by Lee Smith
Ransom McClain bowed from the waist, a Gesture which both pleased and embarrassed me, as I feared others in the church-yard that day might be Amused, and declared it his pleasure to meet me.
“I have not seen you here before,” he remarked as we fell into easy step together, strolling up Main Street, with Rosalie lackadaisically following behind.
“I’m a Methodist,” I said, “but I’m thinking of changing over.” The sudden Truth sprang from my lips all unawares.
“Why so?” Ransom asked as if it were important, his large pale Eyes intent upon my visage.
“For the beauty of the Language,” I said then, to my surprise, and thus it has remained.
“Oh, really,” responded Ransom McClain, as if my words were significant, eying me keenly. I believe he viewed me at that moment with New Eyes, in a New Light, perceiving those spiritual Qualities which had been suppressed in me by Duty and Tragedy for so long, following my estrangement from Grace Harrison. I blushed a bit, I think, and swung my beaded purse, and that was all. We parted at the Corner, he to the Left alone, and I to the Right down Main Street, with Rosalie. I could scarcely Breathe.
He appeared upon the front porch at four o’clock, and shook hands with Father, and escorted me down to Lowe’s Emporium for an ice cream Soda. I stammered and blushed, I think, and yet how I did enjoy It. How sweet and young we seem, the two of us, in Memory! How lovely the Afternoon! Others were present, too:—Rosalie and her fiancé, Todd Bell Sims, and the Clinton boys, home from the University of Virginia where they studied Law, Elva Pope whose family had recently moved to town, and yet Others. Many of These were the friends of my Schooldays whom I had known, and had by and large Lost track of since, as they had continued their education while I had assumed my Cares. Everyone laughed and engaged in silly conversations. Perhaps more Grave by nature, I was nevertheless Enchanted. It was the first time I had ever felt myself to be, in fact, what I truly was—a marriageable young lady, a member of the town’s Smart Set, despite the foibles of my Family. Elva Pope had studied literature at Sweetbriar College, we conversed about Poetry, joined by Ransom McClain who knew little of it but liked the idea, and liked, furthermore, his companion, me! It was a delicious, luscious, languorous Afternoon. He touched my hand in parting, I knew he would return. I ran up the stairs and fell upon my counterpane half swooning, and recalling, strangely enough, how Grace Harrison had once said, “Remember me!” I felt as if the Emotions invoked in me by all my hours with her had been imprisoned in a cellar until this moment, and that now they ventured forth cautiously into the sun. The tastes which she had fostered came back to me in full—there was no controlling my voracious Appetite then, and no slaking my Thirst! I had lived a life of Sacrifice for far too long. For one of my tender years I had worked too hard. I am nearly ashamed to admit that I fell into a summer of sun-drenched Abandon and the Purest form of Love, all concentrated in the person of Ransom McClain. Yes, it is understandable, but ah, how it is painful to remember and relate! For Ransom reciprocated my love in full, and more than full. Even after all these years, pain and joy return to me in equal measure as I recall those halcyon Afternoons.
He read to me by the river, or I to him, as we sat on a quilt beneath the huge soughing Pines, half-dead from longing, from Love. Ransom McClain possessed a slight congenital deformity of the foot, which occasioned an elevated shoe and caused him to have a Limp, noticeable only if he became fatigued. I used to consider this Condition, when alone, and fairly Weep with love. Nettie laughed at me for it, I hated her. Father held his tongue. Ransom and I Kissed, it seems, all August, long rapturous Kisses, hotly chaste, quite spiritual, Kisses which are framed in my mind yet, as photographs:—and when he left, by train, for Charlottesville to study Medicine, how I tripped along beside the puffing vehicle, blowing kisses, I wore my pearl gray Gloves. Father had come down too, to see him off, and Nettie, and Fay, who seemed more interested in the Train. His parents, too, were there, his Mother kissed me, and urged me to be Brave. For we were to be Married in a Year.
He wrote me lovely letters, one, two, three, and then these ceased. They ceased as abruptly as if they had never been, I received no explanation. Ah, how I wept! How ill I fell, how I neglected both Chores and Appearance, and walked the misty mountain in my grief. At length, Father paid a call upon the McClains, returning with stormy demeanor. “It is over,” he said. “Young Ransom did not know his own mind, it appears, and he is embarrassed to communicate with you. You must endeavor to Forget him.” And even Nettie was sorry, and urged me to come with her on her rides and jaunts about the countryside, but I declined. I felt embarrassed to face again the new friends with whom I’d whiled away those lovely summer days, save for Rosalie and Lucy Dee and Elva Pope, who were then, as they are now, true Friends, as staunch in adversity as in Fair Weather, particularly Elva. We read together. We walked, and I began to take instruction in the Episcopal Faith, and my Lord was with me, and comforted me during this trying Time.
I have attempted to analyze, in my own Mind, my Change of Faith. Of course God is ever our Father, and looks over All even as He does the Sparrows, as we are told, and resides in every House of Worship, whatever the denomination, and in every Heart where faith lives. But I had come to feel that the Methodist Church of my Youth was that indeed: the Church of my Youth. It did not fully feed my Swelling Soul. Furthermore I could not stand the Pastor, a Mr. Boomer, who was afflicted by partial paralysis of the Face, so that occasionally, when he was caught up in one of his interminable dour sermons, the spittle drooled from the slack corner of his mouth, down to his chin. Mr. Boomer’s clothing, furthermore, carried a faint, rancid Odor. His knowledge was slight, his vision simple and gloomy, concentrating as he did upon the fires of Hell and the joys of Heaven, the latter considerably more difficult to attain than the former, dwelling often at unseemly length upon the sufferings of Jesus on the Cross. He gave me headaches. Also my friends Rosalie, and Lucy, and Elva were Episcopalians. I found I loved the Prayer Book, and the rituals, and the old Priest, Mr. Holloway, a person of refinement who had come originally from Lynchburg. Sometimes, in his sermon, he interspersed his Bible messages with bits from Shakespeare!—And all the Leading families of the town attended the Episcopal Church. I fancy that my own sainted Mother would have switched over in time, had she lived until the unfortunate advent of Mr. Boomer, and so I made this Change, and saw nothing Wrong with it, and began to learn my Catechisms, and to take instruction in the Faith.
It was in no wise True, as Nettie asserted, that I made the change in the vain pathetic hope of seeing Ransom McClain when he came home from the University of Virginia. I would not have resumed a romance with Ransom had he been the last man on earth! His nose, in fact, struck me as decidedly too long, when he returned for the Christmas holidays, and his pallor appeared unhealthy, his Manner effeminate. I remarked for the first time how his full lips indicated Peevishness, and Weakness, and moral Flabbiness, and a tendency toward Dissipation, which tendency I am sure he has given in to, during his venture into Academe. I base this opinion upon the day he toyed so, until properly reprimanded, with my Sash. I have nothing but Pity and Scorn for him. I refuse even to give him the satisfaction of snubbing him, thus acknowledging that there was ever any Accord between us two. Instead, I speak coolly, and cast down my eyes. He is a Weakling of Body and Mind. I was, quite simply, Deluded. Nettie’s assertion was, therefore, wholly untrue and Ridiculous, and when the news came two years ago that he had become officially affianced to a girl from Norfolk, I could not have been less interested. I have joined the Episcopal Church because I love it, because I love the Prayers and the Collects, and I love the way Mr. Holloway does not make so much of the unrefined elements of Christianity such as the Blood and the Cross, and there is real Wine at Communion, and I love the way the Light falls through the stained glass Windows.
But in truth, since the events of this Sad Chronicle, I confess I have been able to muster no inte
rest in the members of the Opposite sex. Though opportunities have arisen during the several years which have followed these occurrences, I have brushed them aside with a firmness which I now, in retrospect, sometimes Regret. One of Rosalie’s Cousins from Kentucky, who came here to attend her Wedding, fell prey to my charm, and questioned Todd Bell Sims in private concerning his Prospects. I let him know, in short order, that he had None! Uncouth young men from the town, boys with whom I had never associated, such as Roy Eustace, Luther Dill, and Verner Hess, appeared at our door bent upon trumped-up errands. Of those three, Verner Hess was the most persistent. I sent them all packing! For I well knew that they would never have Dared approach, had I not been so Shamed.
Thus did I, in my grief, upon impulse, terminate my Possibilities, closing all gates that might open upon the fair avenue of Marriage. It was during this time that Elva became engaged to Lawrence Dooley, who had long cared for her, and I wept with her, and was Pleased and Sad, at One. Father, deep in the throes of financial Distress, and but a Shadow of the man he once had been, seemed oblivious to all my sorrow, and to Nettie’s wild adventuring, and did not even attempt to curb her behavior. For Nettie had begun to spend her time with low companions, she wore Trousers, and worked in Father’s mill. Father did not lift a Finger to stop it, seeming, rather, pleased with her Efforts! I could not reason with him. He had no innate sense of responsibility, I realized then, having merely appropriated my Mother’s for a while. Fay became ever more my main Companion and responsibility, being easy to amuse, however, as she is now, taking delights in the Flower gardens which I have maintained in Mother’s memory, and working like a Trojan at whatever task I proposed. I myself was accepted into the Holy Fellowship of Saints. And Elva was married to Lawrence, with myself as Maid of Honor, I wore a Rose silk dress.
But I progress too Rapidly here, attempting to quit this last room before I must face the final dark corner of it, my Father’s Death. He went as he had lived and that, I suppose, is the Best that can be said of it. His mighty heart ceased suddenly one Noon while he helped his men unload a wagon in the lumber yard. Nettie was called directly to his side, but by the time she reached him, he was Gone. It was so sudden. We buried him from the Methodist Church, in deference to our Mother, with the drooling Mr. Boomer officiating. It was necessary to ask assistance of two additional Pallbearers, to take his weight. The two graves now lie side by side in the little church-yard behind the church, not far from the rippling stream. I have planted pink alyssum like a carpet over All, and wine-dark roses by the headstones. It is so Sad.
When I reflect upon my parents, and upon their love, how often am I moved to Tears! My Mother died in her prime, yet full of joy and hope, plucked like a rose at her Very peak. My father fell more slowly, as an old tree in the forest, buffeted by winter after winter, by the increasing severity of the Storm. It is my fondest hope that his Soul, too, is with the Lord, although I can but doubt It. For he lost his faith when he lost her. Perhaps, I hope it fervently, his love for Mother has tipped the Heavenly scales in his favor, and they are together now in death. But who can say? Though a rough man by Nature, he loved her Fondly, and found No One in those ensuing years who might replace Her, and I am moved, in reading this sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, to copy down these words which speak the thoughts he would ever have been too mute to frame:—
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
So thus do I quit this last, this final chamber, full of darkness shot through yet by the occasional ray of Love. Gently do I close the Door. I hold my guttering candle aloft as I tiptoe gently back down this wide hall, down the tottering stair, and take my leave of this Mansion of memory, pulling the creaking door to, as best I can, behind me. It will not fully close, the lock is gone, the keys are long since Lost. It rests ajar. I turn to face the world, but ah, the Night outside is dark and wild, though dawn must now by rights be fast approaching. The moon is scarcely visible behind those low black Clouds. I cross the weed-choked Garden, I open and close the rusty gate. The antic wind in a frenzy whips my skirt about my ankles. It blows my candle out.
February 10, 1928
1933, Addendum
Alas! And let me quit that dreary house, and abandon Symbol. Let me abandon indeed all symbol and sign, the world has quite Enough, nay more than enough, of Pain to offer me. Wild winds and dark nights and creaking mansions will not be necessary. The Mansion I most hope for is Above, and yet I shall not shirk my duties here upon this desolate Earth.
In the years which have passed since I penned those last sad lines, I have felt the walls of this real house, my own, close in around me, I have grown older, sadder, wiser. Let me elaborate, but let me yet be Brief, for these dire Facts speak for themselves.
Upon Father’s demise we were astonished to find that he had accumulated Debt upon Debt, so that, in short, we lost the Business, and not only that, but in the aftermath, I lost my sister Nettie as well. For Nettie conceived a wild scheme, and felt that if we sold this House, we could recoup our losses, she could manage the lumber Business, converting it into a construction firm or some such, and all would be well. I could not in good conscience condone such speculation. Nor could I stand to see us sink so Low. I remembered our Mother, and the manner in which we had lived during our Childhood, and my heart was grieved past bearing it. She would not have wished us, ever, to leave this House, this situation. Nor, I felt, would he, this house built of timbers which he had felled, this home he had made for her. I could not but say “No.” But ah, how Nettie fretted, and railed against me, and the terrible things she said!—At length I did prevail, as my signature also was required. The business was duly Sold, and we have now an Income slight but sufficient for Fay and myself to eke out our existence here.
For Nettie is gone! She has with unseemly suddenness married a man from out in the country, a hunting companion of our Father’s many years older than she. He is a rough man of uncouth manner. It is not a suitable union, and we seldom see one another. Yet he has Land, and will, I suppose, provide for her, as she refused to take a penny of money from the sale of the mill, declaring that she had nothing to do with it. Ah, Nettie! Headstrong and willful, determined to live beneath your Class, what will become of you?
And even more to the point, what will become of us? Of poor Fay, and Myself? I have lost Mother, Father, Sister, Ransom McClain whom I would not have anyway if he were offered to me upon a silver Platter, and Grace Harrison as surely as if she were truly Dead. I suppose I should not Complain. I have my home, my flowers, my friends, I am busy from Dawn to Dusk with the Cares of the house, and of Fay, now fully grown but with a mind more like a Child’s, and with my Duties such as the Altar Guild and Garden Club. The Lord is with me, as He has been always. Ransom McClain seems merely silly to me now, the merest nothing, dandelion fluff in the wind. A further sad note:—Elva’s husband has lost everything, and Shot himself last April, and I am necessary to her too, as Comfort and Confidante, as well as to Fay. My cares keep me contained.
My Life is full of Duty, Work, and Love:—Love for the Lord, and for his handiwork. I persevere. Yet in some Way, I fail:—for how often, despite my efforts to keep busy, to do good, how often does a Cloud of blackness from I know not where descend upon my soul, and sit upon my brow, and rest there awhile. And at these times I can do Nothing, for I am nothing, a vessel of mere gloom.
It was thus, I recall, last evening. I sat here. I sat here upon the fleur-de-lis loveseat brought, I’ve heard, from France, by Mother’s people. I sat here to rest awhile, having come into the house in the late afternoon for a drink of Water, as I had been out gardening, separating the Day Lily bulbs that they should bloom more profusely come the Spring. I had left my gardening gloves and shears upon the front porch steps. I wan
dered into the Parlor thus refreshed, admiring how the last long light of the autumn afternoon fell through the windowpanes to make a pattern, blocks of light and shade, upon the flowered carpet. It is a lovely room, this time of day. I sat here. The Chinese screen before the fireplace seemed to glow, strange birds with fiery plumage, dancing men, pagodas. The plump green cushions on the velvet sofa were fluffed, so, and the fine wood gleamed from the coffee table, the piano, the credenza; the mirrors shone. It is a room of shining surfaces and Comfort, this dark green velvet, the striped armchair, the needlepoint stool. I noted the pattern on the carpet, how it shifted as the Sun sank lower in the west.
And Gloom came then, to sit with me awhile. I could neither move, nor stand, nor lift a finger in any way to finish up my chores, although I willed it. I rested there immobile until the sunlight reached me. One corner of one yellow square fell at my feet. At last then all a-tremble I arose, and attained the porch, and gathered up my implements. It was that moment twixt day and dark when the mind Floats, that luminous time in that part of the year where the Seasons battle for ascendancy. Fleeting Summer had left mementos everywhere, like a Lady at a garden-party who drops a lacy glove, that a Gentleman may not forget her. Climbing roses bloom on the trellis yet, and purple asters nod along the walk. In the rock garden, mums bud jauntily.
But leaves fall here and there, and the breeze has a Chill to it. The dogwood leaves are already turning. Beneath the spreading oak at the side of the house I bent to my task, digging deep into the rich black loamy Earth with trowel and fork to find the round white Bulbs in clusters in their dark, secret Home. I broke them up, and spread them out, saving some in my little basket to put down by the road, at the end of the walk, to gladden the hearts of passers-by. The Flesh of the bulbs was soft and pale. I held them in my hand, then removed my gloves, to feel their coolness, their soft mysterious texture, as I mused upon this miracle of life:—that a frail form such as this can hold such sap within, so far beneath the soil, and should spring forth so abundantly and with such vigor, for these are the tiger lilies. And then, I know not Why, I lifted them up to touch my own face, smudging my dress, and then I dropped them, and wept. I cannot now imagine what I was thinking of. At length I rose, and fled to the house, and bathed, and prepared our simple dinner, though I confess I had but little appetite. All the circumstances of my life are Calm, yet it seems I do not know my own mind, neither can I arrest nor understand this Torment in my soul. I shall trust in the Lord and persevere, concluding thus:—
