by Diane Guest
PEABODY FALLS, MASSACHUSETTS, 1854
Edwin Snell thought she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. He was painfully aware of the curve of her breasts, accentuated by the tight bodice so fashionable among the ladies of the day. Her hair was parted in the middle, pulled back tightly across her temples, disappearing behind her ears only to appear again in a cascade of honey-colored curls.
"Now be composed, Ned," Ethan Wesley whispered as they watched Ethan's sister Susannah cross the room with her mother. "Remember, she won't eat you, chicken-heart. There's nothing to be nervous about." But poor Edwin was sure that he would be unable to speak to this divinity and was in such a state of paralysis that he almost failed to hear Mrs. Wesley.
"We are especially pleased to meet you, Edwin," she was saying,"after all these years. Ethan has told us so much about you." She held out her hand and smiled. "You don't mind if I don't call you Reverend Snell, do you? It sounds so formal."
"Certainly not, ma'am." He flushed, feeling the heat rise to the roots of his pale blond hair.
Ethan put his arm across Edwin's shoulder. "And now, my dear sister, it is my pleasure to introduce to you my former roommate, a Harvard man who can, we hope, put the fear of God into you, since we have all failed at that task so dismally."
Ignoring her brother, Susannah held out her hand and bestowed upon Edwin such a smile that his breath caught in his throat. "The wisest thing I ever did in my life, Reverend Snell," she laughed, "was to ignore each and every lesson my brother ever tried to teach me. As a result, I have reached my eighteenth birthday quite well-adjusted."
Edwin swallowed. Never before in his life did he wish more to appear in control; never before in his life did he feel less capable of achieving that effect. The palms of his hands were moist and it was with great effort that he pulled himself together. He wiped his hand on his trouser leg and took her hand. He looked at her with clear blue eyes. "You have adjusted remarkably well, Miss Wesley." He was enormously relieved to hear that his voice was steady. "Having lived with your brother for almost four years, I can sympathize."
"Now hold on a minute, my friend," Ethan broke in. "I didn't invite you into the bosom of my family to have you slander my good image."
"Slander your image, indeed, Ethan," Susannah laughed. "You don't need anyone to do that for you. You have always been quite capable of doing that for yourself." Turning, she took Edwin by the arm and led him toward the garden. "Come, Edwin," she said. "Let's not allow this glorious afternoon to waste itself. March in New England is usually so dismal, but today we have been blessed."
We have indeed, thought Edwin, and moved with her toward the door.
There followed a long, relaxed, and, for Edwin Snell, enchanted afternoon, filled with just the right measure of lighthearted talk and educated conversation.
When dinner was served, Edwin took the opportunity to sit back, reflecting on his first impressions of Susannah Wesley. They were all positive, and he was heartened for he found most women formidable. Edwin Snell was a dreamer. He lived in his books, his music, his poetry, and it was with great reluctance that he ever came to grips with reality.
He had determined some time ago that although his congregation filled a need in him to serve Almighty God, he was not content. And as he spun rose-colored dreams in his mind, he came to find it more and more difficult to reconcile the gentleness he felt in his soul with the austerity and shuddering cruelty he found in Calvinism.
Edwin perceived human perfection as a real possibility and found himself reluctant to preach to those who needed hope the bleak determinism of John Calvin.
After dinner, the three sat in the drawing room and talked far into the night.
"But if you leave your congregation, Ned"— Susannah had adopted the nickname that her brother used—"where will you go?"
He hesitated a moment. "Have you ever heard of Brisbane Farm?"
"Is it anywhere near Brisbane, Australia?"
"Not quite," Edwin laughed. "As a matter of fact, it's not far from here, near Concord."
"It isn't one of those Utopian experiments, I hope?" The sharp note in Ethan's voice betrayed his disapproval, for he thought Edwin to be a hopeless romantic and sometimes even a fool. "I hope you haven't been taken in by all that transcendental nonsense. What clap-trap! As for myself, I'd as soon die a rich man under a pile of gold than a poor dreamer under a dung heap."
Edwin stiffened. When he finally spoke, it was with such zealous conviction that Ethan and Susannah were both struck dumb. The man speaking bore no resemblance to the colorless young minister who had walked into their house eight hours earlier. His self-confidence seemed to be absolute.
"Be damned to you, Ethan," he said. "You're just like all the others. Because I don't treasure your values, you label me a fool." He could feel the palms of his hands beginning to sweat again. "I've let myself be dictated to my whole life for fear of disapproval. Well, no more." He stood and began to pace. "We all differ as much in the shades of our belief as we do in the color of our hair. Because I hear a different drum does not make me an idiot."
Edwin paused. He knew he was talking too much, too fast. He was beginning to panic. He could feel the confidence draining out of him and he felt like weeping. "I can no longer accept the horror of Calvinism." There. It was out. "I can no longer accept the horror of a vengeful, vindictive God. I've tried and failed."
Susannah couldn't take her eyes from him. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry over his obvious distress.
Edwin, on the other hand, felt as if he had just plummeted down a steep hill and was on his way up the other side. He took a deep breath and sat down. He was almost there. He had almost said it all. "I have come now to believe that man has the capability to create his kingdom of heaven here, on earth. I know what you're going to say, Ethan. That it's been tried before, at Hopedale, at Brook Farm, at Fruitlands, and always the experiments have failed. Well, Brisbane Farm is different. It will succeed. And I mean to be a part of it."
He stopped, suddenly aware that Susannah was staring at him. He flushed. Why was he always such a fool? Why did he always end up babbling on over things no one gave a damn about? He got to his feet. "My apologies to you both," he said. "I guess I've been in the pulpit too long. I 'ye quite forgotten my social manners. I didn't mean to preach. Please forgive me."
Susannah sat without moving for an instant. Never had she been witness to such a curious outburst, yet there was something so touchingly vulnerable about this man that she said softly, "I would be most interested to hear more about your new world, Ned. I never did put much stock in hell's fire and damnation." She turned to her brother. "You can tell Father if you want to, Ethan. I don't care. It's the truth."
In that instant, Edwin vowed to be the eternal slave of Miss Susannah Wesley.
They were married in an austere ceremony on April 21, 1854, by the Reverend Gideon Buckminster. "Prig of all prigs," Susannah called him.
After the ceremony, Edwin felt such exhilaration that at one point he grasped his father-in-law by the hand and exulted, "Sir, your daughter has made me the happiest of men. I know that you disapprove of our going to Brisbane Farm, but we are inspired, and I promise you she will be happy."
Charles Wesley was an honest man, not given to undue piety or harshness, nor was he in total sympathy with the strict tenets of the Congregational Church. But this Brisbane Farm business was fabricated from genuine horse manure as far as he was concerned. As he looked at this young man, so eager, so vulnerable in his belief in the goodness of all human kind, he shuddered. I hope to hell, for Susannah's sake, he knows what he's about, he thought, and watched his son-in-law cross the room to beam down on his new bride.
Susannah and Edwin, along with Edwin's life savings of one thousand dollars, had been received with eager enthusiasm by the members of the small community. But it came as a surprise to both of them just how much work there was to be done in the world. The early days at Brisbane Farm were filled wit
h exhausting labor.
The nights, however, were what kept Edwin existing in a state of rapturous enchantment, for he had never been intimate with a woman before. Now, he was left dazed by his growing need for his wife's body. When she drew him laughingly down into their narrow bed and whispered sweet passion in his ear, he had to stifle his cries of pleasure so no one but Susannah could hear; total privacy was a luxury as yet unknown to the inhabitants of Brisbane Farm.
At first, he had been fascinated at the way her nipples hardened under the touch of his lips. And even though each penetration of her body was more magical than the last, it was the thought of suckling at her breast that aroused him, caused him many painful daylight hours, erect at the thought of what the day's end would bring.
His desire for her was an echo, a shadow, catching him unawares, exploding the breath out of him.
One afternoon he came upon her unexpectedly at the dilapidated brick springhouse, setting her crocks of milk and cream in the cold, flowing water. He was surprised to see her, as she had been assigned the task of assisting with the planting of the spring crops and had been in the fields for most of the day.
"Mrs. Snell," he said, coming up behind her, putting his arms around her Waist. He was aware that she wore no corset. "I must certainly have done something wondrous in my life to deserve seeing you at this unexpected hour." She smelled faintly of her mother's geranium soap and he thought he had never smelled anything so intoxicating.
She turned, and lifted her face to be kissed, she laughed. "My darling husband, do you ever wonder that we manage to live apart, hour by hour?"
He touched her face softly and said with such depth of feeling that she flushed, "Susannah, I wonder that I survive minute by minute, my need to have you near me is so great." He pulled her against him and buried his face in the ruffles at her neck. His hand moved to her breast. She pressed against him and breathed in his ear. "Ned, make love to me."
"Here?" He was startled.
"Yes. Right here."
He didn't answer. He pulled her round to the side of the springhouse, into a screen of blossoming lilacs that grew the whole length of the structure. Sinking to his knees in the leaves, he pulled her to him, fumbling with the buttons that held her bodice together in an unbroken line from her throat to her waist. He slid her dress off her shoulders and realized that he had never seen her naked in the light of day. Stunned, he forgot everything but the sight of her startling whiteness, the hard pink tips of her nipples. Kneeling there, staring at her, his throat ached until he thought he would scream.
"Do you find me shameless that I let you look at me like this?" The sound of her voice forced him to tear his gaze away from her bareness. He was surprised to find that he was faintly annoyed that she had interrupted him. "Don't talk," he said.
"But I have to tell you," she aid. "I want there to be no shame between us, ever. I know that it's unseemly that I feel such passion. But I love you, Ned, and I love how I feel when you touch me."
"Don't talk anymore," he said and took her right breast in his hand. Lips parted, he attached himself to her nipple and kneaded and suckled and nibbled, making low noises in his throat, while she, with trembling fingers, tried to adjust her undergarments to make her most private self available to him.
But before she could open herself to him, his hips began to move in a jerky, circular pattern and before she knew what he was about, he had ejaculated in his trousers with a wrenching, gurgling moan. He fell away exhausted, breathing hard, and Susannah lay motionless, stunned, feeling that she had been cheated and, worse, that Edwin liked it this way.
The main house at Brisbane Farm was a rundown, two-storied, white clapboard structure, drawn out endlessly through porch, buttery, kitchens, ending in an immense woodhouse, empty now, but promising to be filled soon by the back-breaking labors of the faithful. It was the kind of farmhouse that made the dismal landscape seem even more dismal.
The community had come together two years before, dedicated to the premise that with the proper and equal distribution of labor, solutions could be found for all the problems of mankind. All the latent talents of every individual were to be realized, creating a perfect society where each man could be his best, his highest self.
Alas, at the time of the Snells' arrival, prosperity had not been one of the blessings bestowed upon the group. The previous winter had been a long one, partly because the weather had been bitter, and partly because the community had failed to plan realistically. By spring there was little left in the larder—some grain, a few dried berries and nuts, some apples strung on long coarse threads.
Edwin and Susannah both learned early on what it was like to be hungry, really hungry. Bread and water for breakfast; for dinner, at noon, bread again, perhaps a small portion of dried beans and salted pork, maybe a little milk. The few cows at Brisbane Farm were a sickly lot because their owners had failed to store enough fodder to see them through the winter.
Nonetheless, in spite of the grinding work that summer Edwin and Susannah delighted in the quiet times when they were free to explore the thoughts and dreams of their fellows.
As summer wore on into fall, Susannah maintained a balance, viewing the experience as a serious one but never losing her sense of humor about it. Deep in her heart she thought that maybe this experiment wasn't so great an idea after all. Her first impression of Brisbane Farm had been one of crushing stillness and desolation, as if she had stumbled upon a long deserted ghost town, but by fall she had come to realize that what she had mistaken for desolation was merely gross neglect coupled with human folly.
Edwin flung himself into the project with all the dedication of a true zealot. While his wife kept her own council, Edwin surrendered himself to the notion that all men were good by nature, that they could all live as brothers, seeking nothing more than the well-being of one another.
It was clear to Susannah that the more ambitious members of the community were not content just to provide for their brethren, but had begun to develop their own private ventures. And the unenergetic among them were happy to sit back and contribute no more than the bare essentials. Edwin saw none of this. Only love and human kindness and, overseeing all, a merciful and compassionate God.
One night, after they had made love, and lay side by side on their hard bunk, Susannah asked, as much of herself as of Edwin, "Do you think this is really going to work, Ned? For all our work, I don't think we have nearly enough food to last until spring." She took a breath. "We finished putting up the last of the pork today. There isn't much in the smokehouse or in the pork barrel, either." She waited. He said nothing. "Besides that," she said, "the fields show a poor yield."
Edwin stiffened beside her and when he answered, his disappointment in her was obvious. "To live independently," he said coldly, "we must be willing to make sacrifices. Don't you think that to get to the rainbow's end, we have to endure a few jolts along the way? You're going to have to learn to be more unselfish, Susannah. You are far too concerned about yourself."
Susannah was stricken by his reaction and vowed never again to question him about the quality of their existence at the farm. But deep down in her heart, she thought, a few jolts I could stand, Ned, if that's what you call them, but that doesn't include starving to death.
The morning came clear and cold, not cold enough for frost, but cold enough to feel the loss of summer. Edwin and some of the other members of the community had volunteered to go to Lexington that day to seek out new disciples for the farm and to solicit funds.
Looking for Susannah before he left, Edwin found her in the orchard picking up apple drops. He had decided that he had been unfair to her the night before. After all, how could she know that the success of this community had been guaranteed by a Power greater than any she could imagine. He had somehow failed to convince her that the farm represented all that was good in man. He should have been more patient with her. With prayer, perhaps he would find more tolerance.
He knelt beside he
r and took both her hands in his, surprised that he hadn't noticed before how rough and calloused they had become. Looking at her in the crisp morning light, it was as if he hadn't seen her for a long time. She had deep, purple smudges under her gray eyes. He battled with himself. How could this be true? How could she look so thin, so exhausted? How could he not have noticed before? But no, it couldn't be life on the farm that was wreaking such vengeance on her. She was happy and strong in the goodness of the Lord. Something else was wrong then. Not the farm. Never the farm.
He kissed the roughened hands. "You look so tired, Susannah. Are you ill? Something is wrong, I know, else why would you worry yourself about our life here?"
Susannah dropped her eyes. Oh God, Edwin, she thought, you're so blind. I can't be the one to tear down your castles. You have to see the failure here for yourself. Aloud, she said, "It's nothing to worry about, Ned. Only that I think I'm going to have a baby."
He was stunned. A baby. No wonder she looked so tired. It wasn't the farm at all that was draining her strength. He took her face in his hands. His baby. He was transported, elevated to a new height.
He gathered her in his arms and rocked her as if she were a child. Susannah sagged motionless against him, her eyes closed tight. He said, "I thank God, beloved wife, that I no longer need fear that my child will be born in corruption, drowned in inescapable sin." His voice rose. He was holding her more tightly now and she couldn't get her breath. She moved against him to try to free herself but he was unaware of her distress. "John Calvin was wrong, Susannah, all wrong."
His arms were like bands of iron. She was being crushed, and in real pain now she pushed hard against him. "Edwin, let go. You're hurting me." He didn't hear. At least he made no move to release her. The pressure on her chest was unbearable. What was he doing? "Edwin," she screamed, "I can't breathe."
