Illustrations associated with this text
Letters & Photographs
The Country of the Pointed Firs
Sarah Orne Jewett
Chapters
12-15
.
XII. A STRANGE SAIL.
[ Contents ]
EXCEPT FOR a few stray guests,
islanders or from the inland country, to whom Mrs. Todd offered
the hospitalities of a single meal, we were quite by ourselves
all summer; and when there were signs of invasion, late in July,
and a certain Mrs. Fosdick appeared like a strange sail on the
far horizon, I suffered much from apprehension. I had been
living in the quaint little house with as much comfort and
unconsciousness as if it were a larger body, or a double shell,
in whose simple convolutions Mrs. Todd and I had secreted
ourselves, until some wandering hermit crab of a visitor marked
the little spare room for her own. Perhaps now and then a
castaway on a lonely desert island dreads the thought of being
rescued. I heard of Mrs. Fosdick for the first time with a
selfish sense of objection; but after all, I was still
vacation-tenant of the schoolhouse, where I could always be
alone, and it was impossible not to sympathize with Mrs. Todd,
who, in spite of some preliminary grumbling, was really
delighted with the prospect of entertaining an old friend.
For nearly a month we received
occasional news of Mrs. Fosdick, who seemed to be making a royal
progress from house to house in the inland neighborhood, after
the fashion of Queen Elizabeth.* One Sunday after another came
and went, disappointing Mrs. Todd in the hope of seeing her
guest at church and fixing the day for the great visit to begin;
but Mrs. Fosdick was not ready to commit herself to a date. An
assurance of " some time this week" was not sufficiently
definite from a free-footed housekeeper's point of view, and
Mrs. Todd put aside all herb-gathering plans, and went through
the various stages of expectation, provocation, and despair. At
last she was ready to believe that Mrs. Fosdick must have
forgotten her promise and returned to her home, which was
vaguely said to be over Thomaston way.* But one evening, just as
the supper-table was cleared and "readied up," and Mrs. Todd had
put her large apron over her head and stepped forth for an
evening stroll in the garden, the unexpected happened. She heard
the sound of wheels, and gave an excited cry to me, as I sat by
the window, that Mrs. Fosdick was coming right up the street.
"She may not be considerate, but she's
dreadful good company," said Mrs. Todd hastily, coming back a
few steps from the neighborhood of the gate. "No, she
ain't a mite considerate, but there's a small lobster left over
from your tea; yes, it's a real mercy there's a lobster. Susan
Fosdick might just as well have passed the compliment
o' comin' an hour ago."
"Perhaps she has had her supper," I
ventured to suggest, sharing the housekeeper's anxiety, and
meekly conscious of an inconsiderate appetite for my own supper
after a long expedition up the bay. There were so few
emergencies of any sort at Dunnet Landing that this one
appeared overwhelming.
"No, she's rode 'way over from
Nahum Brayton's place. I expect they were busy on the
farm, and couldn't spare the horse in proper season. You just
sly out an' set the teakittle on again, dear, an' drop in
a good han'ful o' chips; the fire's all alive. I'll take
her right up to lay off her things, an' she'll be occupied with
explanations an' gettin' her bunnit off, so you'll
have plenty o' time. She's one I shouldn't like to have find me
unprepared."
Mrs. Fosdick was already at the gate,
and Mrs. Todd now turned with an air of complete surprise and
delight to welcome her.
"Why, Susan Fosdick," I heard her
exclaim in a fine unhindered voice, as if she were calling
across a field, "I come near giving of you up! I was afraid
you'd gone an' 'portioned out my visit to somebody else. I
s'pose you've been to supper?"
" Lor', no, I ain't,
Almiry Todd," said Mrs. Fosdick cheerfully, as she turned, laden
with bags and bundles, from making her adieux to the boy driver.
"I ain't had a mite o' supper, dear. I've been
lottin' all the way on a cup o' that best tea o' yourn, --
some o' that Oolong you keep in the little chist.* I don't want
none o' your useful herbs."
"I keep that tea for ministers'
folks," gayly responded Mrs. Todd. "Come right along in,
Susan Fosdick. I declare if you ain't the same old
sixpence!"
As they came up the walk together,
laughing like girls, I fled, full of cares, to the kitchen, to
brighten the fire and be sure that the lobster, sole dependence
of a late supper, was well out of reach of the cat. There proved
to be fine reserves of wild raspberries and bread and butter, so
that I regained my composure, and waited impatiently for my own
share of this illustrious visit to begin. There was an instant
sense of high festivity in the evening air from the moment when
our guest had so frankly demanded the Oolong tea.
The great moment arrived. I was
formally presented at the stair-foot, and the two friends passed
on to the kitchen, where I soon heard a hospitable clink of
crockery and the brisk stirring of a tea-cup. I sat in my
high-backed rocking-chair by the window in the front room with
an unreasonable feeling of being left out, like the child who
stood at the gate in Hans Andersen's story.* Mrs. Fosdick did
not look, at first sight, like a person of great social gifts.
She was a serious-looking little bit of an old woman, with a
birdlike nod of the head. I had often been told that she was the
"best hand in the world to make a visit," -- as if to visit were
the highest of vocations; that everybody wished for her, while
few could get her; and I saw that Mrs. Todd felt a comfortable
sense of distinction in being favored with the company of this
eminent person who "knew just how." It was certainly true that
Mrs. Fosdick gave both her hostess and me a warm feeling of
enjoyment and expectation, as if she had the power of social
suggestion to all neighboring minds.
The two friends did not reappear for
at least an hour. I could hear their busy voices, loud and low
by turns, as they ranged from public to confidential topics. At
last Mrs. Todd kindly remembered me and returned, giving my door
a ceremonious knock before she stepped in, with the small
visitor in her wake. She reached behind her and took Mrs.
Fosdick's hand as if she were young and bashful, and gave her a
gentle pull forward.
"There, I don't know whether
you're goin' to take to each other or not; no, nobody
can't tell whether you'll suit each other, but I expect you'll
get along some way, both having seen the world," said our
affectionate hostess. "You can inform Mis' Fosdick how we
found the folks out to Green Island the other day. She's always
been well acquainted with mother. I'll slip out now an' put away
the supper things an' set my bread to rise, if you'll both
excuse me. You can come out an' keep me company when you get
ready, either or both." And Mrs. Todd, large and amiable,
disappeared and left us.
Being furnished not only with a
subject of conversation, but with a safe refuge in the kitchen
in case of incompatibility, Mrs. Fosdick and I sat down,
prepared to make the best of each other. I soon discovered that
she, like many of the elder women of that coast, had spent a
part of her life at sea, and was full of a good traveler's
curiosity and enlightenment. By the time we thought it discreet
to join our hostess we were already sincere friends.
You may speak of a visit's setting in
as well as a tide's, and it was impossible, as Mrs. Todd
whispered to me, not to be pleased at the way this visit was
setting in; a new impulse and refreshing of the social currents
and seldom visited bays of memory appeared to have begun. Mrs.
Fosdick had been the mother of a large family of sons and
daughters, -- sailors and sailors' wives, -- and most of them
had died before her. I soon grew more or less acquainted with
the histories of all their fortunes and misfortunes, and
subjects of an intimate nature were no more withheld from my
ears than if I had been a shell on the mantelpiece. Mrs. Fosdick
was not without a touch of dignity and elegance; she was
fashionable in her dress, but it was a curiously well-preserved
provincial fashion of some years back. In a wider sphere one
might have called her a woman of the world, with her unexpected
bits of modern knowledge, but Mrs. Todd's wisdom was an
intimation of truth itself. She might belong to any age, like
an idyl of Theocritus;* but while she always understood
Mrs. Fosdick, that entertaining pilgrim could not always
understand Mrs. Todd.
That very first evening my friends
plunged into a borderless sea of reminiscences and personal
news. Mrs. Fosdick had been staying with a family who owned the
farm where she was born, and she had visited every sunny knoll
and shady field corner; but when she said that it might be for
the last time, I detected in her tone something expectant of the
contradiction which Mrs. Todd promptly offered.
" Almiry," said Mrs. Fosdick, with
sadness, "you may say what you like, but I am one of nine
brothers and sisters brought up on the old place, and we're all
dead but me."
"Your sister Dailey ain't gone,
is she? Why, no, Louisa ain't gone!" exclaimed Mrs. Todd,
with surprise. "Why, I never heard of that occurrence!"
" Yes'm; she passed away last October,
in Lynn.* She had made her distant home in Vermont State, but
she was making a visit to her youngest daughter. Louisa was the
only one of my family whose funeral I wasn't able to attend, but
'twas a mere accident. All the rest of us were settled right
about home. I thought it was very slack of ' em in Lynn not to
fetch her to the old place; but when I came to hear about it, I
learned that they'd recently put up a very elegant monument, and
my sister Dailey was always great for show. She'd just been out
to see the monument the week before she was taken down, and
admired it so much that they felt sure of her wishes."
"So she's really gone, and the funeral
was up to Lynn!" repeated Mrs. Todd, as if to impress the sad
fact upon her mind. "She was some years younger than we be, too.
I recollect the first day she ever came to school; 'twas that
first year mother sent me inshore to stay with aunt
Topham's folks and get my schooling. You fetched little Louisa
to school one Monday mornin' in a pink dress an' her long
curls, and she set between you an' me, and got cryin'
after a while, so the teacher sent us home with her at recess."
"She was scared of seeing so many
children about her; there was only her and me and brother John
at home then; the older boys were to sea with father, an' the
rest of us wa'n't born," explained Mrs. Fosdick. "That
next fall we all went to sea together. Mother was uncertain till
the last minute, as one may say. The ship was waiting orders,
but the baby that then was, was born just in time, and there was
a long spell of extra bad weather, so mother got about again
before they had to sail, an' we all went. I remember my clothes
were all left ashore in the east chamber in a basket where
mother'd took them out o' my chist o' drawers an' left '
em ready to carry aboard. She didn't have nothing aboard, of her
own, that she wanted to cut up for me, so when my dress wore out
she just put me into a spare suit o' John's, jacket and
trousers. I wasn't but eight years old an' he was most
seven and large of his age. Quick as we made a port she went
right ashore an' fitted me out pretty, but we was bound for the
East Indies and didn't put in anywhere for a good while. So I
had quite a spell o' freedom. Mother made my new skirt long
because I was growing, and I poked about the deck after that,
real discouraged, feeling the hem at my heels every minute, and
as if youth was past and gone. I liked the trousers best; I used
to climb the riggin' with ' em and frighten mother till
she said an' vowed she'd never take me to sea again.["]
I thought by the polite absent-minded
smile on Mrs. Todd's face this was no new story.
"Little Louisa was a beautiful child;
yes, I always thought Louisa was very pretty," Mrs. Todd said.
"She was a dear little girl in those days. She favored your
mother; the rest of you took after your father's folks."
"We did certain," agreed Mrs. Fosdick,
rocking steadily. "There, it does seem so pleasant to talk with
an old acquaintance that knows what you know. I see so many of
these new folks nowadays, that seem to have neither past nor
future. Conversation's got to have some root in the past, or
else you've got to explain every remark you make, an' it wears a
person out."
Mrs. Todd gave a funny little laugh. "
Yes'm, old friends is always best, 'less you can catch a new one
that's fit to make an old one out of," she said, and we gave an
affectionate glance at each other which Mrs. Fosdick could not
have understood, being the latest comer to the house.
Notes for Chapter 12
the fashion of Queen Elizabeth: Elizabeth I of England
(1533-1603) reigned from 1558 until her death. Her frequent
Royal Progresses were one way of exhibiting and sustaining her
authority.
Thomaston: Thomaston is northeast of Portland on
the coast of Maine, not far from Martinsville, in the area
biographers believe Jewett had in mind as the setting for this
novel..
oolong: Encarta explains different kinds of
tea: "Leaf buds and young leaves are used in making tea,
the age of the leaves determining the taste and name of the
particular commercial variety. Thus, orange pekoe is made from
the youngest leaves, and souchong from the fourth leaves.
After picking, the leaves either are dried immediately and
completely to produce green teas-such as pan-fired,
basket-fired, hyson, and gunpowder-or are partially dried and
then allowed to ferment to produce various kinds of black teas,
such as orange pekoe, pekoe, congou, and souchong. Oolong
tea is partially fired and then steamed, thus being
intermediate between green and black teas. After being sorted,
all grades of tea are packed in foil-lined chests to prevent the
absorption of unpleasant odors or the loss of aroma during
shipment. In China, tea is sometimes allowed to absorb the scent
from various flowers; jasmine is a particular favorite."
child who stood at the gate in Hans Andersen's story:
Hans Christian Andersen (1805-1875) was a popular Danish writer
of novels, stories, and fairy-tales. The figure of a left out
child waiting at a gate appears in several of his stories,
including "What the Moon Saw" (Nineteenth Evening) and "Lucky
Peer."
idyl of Theocritus: Theocritus was a
Hellenistic Greek poet in about 270 B.C. He is credited with
inventing pastoral poetry.
Lynn: An industrial town in northeastern
Massachusetts.
XIII. POOR JOANNA.
[ Contents ]
ONE EVENING my ears caught a
mysterious allusion which Mrs. Todd made to Shell-heap Island.
It was a chilly night of cold northeasterly rain, and I made a
fire for the first time in the Franklin stove* in my room, and
begged my two housemates to come in and keep me company. The
weather had convinced Mrs. Todd that it was time to make a
supply of cough-drops, and she had been bringing forth herbs
from dark and dry hiding-places, until now the pungent dust and
odor of them had resolved themselves into one mighty flavor of
spearmint that came from a simmering caldron of syrup in the
kitchen.* She called it done, and well done, and had
ostentatiously left it to cool, and taken her knitting-work
because Mrs. Fosdick was busy with hers. They sat in the two
rocking-chairs, the small woman and the large one, but now and
then I could see that Mrs. Todd's thoughts remained with the
cough-drops. The time of gathering herbs was nearly over, but
the time of syrups and cordials had begun.
The heat of the open fire made us a
little drowsy, but something in the way Mrs. Todd spoke of
Shell-heap Island waked my interest. I waited to see if she
would say any more, and then took a roundabout way back to the
subject by saying what was first in my mind: that I wished the
Green Island family were there to spend the evening with us, --
Mrs. Todd's mother and her brother William.
Mrs. Todd smiled, and drummed on the
arm of the rocking-chair. "Might scare William to death," she
warned me; and Mrs. Fosdick mentioned her intention of going out
to Green Island to stay two or three days, if this wind didn't
make too much sea.
"Where is Shell-heap Island?" I
ventured to ask, seizing the opportunity.
"Bears nor'east somewheres about
three miles from Green Island; right off-shore, I should call it
about eight miles out," said Mrs. Todd. "You never was there,
dear; 'tis off the thoroughfares, and a very bad place to land
at best."
"I should think 'twas," agreed Mrs.
Fosdick, smoothing down her black silk apron. " 'Tis a place
worth visitin' when you once get there. Some o' the old
folks was kind o' fearful about it. 'Twas 'counted a great
place in old Indian times; you can pick up their stone tools
'most any time if you hunt about. There's a beautiful spring o'
water, too. Yes, I remember when they used to tell queer stories
about Shell-heap Island. Some said 'twas a great
bangeing-place for the Indians,* and an old chief resided there
once that ruled the winds; and others said they'd always heard
that once the Indians come down from up country an' left a
captive there without any bo't, an' 'twas too far to swim
across to Black Island, so called, an' he lived there till he
perished."
"I've heard say he walked the island
after that, and sharp-sighted folks could see him an' lose him
like one o' them citizens Cap'n Littlepage was acquainted
with up to the north pole," announced Mrs. Todd grimly. "Anyway,
there was Indians, -- you can see their shell-heap that named
the island; and I've heard myself that 'twas one o' their
cannibal places, but I never could believe it. There never was
no cannibals on the coast o' Maine. All the Indians o' these
regions are tame-looking folks."*
"Sakes alive, yes!" exclaimed Mrs.
Fosdick. "Ought to see them painted savages I've seen when I was
young out in the South Sea Islands! That was the time for folks
to travel, 'way back in the old whalin' days!"
" Whalin' must have been dull for a
lady, hardly ever makin' a lively port, and not
takin' in any mixed cargoes," said Mrs. Todd. "I never desired
to go a whalin' v'y'ge myself."
"I used to return feelin' very
slack an' behind the times, 'tis true," explained Mrs. Fosdick,
"but 'twas excitin', an' we always done extra well, and
felt rich when we did get ashore. I liked the variety. There,
how times have changed; how few seafarin' families there
are left! What a lot o' queer folks there used to be about here,
anyway, when we was young, Almiry. Everybody's just like
everybody else, now; nobody to laugh about, and nobody to cry
about."
It seemed to me that there were
peculiarities of character in the region of Dunnet Landing
yet, but I did not like to interrupt.
"Yes," said Mrs. Todd after a moment
of meditation, "there was certain a good many curiosities of
human natur' in this neighborhood years ago. There was
more energy then, and in some the energy took a singular turn.
In these days the young folks is all copy-cats, ' fraid to death
they won't be all just alike; as for the old folks, they pray
for the advantage o' bein' a little different."
"I ain't heard of a copy-cat
this great many years," said Mrs. Fosdick, laughing; "'twas a
favorite term o' my grandmother's. No, I wa'n't thinking
o' those things, but of them strange straying creatur's
that used to rove the country. You don't see them now, or the
ones that used to hive away in their own houses with some
strange notion or other."
I thought again of Captain
Littlepage, but my companions were not reminded of his name; and
there was brother William at Green Island, whom we all three
knew.
"I was talking o' poor Joanna the
other day. I hadn't thought of her for a great while," said Mrs.
Fosdick abruptly. " Mis' Brayton an' I recalled her as we
sat together sewing. She was one o' your peculiar persons,
wa'n't she? Speaking of such persons," she turned to explain to
me, "there was a sort of a nun or hermit person lived out there
for years all alone on Shell-heap Island. Miss Joanna Todd, her
name was, -- a cousin o' Almiry's late husband."
I expressed my interest, but as I
glanced at Mrs. Todd I saw that she was confused by sudden
affectionate feeling and unmistakable desire for reticence.
"I never want to hear Joanna laughed
about," she said anxiously.
"Nor I," answered Mrs. Fosdick
reassuringly. "She was crossed in love, -- that was all the
matter to begin with; but as I look back, I can see that Joanna
was one doomed from the first to fall into a melancholy. She
retired from the world for good an' all, though she was a
well-off woman. All she wanted was to get away from folks; she
thought she wasn't fit to live with anybody, and wanted to be
free. Shell-heap Island come to her from her father, and first
thing folks knew she'd gone off out there to live, and left word
she didn't want no company. 'Twas a bad place to get to,
unless the wind an' tide were just right; 'twas hard work to
make a landing."
"What time of year was this?" I asked.
"Very late in the summer," said Mrs.
Fosdick. "No, I never could laugh at Joanna, as some did. She
set everything by the young man, an' they were going to marry in
about a month, when he got bewitched with a girl 'way up the
bay, and married her, and went off to Massachusetts. He wasn't
well thought of, -- there were those who thought Joanna's money
was what had tempted him; but she'd given him her whole heart,
an' she wa'n't so young as she had been. All her hopes
were built on marryin', an' havin' a real home and
somebody to look to; she acted just like a bird when its nest is
spoilt. The day after she heard the news she was in dreadful
woe, but the next she came to herself very quiet, and took the
horse and wagon, and drove fourteen miles to the lawyer's, and
signed a paper givin' her half of the farm to her brother.
They never had got along very well together, but he didn't want
to sign it, till she acted so distressed that he gave in. Edward
Todd's wife was a good woman, who felt very bad indeed, and used
every argument with Joanna; but Joanna took a poor old boat that
had been her father's and lo'ded in a few things, and off
she put all alone, with a good land breeze, right out to sea.
Edward Todd ran down to the beach, an' stood there cryin'
like a boy to see her go, but she was out o' hearin'. She
never stepped foot on the mainland again long as she lived."
"How large an island is it? How did
she manage in winter?" I asked.
"Perhaps thirty acres, rocks and all,"
answered Mrs. Todd, taking up the story gravely. "There can't be
much of it that the salt spray don't fly over in storms. No,
'tis a dreadful small place to make a world of; it has a
different look from any of the other islands, but there's a
sheltered cove on the south side, with mud-flats across one end
of it at low water where there's excellent clams, and the big
shell-heap keeps some o' the wind off a little house her father
took the trouble to build when he was a young man. They said
there was an old house built o' logs there before that, with a
kind of natural cellar in the rock under it. He used to stay out
there days to a time, and anchor a little sloop he had, and dig
clams to fill it, and sail up to Portland. They said the dealers
always gave him an extra price, the clams were so noted. Joanna
used to go out and stay with him. They were always great
companions, so she knew just what 'twas out there. There was a
few sheep that belonged to her brother an' her, but she
bargained for him to come and get them on the edge o' cold
weather. Yes, she desired him to come for the sheep; an' his
wife thought perhaps Joanna'd return, but he said no,
an' lo'ded the bo't with warm things an' what he
thought she'd need through the winter. He come home with the
sheep an' left the other things by the house, but she never so
much as looked out o' the window. She done it for a penance. She
must have wanted to see Edward by that time."
Mrs. Fosdick was fidgeting with
eagerness to speak.
"Some thought the first cold snap
would set her ashore, but she always remained," concluded Mrs.
Todd soberly.
"Talk about the men not having any
curiosity!" exclaimed Mrs. Fosdick scornfully. "Why, the waters
round Shell-heap Island were white with sails all that
fall. 'Twas never called no great of a
fishin'-ground before. Many of ' em made excuse to go ashore to
get water at the spring; but at last she spoke to a bo't-load,
very dignified and calm, and said that she'd like it better if
they'd make a practice of getting water to Black Island or
somewheres else and leave her alone, except in case of accident
or trouble. But there was one man who had always set everything
by her from a boy. He'd have married her if the other hadn't
come about an' spoilt his chance, and he used to get close to
the island, before light, on his way out fishin', and
throw a little bundle 'way up the green slope front o' the
house. His sister told me she happened to see, the first time,
what a pretty choice he made o' useful things that a woman would
feel lost without. He stood off fishin', and could see
them in the grass all day, though sometimes she'd come out and
walk right by them. There was other bo'ts near, out after
mackerel. But early next morning his present was gone. He didn't
presume too much, but once he took her a nice firkin o' things
he got up to Portland, and when spring come he landed her a hen
and chickens in a nice little coop. There was a good many old
friends had Joanna on their minds."
"Yes," said Mrs. Todd, losing her sad
reserve in the growing sympathy of these reminiscences. "How
everybody used to notice whether there was smoke out of the
chimney! The Black Island folks could see her with their
spy-glass, and if they'd ever missed getting some sign o' life
they'd have sent notice to her folks. But after the first year
or two Joanna was more and more forgotten as an every-day
charge. Folks lived very simple in those days, you know," she
continued, as Mrs. Fosdick's knitting was taking much thought at
the moment. "I expect there was always plenty of driftwood
thrown up, and a poor failin' patch of spruces covered all
the north side of the island, so she always had something to
burn. She was very fond of workin' in the garden ashore,
and that first summer she began to till the little field out
there, and raised a nice parcel o' potatoes. She could fish, o'
course, and there was all her clams an' lobsters. You can always
live well in any wild place by the sea when you'd starve to
death up country, except 'twas berry time. Joanna had berries
out there, blackberries at least, and there was a few herbs in
case she needed them. Mullein in great quantities and a plant o'
wormwood I remember seeing once when I stayed there, long before
she fled out to Shell-heap. Yes, I recall the wormwood, which is
always a planted herb, so there must have been folks there
before the Todds' day. A growin' bush makes the best
gravestone; I expect that wormwood always stood for somebody's
solemn monument. Catnip, too, is a very endurin' herb
about an old place."*
"But what I want to know is what she
did for other things," interrupted Mrs. Fosdick. " Almiry, what
did she do for clothin' when she needed to replenish,
or risin' for her bread, or the piece-bag that no woman
can live long without?"*
"Or company," suggested Mrs. Todd.
"Joanna was one that loved her friends. There must have been a
terrible sight o' long winter evenin's that first year."
"There was her hens," suggested Mrs.
Fosdick, after reviewing the melancholy situation. "She never
wanted the sheep after that first season. There wa'n't no
proper pasture for sheep after the June grass was past, and she
ascertained the fact and couldn't bear to see them suffer; but
the chickens done well. I remember sailin' by one spring
afternoon, an' seein' the coops out front o' the house in
the sun. How long was it before you went out with the minister?
You were the first ones that ever really got ashore to see
Joanna."
I had been reflecting upon a state of
society which admitted such personal freedom and a voluntary
hermitage. There was something mediæval in the behavior of
poor Joanna Todd under a disappointment of the heart. The two
women had drawn closer together, and were talking on, quite
unconscious of a listener.
"Poor Joanna!" said Mrs. Todd again,
and sadly shook her head as if there were things one could not
speak about.
"I called her a great fool," declared
Mrs. Fosdick, with spirit, "but I pitied her then, and I pity
her far more now. Some other minister would have been a great
help to her, -- one that preached self-forgetfulness and
doin' for others to cure our own ills; but Parson Dimmick
was a vague person, well meanin', but very numb in
his feelin's. I don't suppose at that troubled time Joanna
could think of any way to mend her troubles except to run off
and hide."
"Mother used to say she didn't see how
Joanna lived without having nobody to do for, getting her own
meals and tending her own poor self day in an' day out," said
Mrs. Todd sorrowfully.
"There was the hens," repeated Mrs.
Fosdick kindly. "I expect she soon came to makin' folks o'
them. No, I never went to work to blame Joanna, as some did. She
was full o' feeling, and her troubles hurt her more than she
could bear. I see it all now as I couldn't when I was young."
"I suppose in old times they had their
shut-up convents for just such folks," said Mrs. Todd, as if she
and her friend had disagreed about Joanna once, and were now in
happy harmony. She seemed to speak with new openness and
freedom. "Oh yes, I was only too pleased when the Reverend
Mr. Dimmick invited me to go out with him. He hadn't been
very long in the place when Joanna left home and friends.
'Twas one day that next summer after she went, and I had been
married early in the spring. He felt that he ought to go out and
visit her. She was a member of the church, and might wish to
have him consider her spiritual state. I wa'n't so sure o'
that, but I always liked Joanna, and I'd come to be her cousin
by marriage. Nathan an' I had conversed about goin' out to
pay her a visit, but he got his chance to sail sooner 'n he
expected. He always thought everything of her, and last time he
come home, knowing nothing of her change, he brought her a
beautiful coral pin from a port he'd touched at somewheres up
the Mediterranean. So I wrapped the little box in a nice piece
of paper and put it in my pocket, and picked her a bunch of
fresh lemon balm, and off we started." *
Mrs. Fosdick laughed. "I
remember hearin' about your trials on the v'y'ge,"
she said.
"Why, yes," continued Mrs. Todd in her
company manner. "I picked her the balm, an' we started. Why,
yes, Susan, the minister liked to have cost me my life that day.
He would fasten the sheet, though I advised against it. He said
the rope was rough an' cut his hand. There was a fresh breeze,
an' he went on talking rather high flown, an' I felt some
interested. All of a sudden there come up a gust, and he gave a
screech and stood right up and called for help, 'way out there
to sea. I knocked him right over into the bottom o' the
bo't, getting by to catch hold of the sheet an' untie it. He
wasn't but a little man; I helped him right up after the squall
passed, and made a handsome apology to him, but he did act kind
o' offended."
"I do think they ought not to settle
them landlocked folks in parishes where they're liable to be on
the water," insisted Mrs. Fosdick. "Think of the families in our
parish that was scattered all about the bay, and what a sight o'
sails you used to see, in Mr. Dimmick's day, standing
across to the mainland on a pleasant Sunday morning, filled with
church-going folks, all sure to want him some time or other! You
couldn't find no doctor that would stand up in the boat and
screech if a flaw struck her."
"Old Dr. Bennett had a beautiful
sailboat, didn't he?" responded Mrs. Todd. "And how well he used
to brave the weather! Mother always said that in time o' trouble
that tall white sail used to look like an angel's wing
comin' over the sea to them that was in pain.* Well, there's a
difference in gifts. Mr. Dimmick was not without light."
" 'Twas light o' the moon, then,"
snapped Mrs. Fosdick; "he was pompous enough, but I never could
remember a single word he said. There, go on, Mis' Todd; I
forget a great deal about that day you went to see poor Joanna."
"I felt she saw us coming, and knew us
a great way off; yes, I seemed to feel it within me," said our
friend, laying down her knitting. "I kept my seat, and took
the bo't inshore without saying a word; there was a short
channel that I was sure Mr. Dimmick wasn't acquainted
with, and the tide was very low. She never came out to warn us
off nor anything, and I thought, as I hauled the bo't up
on a wave and let the Reverend Mr. Dimmick step out, that
it was somethin' gained to be safe ashore. There was a
little smoke out o' the chimney o' Joanna's house, and it did
look sort of homelike and pleasant with wild mornin'-glory
vines trained up; an' there was a plot o' flowers under the
front window, portulacas and things. I believe she'd made
a garden once, when she was stopping there with her father, and
some things must have seeded in. It looked as if she might have
gone over to the other side of the island. 'Twas neat and
pretty all about the house, and a lovely day in July. We walked
up from the beach together very sedate, and I felt for poor
Nathan's little pin to see if 'twas safe in my dress pocket. All
of a sudden Joanna come right to the fore door and stood there,
not sayin' a word.["]
Notes for Chapter 13
spearmint: One of many kinds of mint. Almira may be
using spruce bark or actual spearmint in her syrup. Wetzel
points out that Menthaspicata is a perennial with
aromatic foliage, 24", used for stomach tonic, headache, stings.
Franklin stove: type of wood-burning stove, invented by
Benjamin Franklin (c. 1740). The Franklin stove burned wood on a
grate and had sliding doors that could be used to control the
draft (flow of air) through it. Because the stove was relatively
small, it could be installed in a large fireplace or used
free-standing in the middle of a room by connecting it to a
flue. Its design influenced the potbellied stove. (Source: Britannica
Online; research, Barbara Martens)
bangeing place: Though often defined as to idle or loaf,
sometimes in the sense of taking advantage of someone's
hospitality, Josephine Donovan points out that in current usage,
the word may not have such moralistic implications. Donovan says
that a bangeing place "is simply a gathering place, like a
village store," a place to "hang out."(See "Jewett on Race,
Class, Ethnicity, and Imperialism: A Reply to her Critics." Colby
Quarterly 38:4 (December 2002), 413.
cannibal places: Jewett indicates that she had
been reading Francis Parkman's The Jesuits in North America
(1867) in about 1875, when she published her story/essay, "Tame
Indians." She refers to Parkman again in Betty
Leicester (1890) and in "The Old Town of Berwick"
(1894). She probably was acquainted with Katharine
Coolidge, Parkman's daughter, though Annie Fields (See
Blanchard, 213).
In his book, Parkman recounts many instances
of cannibalism among the Algonquin groups that occupied much of
New England and the Great Lakes region. Not only did they
practice ritual cannibalism, eating portions of the bodies of
captured, tortured, and slain enemies, but in his accounts from
the Jesuit Relations, they also used cannibalism as a
means of terrorizing captives. For example, he repeats one
story of Iroquois killing and eating captive infants to
terrorize their mothers (Chapter 17). While the Indians
Mrs. Todd has seen look like "tame folks," Jewett and her
readers would be well-aware of the history of these people as
told by Parkman and others.
However, Parkman's characterizations may have
spread too wide. David Stewart-Smith, in his Ph.D.
dissertation, The Pennacook Indians and the New England
Frontier, circa 1604-1733 (1998), says "The charge of
canniablism among the New England Indians has been repudiated by
Algonquian scholars and native ethnohistorians and has been held
as a dividing line between Algonquian and Iroquoian peoples
historically." He points to Neal Salisbury, Manitou
and Providence (1982) and Francis Jennings, The
Invasion of America (1976), (109n).
mullein ... wormwood ... catnip: Mullein is also
called flannel leaf or velvet plant; it is tall with clustered
yellow flowers and downy leaves. As an herb it is used for
colds and coughs. Wetzel says that Verbascum thapsis,
also called Aaron’s rod, grows to 6 feet, and blooms in late
summer. Wormwood Artemisia absinthium, is a bitter-flavored
herb used in medicinal tea and to flavor absinthe; medicinal
uses are multiple and, traditionlly, included treating labor
pain and indigestion. The pure oil is poisonous.
Catnip (many species of the genus Nepeta) is a kind of
mint that is attractive to cats; it has been used to soothe
people who have fits, because of its mild sedative effect.
piece-bag: a cloth bag for carrying sewing
materials, such as quilt patches, fabric pieces, patterns, and
other soft items.
lemon balm: Melissa officinalis is a
lemon-scented member of the mint family. It has small light blue
to white flowers. Lemon balm is used as a tonic and to relieve
headaches. Wetzel says this is a perennial with
lemon-scented leaves, growing to 24”; used "to relax sinews in
bath, induce calm, treat boils, expel afterbirth."
like an angel's wing . . . pain: There are frequent
references in the Bible to being comforted under the wings of
God or angels. See Psalms 61 for one example. And there is a
possible echo in the third verse of Charles Wesley's "Hark! The
Herald Angels Sing," from Hymns and Sacred Poems
(1739): Hail! the Son of Righteousness! / Light and life to all
he brings, / Risen with healing in his wings / Mild he lays his
glory by. . . . " This verse refers to Malachi 4:1-2,
which tells of a day when God will judge with fire and pain the
proud and wicked, but the sun of righteousness will arise "with
healing in his wings," for those who fear the lord.
XIV. THE HERMITAGE.
[ Contents ]
MY COMPANIONS and I had been so intent
upon the subject of the conversation that we had not heard any
one open the gate, but at this moment, above the noise of the
rain, we heard a loud knocking. We were all startled as we sat
by the fire, and Mrs. Todd rose hastily and went to answer the
call, leaving her rocking-chair in violent motion. Mrs. Fosdick
and I heard an anxious voice at the door speaking of a sick
child, and Mrs. Todd's kind, motherly voice inviting the
messenger in: then we waited in silence. There was a sound of
heavy dropping of rain from the eaves, and the distant roar and
undertone of the sea. My thoughts flew back to the lonely woman
on her outer island; what separation from humankind she must
have felt, what terror and sadness, even in a summer storm like
this!
"You send right after the doctor if
she ain't better in half an hour," said Mrs. Todd to her
worried customer as they parted; and I felt a warm sense of
comfort in the evident resources of even so small a
neighborhood, but for the poor hermit Joanna there was no
neighbor on a winter night.
"How did she look?" demanded Mrs.
Fosdick, without preface, as our large hostess returned to the
little room with a mist about her from standing long in the wet
doorway, and the sudden draught of her coming beat out the smoke
and flame from the Franklin stove. "How did poor Joanna look?"
"She was the same as ever, except I
thought she looked smaller," answered Mrs. Todd after thinking a
moment; perhaps it was only a last considering thought about her
patient. "Yes, she was just the same, and looked very nice,
Joanna did. I had been married since she left home, an' she
treated me like her own folks. I expected she'd look strange,
with her hair turned gray in a night or somethin',* but
she wore a pretty gingham dress I'd often seen her wear before
she went away; she must have kept it nice for best in the
afternoons. She always had beautiful, quiet manners. I remember
she waited till we were close to her, and then kissed me real
affectionate, and inquired for Nathan before she shook hands
with the minister, and then she invited us both in. 'Twas
the same little house her father had built him when he was a
bachelor, with one livin'-room, and a little mite of a
bedroom out of it where she slept, but 'twas neat as a ship's
cabin. There was some old chairs, an' a seat made of a long box
that might have held boat tackle an' things to lock up in
his fishin' days, and a good enough stove so anybody could
cook and keep warm in cold weather. I went over once from home
and stayed 'most a week with Joanna when we was girls, and those
young happy days rose up before me. Her father was busy all
day fishin' or clammin'; he was one o' the
pleasantest men in the world, but Joanna's mother had the grim
streak, and never knew what 'twas to be happy. The first minute
my eyes fell upon Joanna's face that day I saw how she had grown
to look like Mis' Todd. 'Twas the mother right over
again."
"Oh dear me!" said Mrs. Fosdick.
"Joanna had done one thing very
pretty. There was a little piece o' swamp on the island where
good rushes grew plenty, and she'd gathered ' em, and braided
some beautiful mats for the floor and a thick cushion for the
long bunk. She'd showed a good deal of invention; you see there
was a nice chance to pick up pieces o' wood and boards that
drove ashore, and she'd made good use o' what she found. There
wasn't no clock, but she had a few dishes on a shelf, and
flowers set about in shells fixed to the walls, so it did look
sort of homelike, though so lonely and poor. I couldn't keep the
tears out o' my eyes, I felt so sad. I said to myself, I must
get mother to come over an' see Joanna; the love in mother's
heart would warm her, an' she might be able to advise."
"Oh no, Joanna was dreadful stern,"
said Mrs. Fosdick.
"We were all settin' down very
proper, but Joanna would keep stealin' glances at me as if
she was glad I come. She had but little to say; she was real
polite an' gentle, and yet forbiddin'. The minister found
it hard," confessed Mrs. Todd; "he got embarrassed, an' when he
put on his authority and asked her if she felt to enjoy religion
in her present situation, an' she replied that she must be
excused from answerin', I thought I should fly. She might
have made it easier for him; after all, he was the minister and
had taken some trouble to come out, though 'twas kind of cold
an' unfeelin' the way he inquired. I thought he might have
seen the little old Bible a- layin' on the shelf close by him,
an' I wished he knew enough to just lay his hand on it an'
read somethin' kind an' fatherly 'stead of accusin'
her, an' then given poor Joanna his blessin' with the hope
she might be led to comfort. He did offer prayer, but 'twas all
about hearin' the voice o' God out o' the whirlwind;* and
I thought while he was goin' on that anybody that had
spent the long cold winter all alone out on Shell-heap Island
knew a good deal more about those things than he did. I got so
provoked I opened my eyes and stared right at him.
"She didn't take no notice, she
kep' a nice respectful manner towards him, and when there come a
pause she asked if he had any interest about the old Indian
remains, and took down some queer stone gouges and hammers off
of one of her shelves and showed them to him same 's if he was a
boy. He remarked that he'd like to walk over an' see the
shell-heap; so she went right to the door and pointed him the
way. I see then that she'd made her some kind o' sandal-shoes
out o' the fine rushes to wear on her feet; she stepped light
an' nice in ' em as shoes."
Mrs. Fosdick leaned back in her
rocking-chair and gave a heavy sigh.
"I didn't move at first, but I'd held
out just as long as I could," said Mrs. Todd, whose voice
trembled a little. "When Joanna returned from the door, an' I
could see that man's stupid back departin' among the wild
rose bushes, I just ran to her an' caught her in my arms. I
wasn't so big as I be now, and she was older than me, but I
hugged her tight, just as if she was a child. 'Oh, Joanna dear,'
I says, 'won't you come ashore an' live 'long o' me at the
Landin', or go over to Green Island to mother's when winter
comes? Nobody shall trouble you, an' mother finds it hard
bein' alone. I can't bear to leave you here' -- and I burst
right out crying. I'd had my own trials, young as I was, an' she
knew it. Oh, I did entreat her; yes, I entreated Joanna."
"What did she say then?" asked Mrs.
Fosdick, much moved.
"She looked the same way, sad an'
remote through it all," said Mrs. Todd mournfully. "She took
hold of my hand, and we sat down close together; 'twas as if she
turned round an' made a child of me. 'I haven't got no right to
live with folks no more,' she said. 'You must never ask me
again, Almiry: I've done the only thing I could do, and
I've made my choice. I feel a great comfort in your kindness,
but I don't deserve it. I have committed the unpardonable sin;*
you don't understand,' says she humbly. 'I was in great wrath
and trouble, and my thoughts was so wicked towards God that I
can't expect ever to be forgiven. I have come to know what it is
to have patience, but I have lost my hope. You must tell those
that ask how 'tis with me,' she said, 'an' tell them I want to
be alone.' I couldn't speak; no, there wa'n't anything I
could say, she seemed so above everything common. I was a good
deal younger then than I be now, and I got Nathan's little coral
pin out o' my pocket and put it into her hand; and when she saw
it and I told her where it come from, her face did really light
up for a minute, sort of bright an' pleasant. 'Nathan an' I was
always good friends; I'm glad he don't think hard of me,' says
she. 'I want you to have it, Almiry, an' wear it for love
o' both o' us,' and she handed it back to me. 'You give my love
to Nathan, -- he's a dear good man,' she said; 'an' tell your
mother, if I should be sick she mustn't wish I could get well,
but I want her to be the one to come.' Then she seemed to have
said all she wanted to, as if she was done with the world, and
we sat there a few minutes longer together. It was real sweet
and quiet except for a good many birds and the sea rollin'
up on the beach; but at last she rose, an' I did too, and she
kissed me and held my hand in hers a minute, as if to say
good-by; then she turned and went right away out o' the door and
disappeared.
"The minister come back pretty soon,
and I told him I was all ready, and we started down to the
bo't. He had picked up some round stones and things and was
carrying them in his pocket-handkerchief; an' he sat down
amidships without making any question, and let me take the
rudder an' work the bo't, an' made no remarks for some
time, until we sort of eased it off speaking of the weather, an'
subjects that arose as we skirted Black Island, where two or
three families lived belongin' to the parish. He preached
next Sabbath as usual, somethin' high soundin' about
the creation, and I couldn't help thinkin' he might never get no
further; he seemed to know no remedies, but he had a great use
of words."
Mrs. Fosdick sighed again. " Hearin'
you tell about Joanna brings the time right back as if 'twas
yesterday," she said. "Yes, she was one o' them poor things that
talked about the great sin; we don't seem to hear nothing about
the unpardonable sin now, but you may say 'twas not uncommon
then."
"I expect that if it had been in these
days, such a person would be plagued to death with idle folks,"
continued Mrs. Todd, after a long pause. "As it was, nobody
trespassed on her; all the folks about the bay respected her an'
her feelings; but as time wore on, after you left here, one
after another ventured to make occasion to put somethin'
ashore for her if they went that way. I know mother used to go
to see her sometimes, and send William over now and then with
something fresh an' nice from the farm. There is a point on the
sheltered side where you can lay a boat close to shore an' land
anything safe on the turf out o' reach o' the water. There were
one or two others, old folks, that she would see, and now an'
then she'd hail a passin' boat an' ask for
somethin'; and mother got her to promise that she would make
some sign to the Black Island folks if she wanted help. I never
saw her myself to speak to after that day."
"I expect nowadays, if such a thing
happened, she'd have gone out West to her uncle's folks or up to
Massachusetts and had a change, an' come home good as new. The
world's bigger an' freer than it used to be," urged Mrs.
Fosdick.
"No," said her friend. " 'Tis like bad
eyesight, the mind of such a person: if your eyes don't see
right there may be a remedy, but there's no kind of glasses to
remedy the mind. No, Joanna was Joanna, and there she lays on
her island where she lived and did her poor penance. She told
mother the day she was dyin' that she always used to want
to be fetched inshore when it come to the last; but she'd
thought it over, and desired to be laid on the island, if 'twas
thought right. So the funeral was out there, a Saturday
afternoon in September. 'Twas a pretty day, and
there wa'n't hardly a boat on the coast within twenty
miles that didn't head for Shell-heap cram-full o' folks, an'
all real respectful, same 's if she'd always stayed ashore and
held her friends. Some went out o' mere curiosity, I don't
doubt, -- there's always such to every funeral; but most had
real feelin', and went purpose to show it. She'd got most
o' the wild sparrows as tame as could be, livin' out there
so long among ' em, and one flew right in and lit on the coffin
an' begun to sing while Mr. Dimmick was speakin'.*
He was put out by it, an' acted as if he didn't know whether to
stop or go on. I may have been prejudiced, but I wa'n't
the only one thought the poor little bird done the best of the
two."
"What became o' the man that treated
her so, did you ever hear?" asked Mrs. Fosdick. "I know he lived
up to Massachusetts for a while. Somebody who came from the same
place told me that he was in trade there an' doin' very
well, but that was years ago."
"I never heard anything more than
that; he went to the war in one o' the early rigiments.
No, I never heard any more of him," answered Mrs. Todd. "Joanna
was another sort of person, and perhaps he showed good judgment
in marryin' somebody else, if only he'd behaved
straightforward and manly. He was a shifty-eyed, coaxin'
sort of man, that got what he wanted out o' folks, an' only gave
when he wanted to buy, made friends easy and lost ' em
without knowin' the difference. She'd had a piece o'
work tryin' to make him walk accordin' to her right
ideas, but she'd have had too much variety ever to fall into a
melancholy. Some is meant to be the Joannas in this world,
an' 'twas her poor lot."
Notes for Chapter 14
her hair turned gray in a night: Possibly an
allusion to "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" (1798), by Samuel
Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834). The mariner also commits a
seemingly unpardonable sin, finds himself living a kind of death
in life, and has his hair turn suddenly white.
voice o' God out o' the whirlwind: see Job 38:1.
unpardonable sin: Two Biblical passages refer to the
unforgivable sin of blaspheming the Holy Ghost: Matthew
12:31-32; Mark 3:29. Hebrews 6:4-8 and 10:26-31 also suggest
that Christian believers who lose their faith cannot repent. See
also "Ethan Brand," by Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804-1864).
to sing while Mr. Dimmick was speakin':
This story appeared in the New York Times on 9 May 1894,
p. 4
BOOTH MEMORIAL DEDICATED
Services at the Grave Conducted by the
Rev. Dr. Edward Everett Hale.
BOSTON, May 8. – The dedication of the Booth Memorial at the
grave of Edwin Booth at Mount Auburn took place to-day.
The Rev. Dr. Edward Everett Hale made an exceedingly interesting
address, in which he brought forward the beautiful simplicity
and generous character of Mr. Booth. After these remarks
he read Scripture passages from the poetic Psalms and
Revelation.
The Lord’s Prayer was then
repeated by all who were present. With an eloquent and
feeling benediction by Dr. Hale, the services were closed.
There were present, besides Edwina
Booth Grossman, daughter of the deceased actor, and her husband,
Ignatius Grossman, Joseph Jefferson, successor of Mr. Booth as
President of the Players; Mr. Brisbane, Treasurer of the
Players; Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, Miss Jefferson, Mrs. Ole Bull,
Sarah Orne Jewett, Mrs. Fields [Field], and two of the
granddaughters of Joseph Jefferson, Mr. and Mrs. Elwell.
At the time that Mr. Booth was buried,
during the services over the grave, a little bird came and sang
a doleful lay. Precisely the same thing happened to-day,
under the clear blue sky, surrounded by the beautiful tender
green of the approaching Summer.
The stonework of the monument was
designed by Stanford White of the firm of McKim, Mead
& White, and is in the form of an Athenian monolith.
On the face of this is a bay leaf in bronze by F. Edwin
Elwell, which represents Mr. Booth at the prime of life, and is
said by his daughter to be a most excellent portrait.
XV. ON SHELL-HEAP ISLAND.
[ Contents ]
SOME TIME AFTER Mrs. Fosdick's visit
was over and we had returned to our former quietness, I was out
sailing alone with Captain Bowden in his large boat. We were
taking the crooked northeasterly channel seaward, and were well
out from shore while it was still early in the afternoon. I
found myself presently among some unfamiliar islands, and
suddenly remembered the story of poor Joanna. There is something
in the fact of a hermitage that cannot fail to touch the
imagination; the recluses are a sad kindred, but they are never
commonplace. Mrs. Todd had truly said that Joanna was like one
of the saints in the desert; the loneliness of sorrow will
forever keep alive their sad succession.*
"Where is Shell-heap Island? [!]" I
asked eagerly.
"You see Shell-heap now, layin'
'way out beyond Black Island there," answered the captain,
pointing with outstretched arm as he stood, and holding the
rudder with his knee.
"I should like very much to go there,"
said I, and the captain, without comment, changed his course a
little more to the eastward and let the reef out of his
mainsail.
"I don't know 's we can make an
easy landin' for ye," he remarked doubtfully. "May get
your feet wet; bad place to land. Trouble is I ought to have
brought a tag-boat; but they clutch on to the water so, an' I do
love to sail free. This gre't boat gets easy bothered with
anything trailin'. ' Tain't breakin' much on the
meetin'-house ledges; guess I can fetch in to Shell-heap."
"How long is it since Miss Joanna Todd
died?" I asked, partly by way of explanation.
"Twenty-two years come September,"
answered the captain, after reflection. "She died the same year
my oldest boy was born, an' the town house was burnt over to the
Port. I didn't know but you merely wanted to hunt for some o'
them Indian relics. Long 's you want to see where Joanna lived
-- No, ' tain't breakin' over the ledges; we'll manage to fetch
across the shoals somehow, 'tis such a distance to go 'way
round, and tide's a- risin'," he ended hopefully, and we sailed
steadily on, the captain speechless with intent watching of a
difficult course, until the small island with its low whitish
promontory lay in full view before us under the bright afternoon
sun.
The month was August, and I had seen
the color of the islands change from the fresh green of June to
a sunburnt brown that made them look like stone, except
where the dark green of the spruces and fir balsam kept the tint
that even winter storms might deepen, but not fade. The few
wind-bent trees on Shell-heap Island were mostly dead and gray,
but there were some low-growing bushes, and a stripe of light
green ran along just above the shore, which I knew to be wild
morning-glories.* As we came close I could see the high stone
walls of a small square field, though there were no sheep left
to assail it; and below, there was a little harbor-like cove
where Captain Bowden was boldly running the great boat in to
seek a landing-place. There was a crooked channel of deep water
which led close up against the shore.
"There, you hold fast for'ard
there, an' wait for her to lift on the wave. You'll make a
good landin' if you're smart; right on the port-hand
side!" the captain called excitedly; and I, standing ready with
high ambition, seized my chance and leaped over to the grassy
bank.
"I'm beat if I ain't aground
after all!" mourned the captain despondently.
But I could reach the bowsprit, and he
pushed with the boat-hook, while the wind veered round a little
as if on purpose and helped with the sail; so presently the boat
was free and began to drift out from shore.
"Used to call this p'int
Joanna's wharf privilege, but 't has worn away in the weather
since her time. I thought one or two bumps wouldn't hurt us
none, -- paint's got to be renewed, anyway, -- but I never
thought she'd tetch. I figured on shyin' by," the
captain apologized. "She's too gre't a boat to handle well
in here; but I used to sort of shy by in Joanna's day, an' cast
a little somethin' ashore -- some apples or a couple o'
pears if I had ' em -- on the grass, where she'd be sure to
see."
I stood watching while Captain Bowden
cleverly found his way back to deeper water. "You needn't make
no haste," he called to me; "I'll keep within call. Joanna lays
right up there in the far corner o' the field. There used to be
a path led to the place. I always knew her well. I was out here
to the funeral.[" ]
I found the path; it was touching to
discover that this lonely spot was not without its pilgrims.
Later generations will know less and less of Joanna herself, but
there are paths trodden to the shrines of solitude the world
over, -- the world cannot forget them, try as it may; the feet
of the young find them out because of curiosity and dim
foreboding; while the old bring hearts full of remembrance. This
plain anchorite had been one of those whom sorrow made too
lonely to brave the sight of men, too timid to front the simple
world she knew, yet valiant enough to live alone with her poor
insistent human nature and the calms and passions of the sea and
sky.
The birds were flying all about the
field; they fluttered up out of the grass at my feet as I walked
along, so tame that I liked to think they kept some happy
tradition from summer to summer of the safety of nests and good
fellowship of mankind. Poor Joanna's house was gone except the
stones of its foundations, and there was little trace of her
flower garden except a single faded sprig of much-enduring
French pinks,* which a great bee and a yellow butterfly were
befriending together. I drank at the spring, and thought that
now and then some one would follow me from the busy,
hard-worked, and simple- thoughted countryside of the mainland,
which lay dim and dreamlike in the August haze, as Joanna must
have watched it many a day. There was the world, and here was
she with eternity well begun. In the life of each of us, I said
to myself, there is a place remote and islanded,* and given to
endless regret or secret happiness; we are each the
uncompanioned hermit and recluse of an hour or a day; we
understand our fellows of the cell to whatever age of history
they may belong.
But as I stood alone on the island, in
the sea-breeze, suddenly there came a sound of distant voices;
gay voices and laughter from a pleasure-boat that was going
seaward full of boys and girls. I knew, as if she had told me,
that poor Joanna must have heard the like on many and many a
summer afternoon, and must have welcomed the good cheer in spite
of hopelessness and winter weather, and all the sorrow and
disappointment in the world.
Notes for Chapter 15
morning-glories: Morning-glories (g. Ipomoea) are
a common, climbing garden flower. Wild morning-glories
vines are widespread in North America. Flowers vary in
color from purple through blue and pink.
saints in the desert: St. Anthony is the traditional
founder of the "desert fathers," Christian hermits of the third
century church in Egypt.
French pinks: Nancy and Gary Wetzel, Jewett House
gardeners in South Berwick, ME, believe that the pinks to which
Jewett refers were Dianthus, which have "little heads" that
bloom in the first part of the season and thrive in the dry
setting the narrator describes and in the cracks of the
flag-stones that were laid around the Jewett house.
Probably they are Dianthus plumarius, also known
as D. hortensis. Grass pink, feathered pink, clove
pink and hardy garden pink are among the common names.
Jewett mentions them as growing outside the fence in her home
garden in "From a Mournful Villager."
See Restoring American Gardens: An Encyclopedia of Heirloom
Ornamental Plants 1640-1940 by Denise Wiles Adams.
a place remote and islanded: This may echo
Ishmael's affirmation of a central and insulated self that is a
source of human happiness. See Herman Melville's Moby-Dick
(1851), Chapter 58.
Edited and annotated by Terry Heller, Coe College.