Letters from Yellowstone

by Diane Smith

  But Miss Zwinger was resolute, and motioned to a screen at the far side of the room, behind which I retreated trying to remember my own resolution to do my utmost to please her given all that she has done for me. She wanted me to try on the dress for size, and there was always the very real possibility that it would not fit. Miss Zwinger is, after all, a very full busted woman.

  As expected, the dress was too large, and revealed next to nothing since I have so very little to reveal. But Miss Zwinger was not deterred, and attacked me with a needle and thread. In a moment or two, like magic, she altered the dress and sized the bodice to just the right proportions. She then pointed me in the direction of her dresser mirror.

  I hardly recognized myself. It was not the dress, although it certainly made the changes that much more striking. It was more that my body, in the short time I have been in the Park, has changed. I have always seen myself as a girl. Or if not a girl, at least a young woman, with all the plumpness and vulnerability that comes with being that age. But now there is not a trace of that childhood softness. My arms and upper chest, just barely covered by the small gathers of the sleeves, are firm and golden. My hair, too, in spite of its unkempt condition, has changed dramatically, and is now streaked with yellow, I have spent so many hours in the sun. I could not stop staring at myself, I was so transformed. In fact, I finally had to reach out and touch my reflection, just to reassure myself that it was indeed me, and not another one of Miss Zwinger’s conjuring tricks.

  “You cannot be a student forever,” Miss Zwinger finally said, joining me at the mirror.

  I just stood there. Can you imagine? I am the one who is never at a loss for words, but I was speechless, as I have found myself so many times lately in the Park. I simply did not know what to say.

  “Thank you for the dress,” I finally muttered. “It is beautiful.”

  Miss Zwinger smiled again, and thanked me in return. “You bring the dress to life again,” she told me. “That’s as important right now for me as it is for you.”

  She then motioned to the bed and moved her own dress to make room. I sat on the edge of the mattress still unsure of myself, but now more confident than ever that I would do what it took to please Miss Zwinger.

  “You know,” she said, carrying a small stool from her dressing table to the side of the bed, “I once wore that dress. It was Independence Day then, too, and in the patriotic spirit, the women were asked to wear red, white, or blue. Since I was contrary in my younger years, I pushed the limit, and was the only one to show up wearing something so dark. And so obviously foreign in design. It is more the color of wine, don’t you agree?”

  I looked at the dress, which spilled around me on the bed, the color of a deep, rich claret, almost blue in its redness, and recalled the wine from the afternoon’s outing.

  “Like the earth,” I said. “That’s what the wine today was like. It tasted of the blood of the earth.”

  “You have a fine palate as well as a fine eye,” was Miss Zwinger’s reply. “You remind me of myself in so many ways when I was your age. Unsure of my own womanhood, but outspokenly confident of everything else, including my future.”

  I grimaced. I wanted to befriend Miss Zwinger, and show my gratitude for all her kindnesses, but I was not in the mood to listen to a lecture, as unconfident as she might rightly think I was feeling with my womanhood so fully on display.

  “Please hear me out,” she said, patting me on my red silk-covered knee. “This is important,” she added.

  I shrugged, and the narrow silk pleats on my right shoulder slipped slightly onto my arm. I fidgeted in the dress to make it right, and then resigned myself to listen. Miss Zwinger smiled again, warmly, her eyes not unlike those of Mrs. Eversman—knowing something about the world, about themselves, maybe even about me to which I could not yet put a name.

  “I know you think I’m a foolish old woman,” she said, and before I could protest she continued. “Perhaps I am. I do not at all think of myself as being old, you know. In fact, I still feel quite young. But I have reached an age where I have lost my attractiveness to men. They no longer see me, or at least they no longer bother to look. It is an invisibility which we all reach as women eventually. I know this is true. And I accept it. In fact, if anything, as I have grown used to living in a world without men, I have learned to appreciate and look forward to the company of other women. I have also learned to look for other pleasures from life.”

  Again I tried to speak, to assure her that she was indeed most attractive—Mr. Wylloe certainly seemed to think so—but she would not let me interrupt.

  “No, please, let me continue,” she said. “It is foolish for you to contradict me. I know what I’m about.”

  She then proceeded to tell me that all her life she has had a commitment to science. Even when very young, she was forever exploring the family estate netting bugs, hooking fish, shooting birds and small mammals, all of which she preserved and stored in her room—she sounded exactly like me when I was younger!

  “I cannot tell you how much I learned about life, just watching ants for hours on end,” she told me. “Even as a child, I understood so much about the world simply by observing that which was around me. Around all of us.” She motioned with her hand to indicate the world outside.

  “But that is not news to you, Miss Bartram. You and I are kindred spirits in that way. No one but another naturalist can appreciate the joy of studying the natural world, and the passion which one experiences when you discover something new—even if it’s new only unto yourself. It’s as if a door opens in your soul. Or maybe it’s a window.”

  She looked at me again, closely this time.

  “I would like to say that you remind me of myself in that dress, but that would be presumptuous. I was never so beautiful. But I did have my charms. And, I hasten to add, an opportunity to marry someone with whom I was very much in love.”

  She stopped for a moment to give me an opportunity to ask the question that no doubt was already written on my face.

  “So what happened?” I asked.

  “I chose science, which I was committed to and loved even more,” she said. “I could not abide the thought of giving it up.”

  “But surely,” I countered, but again she would not let me continue my protest.

  “I can assure you, Miss Bartram, that as bright and beautiful as you are, even you would find that marriage and children would effectively bring an end to your scientific studies. Men take wives to enable them to further their own careers, not to encourage and support the careers of the young women they have married, no matter how honorable their intentions. At best, you could hope to be a talented and, if you are lucky, appreciated assistant. I have seen it time and again. You must trust me on that one.”

  She hesitated, but this time for only a moment.

  “But that is not the message I want to leave with you today. I cannot complain about anything in my life. I would not change a day of it. I have done exactly as I have pleased. I have travelled the world. I have discovered new insects and birds and mammals. And even at my age I still have a full and rewarding life, and look forward to each new day with a renewed vigor. In fact, my life is so interesting, that friends and associates send me their daughters, as they might to an eccentric aunt, to spend time with me, to see the broader world before their own world closes in and they must assume the role society expects of them. This is a mission I have embraced, because I can help these young women not only have interesting experiences, which are fleeting, but I can also teach them how to see and experience the world for themselves. This is a life-long skill that they can take with them into the world, and even share with their children. All of their lives will be richer for it.”

  I could not hide my reaction inside the dress. There was not enough of it in which to hide. I wanted to argue that I, for one, was certainly quite capable of seeing the world for myself. That was why I was here, to experience the world outside of the library, the classroom, the
laboratory, and even the stuffy confines of Miss Zwinger’s hotel room. And I certainly did not need to troop along with a bunch of college-aged school girls. What could she possibly be getting at with that soft, grey look in her eyes? But if I could not read her thoughts, she quickly read mine.

  “I want you to take a good hard look at me, Miss Bartram, and ask yourself if this is how you want to spend your life. As I said, I personally would not change a thing. But you and I are not the same person. So please, give it good, hard thought before closing the door on any options.”

  I felt like I needed to leave, to hide my discomfort which I could feel growing and spreading from my cheeks to my well-exposed chest. I could not look at her, would not, but kept my eyes cast upon the sea of red which surrounded me on the bed.

  “Well, you have obviously heard enough,” she said. “Let me leave you with one more thought and then I will let you change into your other clothes and prepare for the evening.”

  As she spoke, she stood and held her own dress which shimmered, almost phosphorescent, in the late afternoon light spilling through the hotel window. She then returned the dress to the wardrobe and closed its door.

  “I have always firmly believed that I would meet someone who would appreciate me for who I am, not for what society says I should be. Someone who would be a companion, a colleague, a partner, if you will, in exploring and discovering all that is good and beautiful in the world. I have not given up on that dream. But the reality is that the clock keeps ticking. As I have grown older, the chances of that happening now are very slim indeed. Do not travel down a dead-end road, Miss Bartram, unless you are absolutely convinced that you will be content with the road’s destination.”

  And with that she reached over, raised my face to look into hers, smiled, kissed me lightly on the cheek, and handed me my still damp clothes.

  “You better get ready,” she said. “It’s getting late. And you have a big evening ahead of you.”

  Jessie, can you believe what is happening to me here? I have always been so confident, so resolute in the direction my life was headed. Now I find myself like one of those sightseers who ventures too close to a geyser, only to discover that the earth on which she is treading is not at all the thick crust she has grown to expect in life but is rather thin and unstable, causing the ground to unexpectedly drop out from underneath her, casting her into a hot, bottomless pool. Once the earth collapses like that underneath a visitor in the Park, very few, I am told, manage to escape with their lives.

  Miss Zwinger’s parting advice was to dance. With everyone who asks me. So dance I will, even with Lester if he will condescend to it, and hope that the bottom does not fall out from underneath me. Or him!

  I so wish you could be here, and see me now. You would not recognize me. I am, I fear, utterly transformed. But I believe you would be proud of me none the less. And proud of our friendship.

  I miss you, Jessie. But I must tell Lester tonight that, in spite of Professor Merriam’s expressed desires, I am not yet ready to return home.

  With the greatest affection,

  your friend,

  Alex

  Andrew Rutherford, Ph.D.

  c/o Lake Hotel

  Yellowstone National Park

  July 4, 1898

  Robert Healey

  Lake Hotel

  Yellowstone National Park

  My dear President,

  Must decline offer to meet at hotel for dinner. Prefer to avoid fireworks—both personal & those staged for tourists. With Aber’s wife in Park to take him home, should hasten promised demise of camp & Merriam’s return to college business.

  Meantime, will hole up here, safe & sound in temp. camp of count’s crew, while said count off shooting things in Park. Most generous folk. Fine food & liquor cabinet. When count’s away, peasants will play.

  Will, however, take up kind offer to travel with party back to campus. Message telling when and where to meet can be left c/o hotel. Weather station packed & ready to go.

  Visit if time & inclination allow. Must meet Edgar, new friend & constant companion. He will call new ag building home. Guaranteed to amaze all who meet him.

  Your most successful servant,

  Andrew Rutherford, Ph.D.

  Lester King

  Lake Hotel

  Yellowstone National Park

  July 4, 1898

  Dear Jessica,

  It is with mixed emotions that I must report I have withdrawn from the evening’s festivities and the role of Alex’s protector. Downstairs I can still hear much revelry and merriment accompanied by the Women’s Orchestra from Butte, Montana. But I, for one, am not feeling in the least bit merry.

  Alex, by her behavior and outright refusal to do as I have instructed, has all but informed me of her true intentions. She says she does not plan to return to New York until the end of summer. Seeing her here, I realize I must insist that she return now, if not to campus then to the home of her parents, for her own wellbeing. From what Philip Aber has told me, the expedition will not last the month since he intends to withdraw funding once he is back in Washington. Better Alex returns in my company than be forced to travel on her own a week or two after I leave. If she refuses to accompany me, I can assure you she risks more than our mutual understanding.

  Jessica, I wish you could see her now. I fear you would not recognize her in the least. There is a wildness about her demeanor which is unsettling. Some might even say frightening. And tonight, thanks to a spinster at the hotel who has pulled a dress out of her own questionable past and forced it upon Alex, she is wearing a red silk dress which outright flaunts respectability. I will not try to disguise my disgust from you who will understand my concern. The dress is the color of blood.

  Rather than sit and enjoy the music in the company of refined society, Alex has taken to flirting and flying, table to table, group to group, introducing me with great enthusiasm to lustful hayseeds and lustless aging poets alike. And without any sign of courtesy toward me, she insults my company and good nature by dancing with any man who will have her, abandoning me to the company of Howard Merriam, the man responsible for this misadventure, while she dances with the president of Merriam’s land grant college. The president is a man ill suited for such a task, lacking both grace and stature, yet with Alex as a partner he was able to twirl around the dance floor for a full five minutes, defying nature and his short, fleshy physique.

  I must admit that Merriam is more sensible than I first gave him credit. He is about my age, although he appears older, his sad, weary face peering from behind spectacles. I fear his lassitude is in part from the constant responsibility of tracking the whereabouts of Alex, a task he assures me he takes to heart. She is very adventuresome, he used that word, and though he appears to approve of her high spirits, he suggested that her actions here have led to more than one serious concern since her arrival.

  When pressed, Merriam is the first to admit that he made a mistake inviting Alex to accompany the expedition, referring to some kind of misunderstanding. He used that word, too. But he is impressed by Alex’s contributions to the collection now that she is in Yellowstone Park, saying he hopes to use their work to make a systematic study of the plant life in these, the Park’s earliest days. Merriam is a man who appears to be dedicated to his work and those under his command, even if his general melancholia makes him, I believe, unfit to lead them.

  While sitting there in the hotel ballroom, dancers all around us, we were joined by two of Merriam’s other colleagues from the land grant college, a William Gleick, who has just returned from the Smithsonian, and a Daniel Peacock, an entomologist, who has been working in the backcountry for the duration of their stay. It is hard to imagine three such disparate souls being friends, but good friends, in spite of their differences, they appear to be.

  Unlike Merriam, Gleick is outgoing and bold in his nature, confident and sure of himself and his place in the world. Older by a few years than the other three of us, he has
the annoying habit of smoothing back his long, greying hair away from his face, while he speaks with contempt of Philip Aber whose wife Gleick accompanied from Washington to the National Park.

  Peacock, on the other hand, is hard-pressed to sit still, squinting and blinking in the bright lights of the ballroom chandeliers, his eyes darting each and every way as he forever pulls at his collar as if it were choking him. He only sat still when Alex was escorted back to the table by the college president. Once she was seated, Peacock shared a theory about the development of plant and animal life in Yellowstone National Park, which he referred to as a vast volcanic sea. He used those words. Alex was intent in her listening to Peacock’s far-fetched tale, while Gleick and Merriam strategized to one side about how to salvage the already doomed expedition. I heard it with my own ears, I wanted to warn them, but it is better if they learn of Aber’s plans for the expedition from the man himself.

  Unable or at least unwilling to join in the conversation with Gleick and Merriam, I tried to query Peacock regarding his postu lations about the history of the Park’s geological and biological development. But each time I raised a question about his theory that the Park was being populated in waves which would, over time, reach its highest and most remote sections, Alex gave me such a severe reprimand in her demeanor, that I opted to excuse myself and leave the party altogether.

  Before leaving, I asked Alex if she would care to accompany me and, in my asking, let her know of my concerns. She, however, declined, saying she found the atmosphere in the ballroom stifling, she used that word, and for that reason intended to go outside for air. She stood up as I did, shook hands with her usual familiarity with all at our table, and then shook hands with me as well. She then began her slow but deliberate retreat from the room, headed for the hotel verandah, all but defying me to forbid it. I refused to make our struggle public in such a wanton fashion, but opted instead to retreat. I will confront her in earnest, but prefer to do so in private, at my earliest opportunity. This behavior of hers has gone far enough.