Jane Was Here

by Sarah Kernochan

  Your sincere friend,

  Jane Pettigrew

  P.S. Thank you for informing me that Mr. Shelley was an atheist. I will expunge his poems from my memory, since it pleases God that I to do so – and pleases you, too!

  Dear Mr. Trane,

  When I first glanced out the window this morning, and beheld a heavy gray sky, and again when I saw the first wisps of snow floating down, so benign and light, I never conceived they augured such a terrible storm! If you are like in circumstance to us Pettigrews, you have drifts piled to the casements, with their white shoulders braced against the doors. I hope you are placed well away from cold draughts, in front of a cheery hearth, with flame eternal and logs aplenty! Here on the second floor of our little house on Sycamore Street, the chamber I share with Rebecca is icy, and she has abandoned it for the parlor’s warmth. I myself remain, swathed in quilts, my breath coming in white clouds, for here I may read your letters over and over again in private, as they bring me such blessed instruction, and warm me as bright coals in the grate.

  I suppose it will be some days before we may go out, and so Letty will not be able to deliver this note to Mrs. Seeley’s until the streets allow. I fear you have no conception of our New England winters, being from Philadelphia. They are very long, and during February, the roads are nearly impassable, and thus even if your leg heals by mid-winter as the doctor predicts, you may yet be hindered from journeying to Hovey Pond until the April thaw. Will you come to detest Graynier and its sad denizens? Even its scatterbrained young women?

  But I must write on a more serious theme, because you have had the goodness to send me a second tract – again printed by your father’s press! I picture you as you describe: a young man dutifully setting the type for Mr. Artzuni’s pamphlet, pausing to read what it said, and how the Holy Spirit rose from the prophet’s words and entered your being! How brave you were, to defy father and mother and family, to quit the comforts of home and confer your soul to Gabriel Nation. (Please do write more about the dangers facing your community in Texas when you established your tabernacle there! It makes such an exciting narrative!).

  Alas, Mr. Artzuni’s words did not produce such a supernatural effect in myself. Still I find some of his points to be intriguing, directing me to Bible verses with which I am unfamiliar. (I confess I am not as acquainted with the Holy Book as, for example, the works of Mr. Poe, but I have begun to reform!) In particular, I was drawn by the quotation from the Gospel of Luke, wherein Jesus said that those who will be resurrected to Heaven will not marry or be offered in marriage, and they become the equal of angels, and cannot die anymore. Does he (your Prophet Mr. Artzuni) mean that those who join Gabriel Nation, and become equal to angels in advance of resurrection, will be immortal here on earth? and like the angels in heaven they do not marry, even if they love each other? I suppose immortality might be desirable, though I must think on it more. To never be married would be sad. Were you compelled to make this sacrifice when you pledged yourself to the Gabrielites?

  Your letters inspire me to read the Good Book more closely. Indeed everyone is surprised to see my head bent over its pages for hours on end. Rebecca teases me, and I cannot say rightly if Father is pleased – rather, mystified. I confess that my mind drifts often. I must bring more effort to my learning.

  Your sincere friend,

  Jane Pettigrew

  Dear Mr. Trane,

  Today you would have been pleased with me. I received a visit from Bethesda Jarley, a friend from Miss McKeown’s Instruction for Young Ladies, a boarding school in Haverhill where I was taught French and Latin languages, Music, Drawing, and Painting, as well as English studies. (I had great hopes to become a teacher myself, but Papa preferred I remain at home.) My friend had hidden in her sleeve a copy of Mr. Hawthorne’s “The Scarlet Letter,” proposing to lend it to me in the strictest secrecy. I reproached her indignantly for reading anything so preposterous, blasphemous and immoral. Her eyes fairly popped out of her face! For she knows how I adore Mr. Hawthorne’s books. I felt proud that my change of heart, which I owe to your influence, is so well perceived by those who assume they know me well.

  “Well!” said she. “You may call Mr. Hawthorne’s story preposterous, but even here in Graynier we have our own Hester Prynne!” She then proceeded to relay her gossip: that young Master Ellis Graynier has brought dishonor to a female domestic of the village and the unfortunate girl is forced to repair to Boston where she must bear the fruit of her sin alone and repudiated. (Dear Mr. Trane, if I were, like you, preferred by God to attain the power of angels, I should have a great deal of work to perform here in Graynier, where believe me Satan is prolific!)

  I would not hear the rest, but professed a headache, upon which Miss Jarley left (I did not tell her that I had previously read Mr. Hawthorne’s book – at the Widow Seeley’s – but this, I promise, preceded your arrival and your salutary effect on my character, God be praised.)

  I wish so much that we could continue our discourse in person. We should then have enjoyable debates over some of the Gabriel Nation principles such as the abjuration of marriage, prohibition of dancing &c. and I should advance more quickly in my understanding of your faith. Unhappily, whenever I have petitioned Father for permission to visit my dear companion Mrs. Seeley, he replies that as long as she houses a certain guest who propounds dangerously radical doctrines I must avoid her premises. I protested that if Mrs. Seeley is favorably disposed to the gentleman then he must be above reproach. Father declared that Widow Seeley was always partial to a good-looking fellow, which I thought most unchristian considering what a great friend she has been to the Pettigrews, and I said so. He did not answer, but fixed me with a look that conveyed suspicion. Perhaps I did protest too much and seemed overly eager to his eye. The consequence is that he binds me closer to the hearth than ever, and seems both anxious and mistrustful whenever I propose to go out.

  I feel it unfair to be so young, and be unable to follow my own inner voice, which bids me to fly to 12 Graynier Avenue, where I might steep myself in the presence of that rare one who speaks directly to God, and perhaps receive some of that golden blessing by propinquity. And now my fingers are too numb with cold to write more!

  Your devoted student,

  Jane Pettigrew

  Dear Mr. Trane,

  Alas, our little plan did not succeed. My disappointment is keen. All seemed well, the weather warm, the snow abated, and I – seated beside good Mrs. Lang in the sleigh, her mare drawing us “at an immoderate rate,” shaking her bells in a jubilation like to mine as I inhaled the pure air of freedom – I flew then, loosed from the confines of my house, with my father’s permission to accompany Mrs. Lang to the shantytown with comestibles and clothing for the needy.

  The errand itself presented no obstacle: indeed the unfortunates of that appalling neighborhood fell upon our supplies like crows. Some were delirious from lack of food. We learned that, on the third day of the storm, they had to burn stools and mattresses for fuel. Doctor Pincus was there, amputating a boy’s fingers because of frostbite. I cannot fathom why our Lord chooses some to receive His grace but denies it to others, His will be done. But we cannot know the thoughts of God, as Mr. Artzuni writes, unless we are in the Spirit of God, which advantage I have not yet earned.

  As we trotted back through town, I quite casually asked Mrs. Lang to leave me off at Widow Seeley’s to return some books (just as you and I planned). She declared she had promised Papa to bring me straight home and she could not presume to deviate from that agreement. So home I went, casting a forlorn glance at Mrs. S.’s window where I knew you waited, but even the frost upon the glass conspired to keep you hidden.

  I pray your leg is improved. And now it is snowing again.

  Your disconsolate friend,

  Jane Pettigrew

  Dear Mr. Trane,

  I have lacked a letter from you for so long, with the latest blizzard smothering the streets, and moreover poor Letty has been in bed with a
cold. The delivery of this note signals her recovery! She and Rebecca have both been out in the snow, but Father continues to keep me nearer than ever. I am happy to coddle him, for he does need tending to, owing to a persistent congestion of the lungs, which he attributes to breathing the glass dust at the factory over the many years – nearly 25 – he has worked for Mr. Graynier. For this reason he has been more absent from work than formerly.

  But even if not for his debility, he would hold me fast. I do believe it is because of my resemblance to my mother that he delights to look upon me and has always preferred me to my sister. I tell Rebecca often that this preferment comes at the cost of my freedom, and for that she must not be envious.

  How tedious is January. All seems to stand still, and one’s inertia is maddening. I play the seraphine and sing until all scream at me to stop. I have darned every sock and embroidered every scrap in my workbasket. I have sketched and painted studies of every member in the household, in every angle and position – even Uli Haff, my father’s foreman, who visits to give Papa news of the factory when he is ill (though I think Mr. Haff comes also to see Rebecca, and I suspect he will declare his intentions soon! Uli is not handsome but a good, hard-working man, of strong German stock, and he will provide reasonably well for my sister. I shall be sorry, nonetheless, to have her move away. She is ever my dearest companion, to whom I confide everything, excepting in the case of our correspondence, as I believe she would not approve of such deception).

  And so I read, I pace, I muse, I gnaw at my cage like the little mouse I captured in a box last week. In the end I freed him. Perhaps God will note my good deed and free me, too.

  In years past I endured January with placid forbearance. But now that my being has been awakened by Mr. Artzuni’s prophecies, together with your dear notes of encouragement, I feel ever more restive and impatient to embrace Heaven’s instruction. Whatever it may be, I await His command!

  Yet for all my zeal there has been silence. I read from no other volume except the Bible, yet the words seem stale and will not animate my spirit. Could God desire to shut me out?

  Last week I tried fasting, as Mr. Artzuni advises, to facilitate the onset of revelations. I refused meals, pretending dyspepsia, and made light of everyone’s concern. By the third day I was compelled to take to my bed, so weak had I become. As I lay and awaited a signal of the Lord, I believe I dreamed, for I had a vision of falling into a deep pit, and a man whose face I could not discern stood above and kicked dirt down on my face. The howls of demons filled my ears as I lay in this earthen tomb, as if I were being buried alive – like the unfortunate narrator of Mr. Poe’s The Premature Burial! – and I awoke in terror, to the sound of my little mouse scratching behind the wall, like fingernails scraping at the lid of a coffin.

  I ceased fasting, yet this image of Hell haunts me still. It seems to lure me away from the light, whispering that I am unworthy of Heaven.

  You say that faith alone will lead me to sinless purity. Then it must be that my faith is incomplete, and the missing element is your guidance. God’s deliverance seems ever more distant in this month when the sun dwindles to nothing, and I have no word from you.

  Your friend,

  Jane Pettigrew

  Dear Mr. Trane,

  Indeed I should be very cross with you for venturing outdoors onto the ice with no accessory but a cane! I pray to Heaven the accident did not break anew your leg and that you have only bruises to tend. Rebecca heard that you fell while turning onto Sycamore Street, only a few doors from our house. I had to conceal my tears and agitation. Please reassure me that you were not on your way to visit me! I should die of guilt, if it were my selfish entreaties for your spiritual counsel that brought you out into the cold weather! I should never have complained so thoughtlessly in my last note. The moods of a young girl are beneath your regard, and you have far greater missions to pursue than the struggles of one small soul. Only send me word you are not badly hurt, and that it was not on my behalf!

  In haste,

  Jane

  Dear Mr. Trane,

  I cannot find words to express my limitless joy upon reading your letter. To know it was not my imagination, after all, that fancied a profound bond between us, that you too share the certainty that we are destined to join together, work for God’s glory and seek the highest form of self-perfection! You are the star that I follow to reach the cradle of Jesus and the light of the eternal happiness! I agree that our correspondence will not suffice but we must, we must! see one another. And yet that event seems more remote than ever. For there has been a great upheaval here at home.

  Uli Haff paid us his usual visit today. Both Rebecca and I were seated in the parlor to hear his news, as we are accustomed to do, when he suddenly asked to speak to Papa alone. We sisters repaired to the kitchen in high excitement, for we all, father included, expected Mr. Haff would make known his feelings concerning Rebecca.

  After he left the house, however, it was I and not my sister whom Father summoned to the parlor. I was condemned to sit meekly – with your letter hidden in my bosom where I had folded it next to my heart – while Papa informed me that Uli had sought his permission to enter an engagement with myself, our marriage to follow in a year’s time!

  I’m afraid my reaction, which I could not manage to mask, was one of dumb horror. I knew Rebecca to be listening on the other side of the door, and reckoned well what anguish she was feeling. My mind filled with a kind of noise – I heard my father’s voice, as from a far distance, asking if I didn’t approve of Uli, and was he not an excellent man, frugal and industrious and kind (as if these qualities alone were adequate to ignite my affection), and did I know that he had purchased a plot of land, on Putman Hill, and what a comfortable house he would build for us &c.&c.

  I nodded perfunctorily until my tears spilled over, betraying my true emotions. I said I hadn’t thought to be married yet. When he inquired why, I replied that I was too young, being not quite twenty, and moreover I preferred to stay with Papa, at home, for he needed my company and caring. He looked pained at this. “Jane,” he said, “you must apply your thoughts to practical matters now.” He is afraid his lungs will not improve, and he will lose his job soon. By consequence, he worries he will not be able to provide for us. It is thus a necessity to find good husbands, at least for one of us, for if someone must stay at home with Papa it would likely be Rebecca. She is already twenty-four and no one has ever shown an interest in marrying her. Therefore, he concluded, here was Mr. Haff with a fine proposal which I should accept gladly!

  I begged him for more time to consider, and after much supplication he agreed that I might have two months before giving Mr. Haff my answer. In the meantime I should see Uli often so I might know him better. Again Father urged me to be a good daughter, and consent to the engagement after Easter. Then he nearly cried too, saying that he had been excessively selfish by keeping me at home all the time – it was not healthy and had led me to become morbid and neurasthenic, or why else should I be mumbling over my Bible and refusing food for three days? To my surprise, he then told me he would no longer forbid me to go out, as long as Rebecca or some other older woman accompanied me. At that I brightened a bit, my only thought being that, with this new amnesty, I might contrive to visit Mrs. Seeley, without his being aware.

  Still I could not sleep last night, as if I were on a rack being pulled two ways. One way, I have your beautiful words, your friendship, and salvation itself. On the other, I have my duty to Father and his clear wish that I marry Mr. Haff. If only I could talk face to face with you, I know you would dispel my confusion and put me to rights.

  Rebecca, meantime, is cool toward me. Though she says she did not care for Uli, still I know she would have liked to be the one asked and not I. I cannot blame her. Spinsterhood is a doom that any woman fears greatly.

  Pity my dilemma, good friend, and wait for more news from

  Your despondent

  Jane

  Dear Mr. Tr
ane,

  It is some consolation to read that your distress concerning Mr. Haff’s proposal is the mirror of mine. I am forever grateful for your solicitude, when my woes must seem altogether inane compared to the urgency of your spiritual mission. I agree that it is now essential that we meet – and without intrusion, God willing!

  Father was out today, having gone back to work. I hoped Rebecca would accompany me for a walk this morning, when I planned to suggest innocently that we call on Mrs. Seeley – but she went out alone, probably to visit with her friend Mabel to whom she can disparage me for stealing her beau. Desperately I asked Letty to lend me some clothes. I put on her skirt and apron, and wrapped her shawl to cover my face as if to protect it against the cold. My notion was to appear as a servant, and to walk to Widow Seeley’s alone, thus disguised. (It is a paradox, I think, that a servant who may not call her life her own is permitted to roam freely in the street while a respectable young woman with no liens on her person cannot put a toe in the outdoors without a jailer alongside.)

  As I hurried along, my spirits rose, thinking I would soon encounter you in Mrs. S.’s parlor. I was only a little distance from that destination when I heard the bells of a cutter behind. Master Ellis Graynier was the driver, and he reined his horse, bidding me to jump up on the seat beside him. I shook my head, pulling the shawl tighter, but he ordered me in a sterner tone to get in. My disguise proved too efficacious, for clearly he presumed me to be a hired girl. Reluctantly I obeyed. As he urged his horse on, he pressed me with impertinent questions, wanting to know my name and where I was going. I became angry to realize that this was how he preyed upon the working girls of the town. I was frightened, also, for if I continued with my ruse I should place myself at some risk to my safety. I drew back Letty’s shawl and showed my face. He laughed then, quite uproariously. “Miss Pettigrew!” he said. “Have you lost your good clothes in a gambling bet?” I snatched the reins from his hands and pulled the horse to a stop, leapt out, and ran home before anyone else could detect my ridiculous masquerade.