this is not the time. I will wait until I have a need so great, I cannot but ask for his help and he will give it!
Then more water over the dam and longing like to overtake me!
Oh, I want you to come to Amherst!! Oh, please to come! Oh, will you come?
Carlo shifts position on the mat. Tears subside. Steadier thoughts claim residence.
Perhaps one day you will come. Would it not be grand? And we could walk with Carlo in the fields—just us three?! I love you, Charlie!
I think of Susie and how I felt I should never love another as I loved her. One thing is for sure. I need not worry about that.
A knock on the door. Carlo sits up. It is Mother in to see if I am all right. She sits on the bed, strokes my hair back as when I was a child and sick. A little bird calls. “A whip-poor-will!” says Mother. We are both amazed, as one rarely hears them. They sleep their days away on the forest floor, hardly ever making themselves known. “Listen,” says Mother. “I’ve heard them in Monson, but never in Amherst. It’s a good sign.”