My aunt got up. “That’s enough. Go upstairs.”
I picked up the rest of my bread on the assumption that there would be no supper for me. “Anyhow, where’s my twenty-one dollars?”
“Go upstairs, Arabella.”
“Yes, ma’am. Just give me my money.”
It was her turn to exercise self-control. “Arabella, I’m your aunt. If you don’t agree with something I do, you can ask me why I did it. But you’ve got to be respectful. You’re a smart girl. You know better.”
“Yes, Aunt Agatha. I know the difference between what’s mine and what’s somebody else’s.”
That lay there between us for a while.
She sighed. “Get me a switch.”
“To be sure, the switch. The magic stick that explains everything.”
I started to run, but she caught me by the wrist; the bread fell to the floor, I shrieked, the back of her hand caught the side of my jaw. I broke free of her, trying to avoid a second blow; she always struck in twos. In fleeing, I slipped and fell backward against the stones of the fireplace, making a cut in the back of my head.
Lewis came in then, saw blood, and Agatha running toward me. He picked up a long black iron poker and swung it at her. She caught his arm and overpowered him. Pinning his arms to his sides, she called Evangeline and Agnes, who subdued him. She made a poultice for my head, using stale bread in the dressing. This worked—the wound did not fester—but still I had a permanent scar, which my hair covered up until I reached the age when my hair grew thin; and there it is today, the crooked little line inscribed on my desiccated scalp, the ancient record of an argument over the sale of Buffon’s Natural History to a peddler in 1838. Had it been on my face, my life might have taken a different direction.
My aunt said that she did not know what to do about Lewis. She had never in her life heard of a case of a boy trying to murder his aunt—not in the sinful families that worked on the Lord’s Day, not among the heathen Indians—and we mustn’t speak of it. People would point to Lewis as a man and say that when he was a boy he had tried to kill his aunt with a poker. What on earth was she going to do with him? He was so small and skinny, she said, that she feared to punish him as he deserved.
She said all this out loud, to impress upon him the gravity of his crime, but her confusion was genuine. She decreed, foolishly, that he would go to bed without supper every night for a week. After three days she gave in, because he wasn’t eating his dinner.
We were eating downstairs, and he was in the loft, where he spent suppertime. My aunt said, “Belle, come with me,” and gave me a plate burdened with bits of salt pork, red beans, stony biscuits, and a spoon. Lewis was crouching by our trunk, guiltily hiding his marbles, which he was on his honor not to play with while he was being punished. “Sit, Lewis,” she said, and he sat on his bed, and she handed him the plate, which he held indifferently. “Lewis, I want you to eat. You have to eat. If people don’t eat they die.” She sat on a stool facing him, looking down and up, looking at me and at him, her hands gripping and turning and squeezing each other.
“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” he said, just wanting to set the record straight.
“Let’s say you weren’t. But something very bad could have happened. And it was a shock to me that you would raise a weapon against your aunt, who is only trying to do what your poor mother would want me to do. That was very wrong. Can you see that?”
The mention of his mother had its effect. “Yes,” he said, suddenly on the verge of tears. Seizing the opportunity with better instinct than was usual with her, she reached out, and he let her enfold him in her angular embrace. “That’s better, that’s better,” she said, stroking his hair and looking alternately at him and at me. “We’ll make a new beginning, each one of us. We’ll each be good according to our different duties. Now, I’ve been praying on this matter of your books, Arabella, and I’ve talked it over with Elihu. We’ve decided to give you five dollars out of what we got from the sale of them. You may have this much, but not the whole amount, because we all have to help each other. We all have to make a contribution. Do you think that is fair, Arabella?”
“Yes, Aunt Agatha,” I said, still hating her, but she was obviously relieved. She had a great innocent faith in contracts. You said a thing, under duress or not, and she considered the matter settled, and if you went back on it later, she was appalled.
Reader, do you feel sorry for her? I do. She wanted us all to be as happy as we could be, given that there is no real happiness this side of heaven (and her primary task, more crucial than the hard work that occupied her every waking hour, was to get us all into heaven). She did not understand exactly why it was proving difficult to be a mother to me, but she knew she had to take some of the blame. She knew she had a bad temper. It may even be that she knew, without quite admitting it to herself, that greed had helped to convince her that I was better off without Buffon’s Natural History and the novels of Scott and Marryat. But if she regretted that decision, she did not see that it was possible for a grown-up to acknowledge fault in a dispute with a child.
That’s how I see it today. At the time, I only knew that we were struggling and that any friendly gesture she made was a thrilling sign of weakness in my enemy.
XIV
I READ WHAT WAS LEFT OF MY LIBRARY. I read the Bible from Genesis to Kings. I read Exemplary Letters for Sundry Occasions, which, watered by my imagination like some highly concentrated soup stock, proved as heady a form of romantic literature for me as Captain Maryatt had once been for poor Frank. I would have copied out the letters if paper had been less dear. Instead, I memorized them, imagining as I did it the guests I invited to the banquet, the invitations I accepted, and the unsuitable ones which I graciously declined; the suitors to whose respectful approaches I was not averse, the clergyman I thanked for his kind words after my husband’s death. How enviable were the lives of the fine ladies who wrote such letters! They did not boil the wash or disembowel hogs. They sat at a writing desk. They slipped off their white gloves; soft white hands trimmed the pen, dipped it, lifted it. “As I lift my pen …”
Following models in the book (“To Family Members Far Distant”), I wrote my first letters to Robert and Edward, and to Mrs. Fitch, and to my grandparents.
March 5, 1838
Dear Grandfather and Grandmother,
I hope this letter finds you well. As I lift my pen in this season of snow when hoar lies on the branches my heart is warmed by thoughts of distant Dear Ones. Time has flown since we came here. Dear Aunt Agatha and Uncle Elihu and our cousins Agnes, Evangeline, Matthew and Titus have done much to take the place of our old family. We have all become great friends. It has been hard getting used to the Duties of a farm girl, but I am learning with Cousin Agnes’ kind help. She explains things so clearly one knows just what to do. Aunt Agatha is very gentle. Evangeline guides me by her example of hard work. I hope to be as good and clever as she is one day. Matthew is the admiration of all the local boys on account of his great skill at games. Titus has a remarkable head for figures. They are both strong, healthy boys. They are attentive to their younger cousins, making us feel safe and welcome.
Lewis enjoys the farm creatures and makes pets of wild animals. He is still a little sad about Mother and Father and does not eat as he should, though Aunt Agatha plies him with the most delicious dishes for she is a wonderful cook.
Soon the countryside will be in bloom; it will be time for getting syrup from the maple trees. I look forward to seeing this miracle!
Grandmother, how are the ladies of the Dorcas Society? What will you plant in your garden this spring? Grandfather, how is the silk business, and the great cause of abolition? Please write, for I am eager for news of home. With fondest regards, I close,
Your loving granddaughter,
Arabella
I wrote similar letters to Robert, Edward, and Mrs. Fitch. I finished them while we were all together around the fire. My aunt, as I had expected, asked
if she might know their contents. I read them aloud, and was rewarded with general expressions of approval at the letters’ maturity and accuracy. Agnes and my aunt asked to read them over for themselves. I agreed. They made suggestions. Agnes hoped that I would not take it amiss, for she knew I was excessively sensitive to criticism, if she noted that I had misspelled several words—“abolition” should be “abalishin,” “syrup” should be “sirrup,” “garden” should be “gardin,” etc.—and I should throw in some more commas for good measure, as well-bred people did. My aunt examined the letter and agreed that my spelling needed work. I thanked them both for catching these errors. My aunt said that it would be better not to worry my grandparents by telling them that Lewis wasn’t eating as well as he should; we were all doing our best to encourage him to eat more; there was nothing Grandpa and Grandma could do; so perhaps I should rewrite all the letters without that in them, if I didn’t mind. I said of course I didn’t mind.
And indeed I did not, for they were all dummies and feints, these letters. The letter I actually wrote to my grandfather survives, and here it is, word for word.
March 5, 1838
Dear Grandfather and Grandmother,
I hope this letter finds you well. As I lift my pen in this season of snow when hoar lies on the branches my thoughts fly to better times in grandpa’s dear house on Bond Street. I do not wish to trouble you when I know that your own woes lie heavy but I must tell you that our health is not improving here. The air on the farm is unwholesome. I am sure it carries disease for truth to tell we are surrounded by wretched filth. Aunt Agatha throws scraps out the window for the pigs, so that the yard is full of disgusting pig droppings, or was until most of the pigs were stuck. They died horribly which was an awful shock to me and Lewis and can hardly have been good for such as us who have a Wasting Disposition. The wind carries the bad air from the “necessary” into the house. We sleep in the loft where there is no fireplace. We shiver all night. I get up while it is still dark and cold to make the fire. Aunt Agatha is a bad cook and we all suffer from gripes and fluxes in consequence. What is healthy in that? Lewis is becoming Skin and Bones. Matthew and Titus drink Rye Whiskey like grown men, a Habit I hope your grandson Lewis shall not take up. Also Aunt Agatha told us the truth about Father. She told us very suddenly, which was a shock to Lewis and may be why he does not eat. They use the swich all the time on us, even though we are good. We never had the swich used on us much back in New York. Aunt Agatha has a bad temper and Uses Her Hands. She sold my books to a peddler to get money for her own use.
There is no room to tell you all. Some things I cannot bear to write. If you will bring us back we shall be exemplary and careful of our health.
Grandma, how are the ladies of the Dorcas Society? What will you plant in your garden this spring? Grandfather, how is the silk business, and the great Cause of abolition? Please write for I am eager for news of home. With fondest regards I close,
Your loving granddaughter,
Arabella
Reading it over, I want to improve the letter as if the nine-year-old child who wrote it still existed and still had the power of choice. Apart from wanting to remove the silly echoes of Exemplary Letters, I want to tell my young self that it would be better not to give every possible argument; that weak arguments discredit strong ones by casting doubt on the writer’s judgment. And that, when begging for help, it is better not at the same time to preen, showing off your recent ladylike accomplishments, making it seem as if you do not need help.
As soon as the weather allowed trips into town, I brought the letters to the store, where Colonel Ashton weighed them and charged me for them under my aunt’s eye. Since there was no coach to Livy, they would be carried in a mailbag to the larger village of Patavium by whoever happened to be going there next, in a day or two days or a week.
Sitting by the fireside with my enemies, sewing, spinning, or hugging my skinny brother in our straw bed after saying aloud for public consumption my lying prayers, I pictured my letter being read in Bond Street. When two weeks had passed—my estimate of the time it would take the letter to reach its destination—I decided that I was free to think of my grandfather or one of his employees traveling toward us by steamboat, stagecoach, and canal packet, advancing implacably on this farm like Caesar on Gaul, come to demand the surrender of the two captives. A four-in-hand hurries in, the driver snapping the whip; customers at the general store rush to the porch; gossip spreads through the miserable town; the simple people are amazed—All this for two children! Who are these children?—and they realize then and forever how trivial their own lives are.
At the end of April, my uncle came back from a trip to town and handed a letter that had come and been addressed to me—it was from my grandfather. I took it up to the loft and read it in a shaft of light from the window.
April 7, 1838
Dear Arabella,
Your grandmother and I were glad to receive a letter from you, but we wish that it had been a different letter. We wish that you had waited until you were in a better mood, when you could write with more charity about your aunt and your uncle.
The parts of country life that you find so disagreeable are well known to those of us who have lived on farms. Physicians do not consider them unhealthy—quite the contrary. I myself grew up on a farm where the swine disposed of the remains of our meals and we slaughtered our own livestock. The slaughter can be unpleasant, but someone must do it if we are to have meat. My father chastised me when I failed to apply myself sufficiently to my duties, and today I am glad that he did. You say that you are punished now more often than you were in your first home. This is because your chores are different now, and it is taking you time to learn them. You will learn, and be punished less often.
If Lewis is not eating as much as he should, the reason might, as you say, be that he is sad. Or he may be unwell; I will write separately to your uncle about this. I doubt that your aunt’s cooking is at fault, and that you would say so in a letter saddens me. It is very wrong to say such a thing. It does not sound like the good, grateful, sensible Arabella I know. For what is set before you, you must give thanks. You must thank God, who gave us dominion over this bountiful Earth; your uncle, whose honest labor wrested its fruits from the soil; and your aunt, who toiled over the fire to make those fruits fit to eat.
I have no doubt that it is best for you and your brother to stay with your uncle Elihu on his farm. Please do not cast about for new reasons why you should come back to New York City. Instead, apply yourself with your whole heart to making the best of things where you are. Many people bear far heavier burdens than yours without complaint. You must learn to do so, too. It is ungrateful to complain, and it is bad for your own sake to be a complainer. Try, instead, to be cheerful and a good companion. Take your sorrows to God.
I hope that you will write to me again soon, and that when you write you will tell me that you have taken my advice to heart.
Affectionately,
Solomon Godwin
I crumpled the letter and dropped it. I took it up and smoothed it out and read it again. I sat on the floor and put my arms around my shins and wept and rocked. My aunt came up the ladder and asked me what was wrong. “Have you had bad news?”
“Yes.” I nodded. “A friend of mine has died. In New York. A dear friend.”
“How very sad. May I see the letter?”
“No—if you don’t mind—please—you would not be interested.”
“A letter from York? From your grandfather? Let me be the judge. I would love to read it. We have such a hunger for news here. Oh, please let me read it, dear.”
I shook my head.
“That’s all right,” she said. “I’ve read it. Your uncle and I read it.”
She was smiling. She had been playing with me. I had never before known her to deploy studied cruelty. By nature, she was all too direct. But I had wounded her pride, as she had wounded mine, and we were teaching each other subtlety. “I
t’s plain enough what you did. You wrote a letter to show us, and another to show him. What was in it we can guess from what he wrote back.” The thought of it made her flush. I was afraid she would strike me, but she unleashed her anger in words, as harsh as she knew how to make them. “If only he had come! I would have told him that you were the most ungrateful child in all creation. I’d have begged him to take you. Please, take her! Please, don’t leave this wicked girl here to poison this good family with her dishonesty and her spite! When we gave you a home, an orphan child with nothing! Oh, you’re a snake in the grass! I’m glad you’re not one of mine!”
She was shouting. Everyone in the house heard her. They knew everything.
SO I REMAINED. THE SPRING BLOSSOMS CAME, and I was there to be intoxicated by their perfumes, like a girl in a melodrama drugged by the villain. Later, during the prolonged emergency of haying time, I took bread and water to the store clerks and tavern workers who had left their accustomed tasks to swing the scythe. I ran barefoot down the dry path to the pond and watched the widening rings my toes made in the water, repeatedly tearing and mending a reflection of surrounding pines, while a dragonfly, like a liberated compass needle, with lacy wings and queer jeweled eyes, darted over the rippling green scum to hide among the cattails and shadows and reflections.
There were moments of peace working beside my aunt Agatha. We forgot to dislike each other. She taught me the old songs she had learned during a temporary patch of security in her nomadic New England girlhood, songs about wars and shipwrecks, men who died for love, and women ruined by men who had said they were dying for love.
I remember standing on the back porch throughout the three-act drama of a summer storm, beginning with the sporadic knock of the shutters and the springy dancing of the trees. Clouds dimmed the universe, rain hissed, lightning cracked the sky, illuminating wheat field, cornfield, fence, pasture. I jumped back at the voice of God. One by one, expanding pillars of light poked through the clouds, like phases in the building of a temple, touching a corncrib, a row of sodden haycocks, a stand of oaks.
Belle Cora: A Novel Page 15
