Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
fur Clara:
eine kleine Gothik
Chapter 1
Think carefully was the guiding principle of my upbringing, spoken in Aunt Constance’s firm voice. When I complained to her that the Latin mistress was stricter with me than with the other girls in the class, she would advise me, “Think carefully, Jean, before you become disheartened.” When I balked at eating bean soup, at which I felt my stomach might revolt, she asked gently, “If you think carefully, would you choose to have your stomach govern your will?” When I criticized the students at the Wainwright Academy for quarreling so among themselves, she did not smile. “There are so few choices that a female can make, and those so crucial to her well-being—you would be wiser to understand than to disdain. Think carefully, Jean. These girls now are playing at making choices, which is one of the things we hope to teach here. From such quarrels they can learn about that strange, hidden thing, the heart. When a woman chooses a man to marry, she puts her life into his hands. When she chooses not to marry, she must be ready to put her life into her own hands. These quarrels are petty and tiresome, I grant you that, but there is something to be learned in them. They have a use.”
I could not but agree with Aunt Constance. I agreed with her even if I sometimes inwardly rebelled against her strong, calm influence and felt myself quite able to think for myself. More than anything else I loved and admired Aunt Constance. Moreover, I had good reason to be grateful to her. This I had thought out for myself, because she never brought the subject up.
Although I shared her surname, I always knew that Miss Constance Wainwright was no blood relation. I cannot remember a time when I did not know this. Neither can I remember anything of my earlier life, which is not surprising when you think of it. “You were a babe in arms,” Aunt Constance often told me, “a babe put into my arms. I thought you would prove companionable, so I undertook to raise you.” About my parents she told me nothing, and I did not trouble her with questions. I knew that she would tell me, if she knew, and if it were for the best that I know. I never thought about my mother. Why should I? Aunt Constance was all the mother any child would need. She was also a dear friend and a stern teacher. To tell the truth, I never considered my orphaned state. I considered myself the niece of Miss Constance Wainwright, and fortunate to be in her care.
None of that feeling was altered by the events of that unsettling summer of 1894, which changed so much else in my life. I was going on thirteen that summer. The story actually began many years earlier, as I learned. But my part of it, my own part, commenced on a clear Saturday morning in April.
On that morning, Aunt Constance sent for me. I had been outside, working in the kitchen garden, so I had to wash and put on a fresh apron before going to her. I hurried. It was unusual, even rare, for Aunt Constance to call for me on Saturdays. During the week I was kept busy with schoolwork and my responsibilities for the younger children. Therefore, on Saturdays I was left alone to do as I wished, as long as I appeared promptly for meals. On spring mornings I usually worked in the gardens, and in the afternoons I walked through Cambridge.
When I was presentable, I knocked on the door to Aunt Constance’s office. “Enter,” she said. She was sitting behind her big oak desk, looking every bit the headmistress she was, strict and fair-minded. She was in her mid-forties at that time, but her dark hair had little gray in it. The gray was in her plain taffeta dress and in her eyes. She was a handsome woman, her figure tall and straight; she had even features, and eyes that seemed to see right to the heart of things, especially of people. She smiled at me, and her whole face lighted with that. Beneath her sternness, Aunt Constance had a loving nature, as I had good reason to know. “Jean,” she said. “Come in. You were working in the garden?”
“Yes.” I held out my hand, where traces of dirt lingered around the edge of my nails. “I was turning the soil over again. We might plant next week, if the weather holds.”
“Well, I won’t keep you long. Do you recall Mr. Thiel?”
“Vividly,” I said. He was one of the Governors of the Academy, and a generous patron. He was also an ill-tempered, impatient man, a man who had no difficulty saying exactly what he thought, and who, consequently, did not get along well with people. He dined with us once or twice a year and seemed to enjoy arguing with Aunt Constance. I must admit I also enjoyed those dinners. Mr. Thiel ignored me, although every now and then I would look up from my plate and catch him glaring at me. But it was Aunt Constance whose conversation he sought. He talked back to Aunt Constance, as nobody else dared. She spoke sharply to him, giving her vigorous mind full play. Their meetings were always interesting.
“He has written me a letter.” Aunt Constance pointed to a piece of paper.
“Has he proposed?” I asked. (For some reason, I was deternined that Mr. Thiel had designs on Aunt Constance. Why else should he make such large donations to her school but refuse to attend meetings of the Board of Governors? Why else should he take obvious, if quarrelsome, pleasure in dining with her?)
“Not that I noticed,” Aunt Constance answered. “It’s even more unexpected than that. See what you think of it.”
The letter was succinct, and direct:
My Dear Miss Wainwright,
As you know, I have lived many years with an attic that holds endless Callender memorabilia and reams of unsorted Callender papers. My conscience gnaws at me. The material must be examined before it can be destroyed. I cannot bring myself to undertake the tedious task.
Have you a person who might be capable of dealing with this? A young man would, of course, be best, for Propriety. However, since your establishment allows none of that sex—due to your obstinate opinions—perhaps you have a female who might serve. She must be young, because a girl of eligible years would cause talk here in Marlborough. She should be familiar with some languages and be able to make decisions on her own. (I will not be unduly bothered by this task.) She must be reliable, energetic, unobtrusive, solitary, independent of mind, sensible and straight-forward. Is there any such creature? I think of your odd little niece.
The salary I offer will be fair, the accommodations chaperoned by Mrs. By wall.
D. Thiel
“Well,” I said, returning the letter to Aunt Constance.
“Well,” she answered, looking at me.
I quoted Aunt Constance’s rule to her. “We must think carefully about this.”
“Indeed we must. It is an unusual opportunity for a child of your age.”
“That I am sure of.”
Aunt Constance folded her hands on her desk. “Mr. Thiel would find you most satisfactory,” she said.
“A salary would be useful, for Mt. Holyoke Seminary,” I continued. That was my ambition: to study at the seminary, then return to the Wainwright Academy to teach and, ultimately, if I was worthy, become headmistress. It was a plan of which Aunt Constance had approved. “But I don’t understand why Mr. Thiel asked particularly about me.”
“He has his reasons, you can be sure of that.”
“A child requires less food and less salary,” I remarked.
“Perhaps,” she said, still looking at me. “He is a strange man, Mr. Thiel. Not an easy man.”
“You approve of him?”
“Yes. But we are two of a kind.”
“Perhaps not.” She thought for a minute. “You are considering this position.”
“Yes. Unless you think I shouldn’t.”
“There is so much you do not know. Let me tell you what I can. Then you can think carefully about it, and we will write to Mr. Thiel tomorrow.”
I waited while she collected her thoughts. It seemed to be hard for her. Finally, she said, “Let’s ask Martha to bring us a pot of tea and sit in the visitors’ chairs.”
Aunt Constance’s office had two parts to it. One was the desk area, with bookshelves and two extra, straight-backed chairs. This was by the long windows and during the daytime was filled with light. When Aunt Constance sat there she was businesslike and serious, quick and sharp in her words. The other part of the room, the visitors’ section, consisted of two chairs and a small sofa near the fireplace. The chairs were softer and upholstered with a rich fabric embroidered with exotic birds and foliage. Here, parents and visitors talked about the school with my aunt, and tea was served them on small tables. Here was where conversations took place about a student’s progress, or Aunt Constance’s educational beliefs. Here there were places where shadows softened the bright clear light of day.
Martha brought in a tray of tea and placed it before Aunt Constance. Silently, Aunt Constance poured my cup, adding sugar and milk generously. She took her own tea with just a slice of lemon. All the time, I knew, her mind was working, and I watched her face, trying to understand what she might be thinking.
“Perhaps,” I suggested, “Miss Worthy would be a better candidate. She is not a child, but surely she is too old for impropriety.”
Aunt Constance laughed. “You do not know Marlborough. You have been raised too near the city to understand country villages, especially country villages with only one important family. You and I know how safe Miss Worthy would be. But the townspeople have rich imaginations and little to exercise them on.”
“How could people be so foolish?”
“People can be unimaginably foolish,” Aunt Constance said, and then added quietly, “and they can be unimaginably grand, at times.” This was the kind of statement she would never make in the clear light, or over the flat surface of her desk.
“Marlborough is a small village, in the Berkshire Mountains. Most of the few inhabitants are farmers, or practice a trade connected with farming. Some twenty years ago, a wealthy man named Josiah Callender decided to retire there. His reasons for this were, I think, admirable ones. He purchased a large tract of land and rented out most of it to local farmers, on generous terms. The main house he occupied himself, with his daughter Irene. Nearby he built a second large house for his son Enoch and Enoch’s new bride. The Callenders lived there, live there still I suppose, much as the great lords once lived in Europe.
“I knew Irene Callender, which is how I come to know this. We had been girls together in New York State. Irene was always most enthusiastic about my beliefs, and it was greatly due to her help that this school got started. Irene was a dear friend, a good friend.”
Something in Aunt Constance’s voice told me that this friend was now dead.
“Irene had rather a hard life. Although the family was wealthy, it was plagued by ill luck. Her mother died giving birth to Enoch, so Irene had the primary responsibility for raising the boy, who was six years younger than she. She was a large girl, not pretty in the accepted sense, dark, with strong features, unflirtatious, without any vanity. More than this, she mistrusted the few men who courted her, suspecting that they were after her money. I believe she was correct in her suspicion.
“She devoted her life to her brother and to her father. When they moved to Marlborough, she was confirmed an old maid. On the whole, she was contented with that.
“In Marlborough, she met Daniel Thiel and married him.”
“Mr. Thiel?” I was surprised. “Why?”
“She loved him. She admired his paintings. She approved of his actions during the War Between the States.”
“What did he do?”
“It was what he did not do: he refused to go to war. Like our Mr. Thoreau. Only Mr. Thiel did not have the advantages of good birth and important friends. He was the son of a farmer, a man who owned his own land but could not afford to educate his sons, or to purchase replacements who would enter the army in their steads. So that when he was conscripted, Mr. Thiel fled to the mountains and lived there alone.”
“He was one of the Hiders,” I cried. I had been taught that these were ignoble people. Both of Aunt Constance’s brothers had died in the War Between the States, one at Gettysburg, one in a prison hospital in Atlanta. Her father had broken his health when he went down to the notorious Andersonville prison to be a minister to the prisoners, and died soon thereafter. “Why is he your friend?”
Aunt Constance smiled. “It is an often-difficult friendship, but I do trust him. At the time, his family felt he had disgraced them. They moved away from the area. The farm was sold. After the war Mr. Thiel returned to Marlborough, although the villagers avoided him. I don’t believe that bothered him. He married Irene. They lived together in the big house quite happily, I believe, for four years. Then he lost her, and at the same time their child. There was talk, of course; in such places as Marlborough there is always talk. He became once again a recluse, living in that same house with only a housekeeper, and she a woman who had been in prison.” Aunt Constance reached out to refill her teacup.
“I suspect that the only time Mr. Thiel meets people is when he comes to Boston, to put his pictures into the hands of a dealer and to dine with us.”
“No wonder he is such an awkward guest,” I said.
“No wonder.”
“Mrs. Bywall is the housekeeper?” I asked. “Why was she sent to prison?”
“She had stolen something—spoons or a brooch, something of that sort—from the house where she was employed as a maid. It came out that she had a brother who was mortally ill and needed medicines, which the family could not afford. But still, she had stolen. So she was sent to prison for ten years.”
“How did Mr. Thiel become involved with her?”
“The house in which she was employed was that of his brother-in-law, Enoch Callender.”
I sat quietly and thought, carefully. “It sounds a most unfortunate household into which I am invited.”
“Yes,” Aunt Constance said. “Certainly not an easy one to work in.”
“Yet you believe I could do it.”
“I believe you could do the work,” she said. “It is the people who trouble me.”
Chapter 2
With Aunt Constance’s consent and, I thought, approval, I decided to go. I knew immediately that I would do so, but I followed Aunt Constance’s advice and thought about it. Or, rather, I tried to think about it because I knew Aunt Constance believed I would do so. She had taught me to think carefully, but I do not know if she did so because she guessed how hasty and willful my nature was. I always tried to comply with her wishes. Orphaned herself at a young age, raised by distant relatives and possessed of only a small inheritance with which to support and educate herself, Aunt Constance had a strength I could only wish to emulate. Her early sorrows had given her a sympathetic heart and a rare quality of wisdom. So that night I sat at my desk trying to consider the offer Mr. Thiel had made. But I must admit that the chance to try my hand at real work—to earn a sum that might be put aside to defray the cost of my education—occupied more of my thoughts than it should have. The worst of it would be, I thought, the solitude. Yet, accustomed as I was to Aunt Constance’s company, I still believed that I could keep my own company tolerably well.
It was agreed that I would work for Mr. Thiel during the months of July and August. Mr. Thiel offered me forty dollars, to be paid at the end of the summer, less whatever small sums I might need during the time.
“You like it,” Aunt Constance observed, with one of her warm smiles.
“Very much,” I told her truthfully. “Thank you. But why?”
“You may need it. You may not, after all; but if you do need such a dress I thought this fabric would do admirably. Also, because I shall miss you. We have never parted for long.”
I understood her. I had, naturally, had more misgivings about the employment, the closer the actual day of departure came. It often happens that way. When a daring idea first crosses one’s mind, if it is to be realized in the future it is often appealing. Then, as the time for its execution comes nearer, one begins to dread that which had once been anticipated. I told myself this was mere human nature. However, I was finding human nature a little uncomfortable, easier to name than to overcome. At our last breakfast I was afraid I might cry. I had trouble eating my egg and toast with my usual appetite.
“You will write to me?” Aunt Constance asked. Like me, she was eating little. “I will be interested to hear how the work goes. And I admit to a certain curiosity about your responses to these people. It has been many years since I visited the Berkshires. Many years. It is very beautiful country. Do you remember the name of the station at which you are to debark?”
“North Adams,” I said. “Mr. Thiel will meet me. If for any reason he cannot be there I am to go to the Grand Chisholm Hotel, where they will expect me. The hotel is directly across the street from the railway station.”
“You do understand that Mr. Thiel and I will be sympathetic if, for any reason, you want to return home before the time is up,” Aunt Constance said.
I nodded. And I held my tongue.
“You are young,” Aunt Constance said. “I begin to wonder if we are wise to do this.”
The Callender Papers Page 1
