Jane Was Here (21 page)

Now the mail coach rattles by your view. Perhaps it will brush against the branches of the trees, and loosen the horse chestnuts, which rain upon the ground. Schoolboys pounce upon them. They look about for some hapless soul upon whom to launch their missiles, but the only strollers to appear are Mr. Henry Beecham the apothecary with the milliner on his arm. Now, the milliner was once married to Henry’s brother Clarence. Henry himself was a bachelor; they say he had long been in love with his brother’s wife and could not imagine marrying another. Last year, Clarence died of a sudden, and Henry was finally able to claim his bride. Of course, some viper tongues of the village whisper that Clarence died from a dram administered to him when he was ill with pleurisy – a medicine prepared by his brother the apothecary! But I believe, as in the Greek saying, that if you speak evil, soon you will be spoken worse of.

Do not dwell on the couple, though their happiness is a pleasant enough sight. Attend instead to an oxcart lumbering by. The driver seems to be an upright skeleton. Nay, it is Farmer Quirk, bringing a load of barley straw for the stablery. Flung carelessly on top is a deer carcass to sell to the butcher. Beside Mr. Quirk is his wife, who is universally pitied. Unknown to him are a pair of shanty boys who have slyly perched on the back of his wagon, hidden by the mound of hay, and who have rode all the way into town thus. The schoolboys espy the two stowaways, and hurl their chestnuts at them. Forthwith the shanty boys jump off the cart and the war begins. Do not open your window, or be pelted!

But do not leave your seat either, though my monologue may have grown tiresomely long. (Indeed, this letter’s many pages may produce a suspicious bulge in Letty’s apron pocket!) The boys will scatter anon, when a tall gray-haired gentleman comes along, escorting his two daughters. One is wrapped in a crimson shawl, and the other wears a blue pelisse and blue velvet bonnet with rose colored, watered silk lining. Pay utmost attention to this trio. Yield not to the distraction caused by a fancy barouche, pulled by a pair of sorrel prancers, which races by, its driver ignoring the recent town ordinance that forbids carriages to be driven through town at “an immoderate rate.” Why should he obey? He is Ellis Graynier, who does as he pleases. If his father is king, then Master Ellis is the crown prince. Many young women (even my sister Rebecca!) think him handsome. I am not of their number.

The tall gray-haired gentleman, who is my father Mr. Benjamin Pettigrew, pauses to tip his hat to his employer’s only son. My sister (in the crimson shawl) stares at the fine barouche, wishing Master Graynier would look her way. And I – please watch carefully – take advantage of their diversion to turn my face toward the house of the Widow Seeley. I am only a few steps from her window. Perhaps you are sitting behind it, and we may nod to each other discreetly.

I shall then turn back quickly to my father, who is anxious not to miss the service, and he marches us on to the Unitarian Church.

There! You may limp to your chamber now, having seen everything worth seeing in Graynier. I hope you will continue your progress to full health, and remember with forbearance

Your very silly
and long-winded friend,
Jane Pettigrew

Dear Mr. Trane,

Your sharp words pierced me to the heart. I realize now how childish and frivolous I must seem to you. Was it only three days ago that I paused before Widow Seeley’s window and glimpsed you through the glass? You shall laugh to know that, when our eyes met in silent signal, I imagined us to be kindred spirits. As usual, my fancy took the bit and galloped far ahead of my modesty. How right you are to upbraid me, for I am indeed as wayward a soul as you say, and greatly in need of spiritual instruction. Had I but considered your religious devotion, I should never have recommended Lord Byron’s volume for your reading pleasure. How could I have dreamed that you would share the literary tastes of a foolish, shallow, giddy young girl? Please believe that my object was never to offend you. I desire nothing more than your good opinion.

Permit me, thus, to explain myself, and so gain your forgiveness. I know precious little of the world, craving to travel beyond this dull and benighted town. I am naturally drawn to tales set in exotic places, such as Lord Byron’s poems evoke. How far away from Graynier is the realm of “The Bride of Abydos”! There Turkish Pashas preside over Harams, and force their veiled daughters to marry sultans when their hearts belong to lowly slaves, all ending in bloody death, and a virgin condemned to her grave! Perhaps you are correct in calling such stories “overly heated” (as is the Turkish climate, I infer) and admonishing me against reading such absurd romances. My father (the Pasha!) has already forbidden them. I do sometimes weep for my rebellious nature and the trouble it brings me.

Yet, if you will allow me a small protest, I wonder that you would call Lord Byron “blasphemous.” To be sure, his poem depicts Moslems, whose faith is abhorrent to all Christians and whose customs are barbaric. But cannot a poet write about such things, without being thought likewise depraved? He is not to blame for the sins of the Turkish sultans, with their palaces full of slaves – he merely portrays them. He is no different from Miss Harriet Beecher Stowe, who writes about slave-owners and the evil they sow. Is it not well that people read of such things, for how can evil be reversed if it goes unpublicized? Indeed one might add that it is our duty to acquaint ourselves with evil, for the devil makes easy prey of the ignorant.

It may be harsh, then, to style Lord Byron a blasphemer. Possibly when he was alive he did not observe Christian ritual. Nonetheless, it is so hard for me to believe he did not love God, this man who wrote, in the very same poem that you decry:

“When heart meets heart again in dream Elysian

And paints the lost on Earth revived in Heaven

Soft, as the memory of buried love,

Pure as the prayer which Childhood wafts above.”

You shall note that I have committed these lines to memory. Since I am forbidden to read Lord Byron’s books, and can only enjoy them in secret within Mrs. Seely’s wonderful library, it is only by memorizing their contents that I may carry them home, to read and read again, their pages imprinted to my mind – and no one is the wiser (except Rebecca, who clamors for my recitations)!

Yet for you, sir, I will foreswear Lord Byron, and read no more of fevered passions and battles and virgin-filled graves. I will not even call him “Lord” for there is only one Lord, and He is the Lord our God. Only do please forgive

Your penitent friend,
Jane Pettigrew

P.S. I am also most fond of Mr. Shelley’s poetry. Do you consider him godly? Dear Mr. Trane, you see how terribly I am in need of a teacher!

Dear Mr. Trane,

I am glad your shoulder has healed so impressively. I trust your prayers shall prove as successful for your leg!

Thank you for sending Mr. Artzuni’s tract. It is an utterly thrilling account. How fearful and awesome, to be chosen by our Creator for such a mission, to feel the Holy Spirit actually moving and speaking inside one, to receive the gift of prophecy and the call to gather disciples. How sublime, above all, to know the purpose of one’s life, and to follow where it leads, no matter what trials and recriminations pursue. I envy the extraordinary Mr. Artzuni, and you his followers, for your freedom to cry Yes I will, Lord! and leave dull existence behind. If only my insignificant life could be so lifted and ennobled by divine imperative, I would give my soul to have such faith (but who would even want my little trifle of a soul? If anyone did, he is more probably the devil than God!).

Since I first heard you speak, I have been abashed by your purity of faith. That you can believe sinless perfection to be attainable, when I can scarcely imagine it, has made me feel, in a word, lost – while you wake each day to know you belong to something great and right.

Please tell me more of Gabriel Nation. You must be so impatient to rejoin your fellow believers in Hovey Pond. I am sure Mr. Artzuni is right, that human perfection can only be achieved by retreating from the larger community of man, in small groups of the faithful, where one can intensify one’s efforts to be pure. When I read these words in his tract, I felt them in my deepest self to be true: “The Almighty is assembling His chosen children for a new birth, when they will embody His angels on earth.” How lucky you are to be among that beautiful brigade!

I must confess, however, I was a bit dismayed when I read of the manner of worship in your group: contortions and convulsions, falling to the ground, shrieking &c. It sounded much like the Methodists, whom I like not at all. I have read some of Mr. John Wesley’s tracts, and cannot bring myself to believe that we must first be taught to loathe ourselves before we can be sanctified! I do not hold hatred to be any part of Christ’s gospel. I’m certain that Gabriel Nation must be different, since in your speech you spoke so inspiringly about love. (And I suppose if I could truly, truly feel God’s love in me, I too should fall to the ground!).

Will you next write to me how you met Mr. Artzuni? I notice that the printer’s name at the bottom of his tract is Trane & Sons of Philadelphia. Are you related to the same?

I trust Mrs. Seeley is keeping you cheerful and well blanketed against the chill of these past days. I have instructed Letty to give you a piece of her incomparable gingerbread along with this note from

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.