(AUNT ANNETTE (Annette Christian Burnett Mackay Pyle) is the oldest child of Reverend Donald Sage Mackay and Helen Lawrence Smith. Gloriously lucky for us Mackay descendants, she was, by soul. passion and observant eye, a Writer. The following words are her own extraordinary account of growing up in an historic family.)
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WITH LOVE FROM GRANETTE
This should be added. It is a labour of Love. It belongs to Shelby's sensitive perception, to her undefeated confidence — and relentless persistence!" (Shelby Mackay Nicholson is Aunt Annette's granddaughter.) It exists because of Julie ( Annette's youngest daughter, Julie Pyle Nicholson)." Her enthusiasm, her flogging, helped give it birth."
"Here it is as it came, drawn, dragged, word by word, incident by incident. It is Shelby's gift as well as mine.
I PROLOGUE
"Of course we must wake her!" It's my mother's voice. But why should my mother be in my bedroom in the middle of the night? Awakened, I certainly am. And Guilt, always on the alert. It's the way I am, so I make a hasty review of any possible sins. But my mother's voice, which always shows her emotions and her mood, is reassuring and it has almost a song to it which seems to say, "Come along, fun, fun." So I can only wonder what's she's doing in my room. She bends over my bed and I get the whiff of her Sandlewood perfume. Sandlewood. And with it comes the rich affluence of a Corona Corona cigar. So my father has come too? My father in my cold, dark bedroom? What have I done that would bring my father? And he says (and I relax because it is his un-pulpit voice) and his voice is deep with Celtic drama. (Well, I'm used to that, for dramatic both our parents are.) You'll remember this night," he says, it will be a memory for the rest of your life….
But mother can't wait. "Listen", she cries. and now I hear. From across the city comes a din. Bells! A riot of bells, a mad clamour of bells. "The Twentieth Century!" My parents are excited. But I lie back on my pillow. Is that all the excitement's about? I already know about this new century. So now I have time to absorb the peculiar and odd situation of my parents in my bedroom. I hear a lavish rustle of silk. Mother's in evening dress. I see the knot of hair on top of her head and the egret. I see the gloss of father's shirt front. So they've been to a party and come home to share their excitement with me.
Our parents. What were they like? And why do I call my father "Father", when we always call him Daddy. Well, he is both. And he is neither. And mother? I think of Marmie, mother of Little Women. No way like our mother. And I think of the reliable Mrs. Parlin, parent of Dottie Dimple, one of my favorite books at that age. So what can I say about Mother? Well, the Sandlewood perfume tells a great deal; she was an exciting person, often exotic. she brought excitement into our lives; she had a defiance; an independence. Where a whiff of Orris Root Sache would have done, she uses Sandlewood. "Good taste?" she was always amused at the thought of "good taste", and she got away with it. Her gaiety, her warmth, and the winning way she had.
So, here is our childhood. And here is PORTENT that is Father. For there was a SOMETHING - an imminent, you never knew what, and it was, and it infused our solemn, our desperate childhood. We needed intensity. In our uneventful lives, our nursery lives: porridge, and gray early risings, and school - and school - and SCHOOL. We needed the feeling of HELL FIRE. We hungered for Damnation. It was the rich stimulant that we needed in our Victorian childhood. Our bedside prayers were said without a dread - with, in fact, a sort of thrill. "If I die before I wake…". what an adventure! For we are constantly assured of the joys of the After Life. I don't suppose we can have gone very much into any non-returns or parting. We are quite unmorbid about that. "Heaven is our Home." A cozy thought; no school. Lessons unrequired.
Our parents, though, bring us our moments of drama. Rare. though. For we seldom see them. We love them; naturally, we love them. Hell to pay if we did not. For is it not one of the Commandments to love one's parents? They are more on the order of Celestial Beings. Ah, but when they descend to earth, (our earth), what drama, what excitement! Father, then indeed becomes "Daddy". The spell he casts as we listen to his stories! We are absorbed. The Saga of Lemintoka Papa". Lemintoka Papa is the saintly parent of a large family. It is he that takes the one ripe peach, eats the only chocolate left so that the children may watch his enjoyment, which he describes to them. He does this because of his unselfishness; gives them the joy of making him happy. The old hypocrite and his brow-beaten children delight us! You must appreciate Lemintoka Papa: a sort of Black Humour character, a ghoulish production of Dad's humour. This is Dad whom we follow eagerly in hilarious games. But there is the blast of his rages - Holocaust. Hell Fire, tame beside them; but soon gone and forgotten. There were the shuddering times. And then, of course, there is that Other Personage: The-Man-In-The-Pulpit, associated with…and then not actually your father. Moving at times, at others embarrassing. And deeply, inwardly, a part of our lives.
II THE RED DRESS
The start is really with a red dress, or rather a flash of red, not a memory, for I never saw the dress, yet, there it is, dramatic in history. It could have been coloured as Joseph's coat or striped, or… It happened to be red, and it was bunched and puffed into a bustle in the back. The rest of it was drawn close and revealingly to the slender figure of a very pretty girl, a girl who, at this moment of its historic appearance, is running down a wide staircase. This is her father's house in Vermont. The girl is running, lightfooted, light-hearted, bracelets jingling. She is on her way to perform a task. "Get rid of him, Nellie," her sisters call. "Tactfully , of course…" Then they laugh, knowing their sister. An easy task for Nellie, for to please is instinctive. Careless and loving: to charm is her nature. Like "MY LAST DUCHESS", her look, her smiles "Go Everywhere"… and cost her nothing. So this unwelcome caller will depart, feeling provileged instead of rejected, keeping a memory of loveliness.
Not entirely "loveliness". Her careless, winning way, leaves many heart-aches but her own, untouched. She boasts of sixty-four proposals of marriage. This is not vanity but merely the legitimate "Scalps" due a Belle of her day. She is frivolous, willful, and, of the meaning of love, she knows nothing. So she reaches the foot of the stairs, ready for conquest. Her smile waits. And the enchantment waits. And her breath is gone - the words are gone… For a young man is on his feet. At the sound of jingling bracelets, he is on his feet. Slim, in fact thin and very young (he is twenty-three), to be wearing a clerical collar. He has come striding up the long hill from town to make his first parochial call at the "Governor's Mansion" on the hill. Nothing has ever daunted him. He has infinite confidence. There is a wave in his reddish chestnut hair; he is dedicated to his Calling. He believes in Sin, in Temptation (and in his ability to cope). And he has a glorious sense of humor.
A pause must come to introduce you to this young man, Generations of Calvin Clergymen are behind him - strong, violent men, unshakable in their faith, who have not hesitated to convert by force - who have stood at their church door and challenged a would-be passerby, and wrestled and, winning, dragged the convert into the Kirk - the good Scottish Kirk - and put the Fear of God in him.
So the young man now stands - white, speechless, staring - as though he had never seen a girl before. We leave them there. That is all I know. They were married in a year. An IDYLL, but not "lived happily ever after". For there were storms and conflicts, two vital and passionate young people; it led to sorrow - to pain - and to joy. Tragedy but never disaster, for their love grew and their passion never died. And what happened to the lighthearted girl in the red dress? She became a wife and yielded, and her life became his.
III ST ALBANS
Here is another winter awakening. this time it is a tug at the curtain of my sleeping berth. "St. Albans in forty five minutes", the Pullman Porter says: the words I've been waiting for, through sleep or half awake all night. St. Albans!
Clackety clack — wheels on tracks: the train sways, a jolt, the train slows, stops; a long hiss of steam, and here we are.
The porter is ahead of us to lift us down from the train first; Janet with the babies follows. We're in the huge lofty station. it's filled with steam; lanterns swing; men shout, their breath white vapor. and here comes Walter, his face rosy red, the flaps of his cap covering his ears; his breath is white too. he gets the trunk checks from Janet and helps her with the luggage. But we can't wait. We're off and out into the clean Vermont air. The sky is beginning to fade from black to thin blue; the stars are gone. Waiting is Barney in the half-lit sleigh. He raises the whip in welcome. A mountain of fur, hats, gloves, coats. Horses stamp, toss the deep behind. We are tucked in, deep under fur that smells of bear and camphor. Then, with a clash and a jingle, we're off, up the hill, past the sleeping town, up and up…up the hill to Grandma's house.
Lights shine from the windows and from above iron ladies (well-loved friends) with their baskets of iron fruit, recline gracefully under shawls of snow. And on the roof, Mercury, with winged heels — audacious and all speed — looks down from his pedestal. Grandma's house: brownstone, Mansard roof, many iron balconies and our idea of Heaven.
The door opens, light streams across the snow. Thomas, even at dawn in white tie and correct black; eager Agnes behind him, bobbing a welcome. "How'd'ja do, Thomas…Agnes," Janet affably greets her friends. And in we come. In we come, into the aroma of apples and spice, of rose leaves..and the music box! The Nubian slaves high on pedestals, and the fluted columns of black and gold, and the wide staircase…
And Aunt Tannie! Up we race, for at that moment Aunt Annie is first in the house. For we know —we KNOW! — who's waiting above and we race for the stairs. Up we rush and there on the landing, at the turn of the stairs, there she is, Aunt Tannie, Aunt Tannie, all warmth and welcome. Arms out, we fling ourselves upon her. and then, a little shy, stand back and stare at her with love, wanting to tell her…to tell her… .She is the sort of person you tell thing to.
IV BREAKFAST AT GRANDMA'S
Later comes breakfast. Breakfast is an event to which time must be given. It is the gathering, the meeting that starts the day with a rich sense of leisure and promise of pleasure to come. The room is filled with sunlight; that is the way I recall it, the way I remember it. At least, it is full of light, for if the day is gloomy, the chandeliers are lighted. A feeling of light fills the room. Light on jets of water flung from the fountain in the window; light on glassware; light quivers and darts on the ceiling and on the immense silver coffee tray and service, behind which sits Grandma.
At the head of the table Grandma sits, and her frail jeweled hands deal competently with coffee cups and coffee service. Small and regal, she pours first from the silver tea kettle boiling water into a cup. The coffee service is worth watching. The boiling water is emptied into a silver "slop bowl". Tongs then drop lumps of sugar into the cup; thick yellow cream is added; and finally, from the enormous silver coffee pot, comes the coffee. Thomas is at her side to receive the cup and carry it to its destination.
All this is done by no means in silence. Breakfast is the time of much conversation, in which Grandma takes a lively part. And it is social time for Uncles and Cousins drop by for a second cup. And one of "Minnie's doughnuts". they bring gossip, the latest joke, and laughter. Rich, hearty laughter fills the dining room; voices rise in discussion; facts are questioned. This is where Thomas knows his cue. When in dispute, he advances toward a stand on wheels, and to the immense dictionary. This he wheels to the table. A word is looked up, the exact meaning of the word. the dictionary is part of the furnishings of the dining room, and it is constantly in use. Facts are then verified, and Thomas returns the dictionary to its corner.
Meanwhile, eager Agnes comes and goes through the swing door from pantry to dining room. And oh, those breakfasts! The poached eggs; the bacon; the sausages; hot muffins, pancakes or waffles, maple syrup. Porridge too with rich cream. Diet? Diets are for invalids. Grandma herself weighs 90 pounds. Aunt Tannie admits to a LITTLE overweight. "Pleasingly plump", it is called. Festive is the word for this first meal of the day. But there IS one discordant note, one sinister member of the breakfast group. A long chain (not long enough in our opinion!) attaches to a wooden stand. He has small, sly, evil eyes, over which a film of gray skin rises when he is bored. It is the sharp curved beak that we watch, and we pass him carefully. He is free to interrupt conversations with shrieks of raucous laughter and bursts of obscenities. Grandma loves him. We warily eye the length of the chain. He is Mack, the parrot.
Robust and with good cheer is the breakfast mood. And so the leisurely day starts and continues to be for all one knows. Discords existed, no doubt, in Grandma's house; and problems there must have been. Her family was large, their differences sharp. Feelings too were not passive. So, over the years came disappointments and heartbreaks. But this is worth noting: One's emotions belonged to one's self — private affairs, and in privacy they belonged, the property of one's well-guarded self. If tears were shed - and indeed I know there were occasions for many - they were private tears and were not to be shared.
Memories belong to St. Albans, the early memories that is. For as we grew older, St. Albans faded, became a past. Grandma was gone. The Uncles and Aunts grew old. And the cousins moved into spheres and interests that were not ours. Still, of those early years, there comes back a certain joyousness; times that refused to be ignored; that desperate quality I mentioned before. This may be the usual mood for childhood. I wouldn't know. I can only state that our early life was of an intensity that makes it memorable.
V AUNT TANNIE
And now comes the moment to introduce the characters. You've already met Grandma. You'll get to know her better as we go on. The three sisters must now be introduced for they present certain aspects of those days. First, there is Aunt Tannie, the eldest. Aunt Tannie? If when you woke and saw a doll at the foot of your bed wearing a new dress - and I mean a REAL dress with buttons and button holes, a dress that could be taken off and put on - that meant Aunt Tannie. She would have stayed up late, finishing the dress to surprise you when you woke. Aunt Tannie was a person you could talk to for hours. Aunt Tannis is like that. she knows. She has imagination. Aunt Tannie is the oldest of the three sisters, the quiet one. She is the one who listens when you tell her your trials and your joys; she is the person you rush to. Or if you are in a hurry because, perhaps, your dress doesn't fit and you need it NOW!, - she fixes it NOW. She knows. Well, I could go on and on, for Aunt Tannie never fails. You can trust her.
Aunt Julie is the one who brings a stir. Excitement. Aunt Julie is a gifted musician, she plays riotously, rapturously on the piano. She moves in a world of music and excitement. Mother, the youngest of the three sisters - well, mother is charm and glamour. Mother is the one we cherish. She has her special place. But now, it is Aunt Tannie's turn. She is the one I am writing about. I can tell you anecdotes about her. As, for instance, Edwin Stanton, who was then Secretary of War, came frequently to St. Albans to see Grandfather. He came often (and he admitted this) because of Aunt Tannie.
At that time, she was a very young girl and he was a man well on in his middle age, and it was a romantic reason. He came because, he said, she gave him peace. "The most restful person I have ever known." She took him on long drives along country roads. They did not talk much. She listened while he talked, and from time to time he talked to himself or weighed decisions. As she had no opinions of her own, she listened. Often they rode on in silence, and he always came home refreshed. Aunt Tannie is not pretty; she never was. She is gentle, and she had another quality, but hidden. She is strong. She has an inflexible strength in herself. You will see this before I am finished.
Her sisters had beaux; she too had suitors. But she was too kind to allow them to become beaux. She had one suitor who loved her and she loved him. So this is what happened. This was unknown to us. This was a situation we never could have guessed. It was all hidden inside herself. We must first go back to the early days, a time before I was born, before Grandfather died. Grandfather relied upon Annie. She was more than a secretary; she was the person he leaned upon - a companion and a help. She was always with him. There was one special trip to Washington at the end of the Civil War. She remembers the occasion and she tells us about her memory of President Lincoln. It's the memory of a hand on her shoulder, a great bony hand. She would never forget the feeling of that great strong hand on her shoulder. A few days later, he was assassinated.
And now we come to Aunt Tannie's romance. I've told you about her one love and the young man's devotion to her. They were engaged and about to be married. andmother took a dim view of the engagement. Anne was an important person to her and to the family, to the household, but particularly to Grandma herself. Aunt Tannie, young as she is, runs the house, manages the maids, the conflicting dispositions, and Grandma cannot spare her. No, certainly not! Grandma needs Annie.
Annie herself is staunch, a very decided person. Beecher, her young friend, is even firmer. So, plans, inspite of Grandma, continue. Marriage will take place. (All this I have come to know years later.)
Grandfather is ill. He is dying. On his death bed he calls for Annie. He asks her to make a promise. Will she promise never to leave her mother? Annie promises. I believe that neither father nor Annie herself, realized what that promise meant. I cannot believe that Grandfather intended it to turn out as it did. Grandma knew. She knew what SHE intended.
Grandfather died and Grandma needed Annie. No question of marriage. Marriage? Annie leave her? Grandma's wishes — her demands — stood firm. A promise with Annie is not a light thing, to be interpreted according to one's wishes. Aunt Tannie has integrity. And strength. Well she understood that she and Beecher could never live together in the same house with her mother. For she knows her mother. Beecher is equally strong. He pressed his claims. He insisted on marriage.
Here are three unyielding wills. But unfair. For Beecher it was unfair. Annie's will stood with her mother's. There was her promise to her father, not necessarily because the promise was made on his death bed, but simply, to Annie, a promise is a promise.
Beecher waited. For thirty years he waited. Three evenings a week he was allowed to "call" upon her. He was allowed to sit - within earshot - making a formal call upon Annie I wonder if he ever even held her hand? Beecher, a most prepossessing young man, held a strong and influential place of his own in the town as well as in the State. He was extremely good looking, and he was looked upon with hopes that were wasted by lovely girls. When Grandma travelled in the winter and went South to warmer weather, or to Italy, Beecher soon found out he had business or a need to visit the same place. So Beecher is always in attendance but nothing more. Grandma sees to that.
This love story, weaving itself through the years that we knew Aunt Tannie, was unknown to us. We accepted Beecher as a family friend, for, never by look, gesture or word, would one guess of their love. And so the years passed, and passed, and her lover who never could be her lover, stood by. They lost their youth, but their love did not grow old. Their romance never left them. And Grandma did not make it easy for them. The interesting side of this situation — and I think typical of its time — was that it was accepted. It was never looked upon as Sacrifice. Duty. It was as simple as that: a daughter's duty.
"A pity," someone might say, "that Annie never married. She loves children so." Or someone might sigh, "Annie is a born mother…"A daughter's duty. Annie gave her life. And I promise you as I look back now, she gave it with love, without grudging, and never with reproach. They waited thirty years until Grandma died. They were in their fifties. But their love was the love of Youth. They married. They lived happily at Grandma's house. This Annie insisted upon and they lived Happily Ever After. Happily and Romantically for eleven short years.
So there you have Aunt Tannie. And, I'm sorry to have to say, you have also Grandma.
VI AUNT JULIE
Julie is in the middle. Annie, the eldest, is the one who gives, who listens. She is the gentle one. She is the strong one. Mother, well Mother is glamour. Charm. Charm and - well, we'll just have to say: Mother is the one we cherish.
Aunt Julie comes on in a sort of leashed vitality, straining at the leash. You would never "cherish" Aunt Julie. You would not have the time. She has a vivid memory; she is seething - and then, no, I have to explain that. It is simply that her pleasures are acute. And alive. More than that… she must SHARE her pleasures. A book she enjoys? Her friends must enjoy it too. She orders a dozen copies. And a play? To see it once is not enough. She must savour it and savour it many times and send tickets to her friends. Her appreciation is keen and discriminating.
Pretend you have been invited to a dinner party. Her dinner parties are masterpieces. She is a perfectionist. The dining room is ablaze with light; no soft romantic candlelight for Aunt Julie. "If your party is to be a success, you must have light and plenty of light." Her knowledge of wine is extraordinary, and the menus are chosen from her very special file of recipes. Her little Swiss maids, dressed in blue taffeta with organdy caps and aprons, are deft and swift, for they have been trained by herself. She can't stand men servants, "It's a woman's place to serve. And besides they are more decorative." She sits at the head of her table: black velvet and pearls. The black velvet is cut daringly low? No it is not sexy. You're wrong. She is innocently and rightly proud of her white skin.
You have come to the dining room from the drawing room where you have had passed to you on a tray probably the weakest "cocktail" possible. It's called an Orange Blossom and is concocted by the little Swiss maids. After you have had one, that's it. So now you cross into the dining room. For this you go through the hall where you are startled by a menacing Samurai, a Japanese warrior, life size. Aunt Julie has brought it back from a trip to Japan and loves it. In the dining room, one whole wall is occupied by a painting by Schrirer of charging Bedoins with drawn swords. At the far end of the dining room stands Judith, lifesize in marble, with drawn sword, having just murdered Holophernes. This does not mean Aunt Julie is of a violent nature, but she loves the excitement of conflict.
There always comes The Moment she looks forward to - in fact, leads up to. This is the anecdote. She is a true raconteur, and here she is at the climax of her story: "There he was," her voice low and dramatic, "knife in hand, coming at me - it was his life or mine, for these people believe that if you take their picture, they will die. So, here he was upon me, dagger in hand, about to plunge it in before my guide could reach him, and I"— here, she pauses and she holds your attention, looking from one to another around the table, "And I," she smiles, "snapped another picture." After the little ripple of appreciation dies, she adds carelessly, "Remind me to show you the snapshot sometime." We never asked to see it. We are tacttul. Besides, we love her. The important thing is that these anecdotes are real to her, whether she really believes them or not. And for us, it's her glowing enthusiasm, which is a form of magic, that she gives us. Like the "priceless" jeweled jar that she left me in her will, "smuggled to her by the thief who stole it from the harem", the jar so dangerous a possession and so valuable it cannot be trusted to a safety deposit box. Wanting to insure it, I took it to the Metropolitan Museum for evaluation. "Worth about five dollars. Buy them in any bazaar in India" is the report. But her joyful idealism and her radiant belief makes it valuable to me.
And there are her friendships, her loyalties. All her friends are paragons or geniuses. Some of them ARE, for she had an instinct, her art. But in music there is no pretense. Into music goes her very soul. I can see her little, square, blue-veined white hands playing riotously, rapturously and accurately over the keys. Beethoven. The look of adoration, dedication on her sharp featured face as she plays. Music is her life, for she had no children; and yet she had a family. Her household adored her. She filled their lives with colour. She made their work into a Romance. They are never given a Day Off, nor would they think of asking. But, once a year she secures tickets for an evening performance of the Boston Symphony and sends them in great style. There is no indication that any of them had any interest in music; nevertheless, they were quite rapturously grateful.
Perfectionist: Aunt Julie. She is coming down the steps of her Beacon Street house, car at the curb. Macgeen, her chauffeur, at attention opens the door. Her eyes travel over his uniform and she stops. Trousers! Long trousers; they are well-pressed and neat, but - ? Nothing is said; errands accomplished, they return. MacGeen holds the door. Silently she looks a question. MacGeen understands; his handsome young face flushes. "I am sorry, Madame. I — the doctor — Madame, it's varicose veins. I - I am not to wear the puttees, Madame The stiff leather — they stop the circulation. Aunt Julie waits for him to finish. There is something I know about: "soldiers"; "uniforms" (somehow "patriotism" is part of her discourse, maybe not entirely relevant but very effective). From then on, MacGeen is never without his puttees when on duty. Correct and proud, he wears his puttees that complete his chauffeurs uniform. Don't misunderstand her. she is not cruel. She has given importance to a small job. She has given it dignity and inspiration. MacGeen adored her for it. Without realizing it, he stands taller. That was her gift — a sort of joyous magic, part of her eager imagination.
Darling Aunt Julie. Eager and afraid that I might miss one tiny note, one nuance in a symphony, practically ruined my own love of music. "Now!" she hisses in my ear as the symphony soars. "Listen, the oboe! Now!" Well, that ended the symphony for me. A sort of feudal power? Not really, for her servants are her friends. And as for us, she makes our lives richer.
Her summer home is in St. Albans. And here we are on an early morning. It is dawn. The house is dark but there is a subdued, rather excited hush. The household is all up, dressed in uniform, cooperative. MacGeen with the car waits at the door. Down through the dark house, unfamiliar at this hour, comes Aunt Julie. Aunt Julie, at the age of seventy, has never seen the sunrise. This has come to her rather as a challenge and instantly conveyed to her household. So now the cook has been up in the dark, in the kitchen, and coffee, scrambled eggs, hot muffins, bacon have all been put into Aunt Julie's special warmers and then into a hamper which now goes into the trunk of the car. We follow Aunt Julie out into the dew-wet dawn. MacGeen respectfully has got into the spirit; maids gather at the door to wave us off. And into the fading dark we venture. Down through country lanes, past sleeping houses, to Lake Champlain. The spirit of adventure is "rife". Aunt Julie, wrapped in sweaters and scarves - chilly morning - watches from the car window - for this will be one of her anecdotes! How it will grow I don't know. But don't misjudge her. She is loving every moment of it, and now spears of light rise from behind the Adirondacks and (here are her own words) "Old Sol rises from across the Lake."
Well, of course, it's a daily event and not unusual. But you can't resist her, and I think rarely has Old Sol made a more effective appearance.
By the roadside, MacGeen now brings hamburger and rugs; our breakfast is hot; Sol is now shining warmth, and Aunt Julie is happy.
We can't leave her without mentioning her husband. I barely remember him. Uncle Ol (Oliver) is what would nowadays, I suppose be called a"Proper Bostonian". He is very tall, very bald, very impressive. He is as different as possible from Aunt Julie. His interest, as well as occupation, is Horses. He does not ride but he drives: a Dog Cart, a runabout, and, most impressive, a fore-in-hand brake. He sits high above the horses with whip and reins — horses in control. Peterson, coachman, stands at the back and blows his Tally-Ho, as they bowl along the Vermont lanes. This takes skill. Aunt Julie, I can see her, well-corseted, dignified and loyal at his side.
Besides his horses, Uncle Ol's interest is in his collection of valuable books and first editions. Once I daringly took a book from the shelf; it was called the Decamaron, written by Boccacio. Scarlet-faced after one page, I hurriedly returned it to the shelf. I wondered if Aunt Julie ever read these books?
And a fear still haunts me, for I never confessed that in my haste to return the book, I tore a page. Has it ever been discovered?
Their marriage was called by all idyllic. I am sure it was. How could it be otherwise with Aunt Julie's rapturous enthusiasm.
VII GRANDMA
We left her at the head of the breakfast table, directing the coffee service and the conversation. Now you must come closer. You must become acquainted, and the picture you form must be your own. For I can only share a person that we, as children saw. She was frightening and therefore exciting. This did not prevent our loving her and longing to be close to her, close as we were to Aunt Tannie. But we could not. for Grandma was quite regal and distant.
We, unseen and very quiet, listened in controlled eagerness as she talked of the things she believed in, which she called "Ree-in-carnation". We remembered the name because it sounded like the flower. Thrilling tales she told. This strange life she had known fascinated us. Could it be true? She would tell us of recognizing people she had known and loved, centuries in the past. And places that she could prove that she remembered. "Theosophy", another subject though less interesting, she discussed with our surprising, (I mean surprising to US) unexpected, Father, with authority in her firm old voice — a voice that no one would dream to contradict.
She was a New Englander —therefore emancipated. Her attitude was Superiority, a tolerance of a "decadent" Britain. This was a New England woman of her day. She glorified in the independence of her country and in her own privileged period. She had been known to mention with complacency that she and Queen Victoria had been twins in date of birth. (Did she mean that they were equals?) A picture I love is one of herself as a child. She had been sent to fetch fire from her neighbor's house; for the hearth's fire, which was the only fire, had gone out. I can see the cold Vermont sky in the late afternoon, the snow on the one street that was the village, and a small girl, carefully carrying the smouldering ember. Fire meant Life to them — heat, food, light, yes, Life itself. Hardy Vermonters they were, those pioneer families. High thinkers too. They believed in the importance of education for girls. Grandma was sent away to boarding school — to Emma Willard, a school as strong as its strong-minded founder.
Grandma married John Gregory Smith, who became Vermont's governor for two terms. But more important: he was one of the few men who saw a future in Railroads. His Central Vermont Railroad, with Canadian Grand Trunk, opened up the country. Grandma and her family travelled with Grandfather West as far as Mexico — a journey in those days! They travelled in great luxury in their private car, which was usual in those days.
And now, finally, Grandma steps onto the stage. We meet her in person. Here she comes, stepping down the wide stairway of the house, followed by Libby, her maid. Thomas waits in the hall below. Barney, with the Victoria, waits outside. Straight as an arrow, here comes Grandma with her small black bonnet on her white head. She carries a very small parasol, which she uses to shield her eyes. Grandma steps unaided down the stairs. Far be it for Libby or Thomas to help her. Facing her in the hall below is a ceiling-high and equally wide, mirror. above this mirror in gold Gothic lettering are the words: "I GIVE BACK SMILE FOR SMILE AND ALAS, CROWN FOR CROWN". (In the library, an equally large mirror over the mantle warms us: "WHAT SHADOWS WE ARE, WHAT SHADOWS WE PURSUE." This is completely Grandma. Who else? Can you see her? And love her as we, from a distance, love her?
I wait in the hall, for I am to accompany her on her afternoon drive. I am in tubular curls, black buttoned boots; we go in the Victoria into the town below. Barney knows Grandma's wishes: so north we go on Main Street as far as the town's limits, to the cemetery. Then we turn and go south as far as the Car Barn. Grandma, in her carriage, does not pass unnoticed. Elegant and upright, she, of course, never leans back. She returns bows to the lifted hats and she waves to parasols. "Madam Smith" in her carriage is a daily event, appreciated in the town. And well she knows it.
Aunt Tannie would have liked to have helped Grandma with her many accounts, but Grandma will have none of that.
Nonsense. Her joy is to administer the two family farms which her husband started. Neither Grandfather nor Grandma knew the first thing about farming, but in those days it was right for Vermonters to operate a farm, particularly if they were in Politics So now Grandma sits at her wide business desk and we hear her whispers as she adds up her accounts. There is the Hill Farm, which is nearest and dearest and from where our fresh eggs and cream come daily. There is also the Point Farm on Lake Champlain, and what that was for I do not know. I remember many cows and calves in the fields and a much-loved farmer and his wife.
A treat is to be allowed into her bedroom — an enormous room with enormous furniture: huge mahogany bureaus and chests. Her bed has a red canopy. Steps are needed for Grandma to get into the bed. We think of small Grandma in that huge bed under the red canopy, under the high ceiling. Much time is spent in demonstrating a swinging mirror, a tall mirror in a frame. Grandma swings it, and we delight in meeting ourselves, bowing forward or tipping away out of sight.
The house could have belonged to no one but Grandma. Come with us to stand in the drawing room. Come to stand with us in the doorway of this room. We do not feel like actually entering it, but we liked to imagine what happened in it so many years ago. We think of it filled with people; we like to picture Aunts and our Mother, all young and beautiful, dancing and animated. "Tell us about when you were young", we beg Aunt Tannie. We passionately long to hear about those times, and we don't dare to ask Grandma.
The pipes are gold, and perched above are small plaster angels with wings. They lean on fat arms amongst the pipes, surely Grandma's idea. In a recessed alcove behind a red velvet rope, Winged Cupid and Psyche stand poised, almost life- sized in marble. We are deeply moved by Psyche; her lovely arms are held toward him. In our minds, there can be no connection with Grandma in such a romantic piece of art. But there is one memory that is more special than others. It is the hour when the house is dark and seems enormous, for it is empty and shadows hide. There is emptiness; everyone is gone. It is that time of day. We are left alone and we try not to make a sound. We creep down the staircase; we stay together; we feel lonely and it is not our house.
We stand in the entrance to the library. A flicker of fire is the only light, and there, in the shadows, we see Grandma: Grandma in the firelight, alone and sad, her cheek resting against her hand. And in some way she is different. She looks lonely and not in the least frightening. She looks up and smiles as she holds out her hand. With a rush, we are all over her. We lean against the back of her chair and we wreathe our arms around her. We see her softly furrowed old face. and we know this: And this we know: we love her; a great wave of love comes over us.
She sings to us. She sings in a quavering high voice, long songs that are stories. One is about a soldier and a Maiden… a River a-gliding…and a Nightingale. The soldier wants to marry the Maiden. But this can never be, for the Maiden tells him of a Husband in the Northland and Children Twice Three. But the soldier says, If ever I return, it will be in the Spring, just to see the Water a-gliding and to hear the Nightingale sing. Grandma's voice dies into silence. We draw long shaken breaths. Outside in the blue night, a wind lifts a branch. Snow powder shifts, the clock strikes its Westminster chimes.
"Oh Lord, Our God."
Grandma knows the refrain. And then it strikes again.
"Be Thou our Guide"
Grandma and the clock and the chimes are one.
"That By Thy Help, No Foot May Slide."
It is the full hour. the chimes die. Then, ponderous, slow, deliberate follow the six strokes.
Six o'clock, and in comes Agnes with the long waxed taper, and chandeliers spring to life. We're back in the library, back in our own world again. "Your supper's waiting," says Agnes.
VIII ST ALBANS MEMORIES
There is the fountain. The fountain of wild memories! Under it the basin was deep and wide and upon it swam two stately metal swans. But it was the flung spray falling from tier to tier into the basin below that touched off the madness in us. Demented, we race, ignoring the hoops meant to keep us out. Faster and faster, around and around, until intoxicated with dizziness, we — sublime moment — fall IN! That is, if we're lucky not to be caught first. For if indignant nurses discover us, we're dragged out, dripping, spluttering and choking. Well-smacked, we are sent to the house in disgrace. Oh, but the triumph, the adventure! I can never explain those moments when, with chattering teeth and shivering limbs, we march like conquerors into the house.
And then come the long summer days and the pain of the moment when the sun across Lake Champlain drops from sight. The grass is a darker green; cedar trees make long shadows; robins hop, dart at worms; and an unutterable sadness descends. I'm not exaggerating; it has all the sharpness of despair. We have lost something as we are herded into the house for supper and bed! No one can say this is not tragedy.
Yet bedtime in Grandma's house is not a bad time. The beds are deep and soft. They are eiderdown, and over us is a puff of eiderdown. You sink deep into softness and then…! Then "The Girl of Many Adventures" comes. This is a girl of incredible bravery, unbelievable beauty, who has Homeric adventures, and you go with her until…until…you're asleep. Best of all is to waken in the night in the quiet of the sleeping house. And from far away comes the whistle of a locomotive. You lift your head and, through the window, there, distant, down beyond the sleeping town, a string of little lights travels swiftly — going where? From the distance you hear the rattle of cars fade and disappear into the night.
IX BLUE HILL EARLY DAYS - TRACK AND DRAMA
Blue Hill is different from St. Albans. Blue Hill is not a place; it is a road of milestones. For here took place and became a part of it —joy, illusions, disillusions, romance and tragedy. So we'll follow the milestones. Here is one of our earliest arrivals: a sense of urgency grows as we come nearer to Blue Hill. Two days and a night in trains: tired, hungry, disheveled and dirty, we have three hours before reaching Blue Hill and a road of ups and downs, of hills and dust. Transportation is by buckboard — rows of seats one behind the other, and boards with no springs. It also means that when we come to a hill, we must get out and walk, "to spare the horses". If the weather is good, the dust is thick. If it rains, we remain in the buckboard under umbrellas.
The air is filled with a scent of lilacs; the ground is white with the fallen blossoms of the apple trees. As we drive through the village up the hill to our house, we pass the moss-covered watering hole. A team of oxen pauses to let us go past. The oxen sway slowly up the hill and the farmer walks beside them, prodding them with a long rod with a prong at the end. It's Freddy Fisher, the farmer who gives us hayrides. This reminds us of the coming treats of the summer.
So we arrive, a typical household of that day: cook and maids and Janet, whom you'll get to know later. Parents, never, for this is part of the joy of Blue Hill. During those early days of summer, parents rarely come to Blue Hill. So ahead we have untrammeled liberty, and we feel the surge of freedom. And, finally, we've arrived. I will have to explain about our house, for it will have to be explained to be understood. It has been called "An Architect's Nightmare"..ah, but…! Although others might not, WE know its charm. Originally, it was a little brick one-and-a-half story house, built a century ago. It was at the top of a rising road that came through the village, and the view was across Blue Hill Bay, past inlets and islands to the mountains of Mount Desert.
Mother bought the house because of the view. Mother, not one to let details trouble her, knew what she wanted. A local builder was consulted. She told him that she wanted enough rooms so that all her children, as they grew up, would be able to have their friends visit them. They were to be able to entertain and have as many parties as they liked. Then, having given these lavish instructions, she took off for Europe. The local builder was thrilled. Free to express his own ideas, he added a "ballroom". This ballroom was completely empty and remained so except for a Victrola and an Upright Piano. But a room to witness infinite waltzes, foxtrots and reels in the years that followed. He added bedrooms - fifteen of them, or twenty. The bewildered little brick dwelling sprouted pantries and laundries and a maid's dining room and so on and on. Ah, but the bliss when we were young, to race through those halls and get lost.
We are now starting with a particular summer when we were very young. I must explain, this was our social life: as children we were social rejects. The reason for this was our mother. Mother had a deeply imbedded fear, and instructions were given to Janet that we were not to associate with any children whose parents were unknown to her or not vouched for by Janet. This was not "snobbism" It was because of Mother's fear — not unusual in those Victorian days — that we might learn about things that we shouldn't; that at all costs we must be protected against "The Facts of Life". We children accepted this as a mother's extraordinary ideals and with not much interest in what the forbidden things might be. Our lives were filled with prohibitions and all without much sense. So we had our little group of friends up on the hill and pleased we were not to have any unnecessary rivals.
Our day starts at daybreak with a wet, determined washrag held to our faces. Immediately, willing and eager, we struggle against sleep and leap into bathing suits. We are ready for TRACK MEET. This takes place on our own front driveway and out we come into the gray dawn and dew-wet grass: athletes in training. Donald has created a series of competitive events in our driveway: a hundred yard dash; a 220 yard sprint; jumps and hurdles. Donald keeps score with a stopwatch; he tensely records comparisons from day to day. Plans are ambitious. After breakfast, we're off to the barn and the pingpong table — not for a game but a serious production of our weekly newspaper. The paper includes stories (original), drawings (extremely original!, humorous stories (not original) and a column called "Timely Jokes for All Occasions". Each week our newspaper contains local news. Price: two cents a copy. We have no difficulty in selling it up and down the hill; our neighbors are kind.
The days are not long enough. We can hardly keep up with our projects. There are days of endless adventures with our pony and pony cart, a world to explore. On a summer day we can travel as far away as seven miles; speed is no object for our pony. Our very fat pony has to be prodded to get him into a jog. But, speed is not our object any more than it was for Columbus. We stop with our sandwiches at the side of the road amongst blueberries and pine needles. Through the pine branches, there's the glitter of Blue Hill Bay and the dusty road ahead, and summer is forever. Time is forever.
At this point I will tell you about us. We are ten years old, down to two. I, the eldest, is called Tanter. I have no clue as to why I am called this. Next comes Donald. You'll like Donald; he has a wild imagination and is a great organizer. Next, but a few years younger is Winifred, called Winter. The youngest is Stewart, known as Stu. At the last of our family are the "babies", Murray and Eileen, and are no part of our lives.
Now. I will have to explain a problem. It is to be known as Protocol, and it is a situation that needs infinite diplomacy. this is because of Winifred, who is class conscious to the core. Her passionate prode rises from time to time when she claims, "he is four years younger than me." This is because of the unbearable disgrace when she is groped with Stu instead of with the two older, me and Donald. This has no animosity against Stu, because when they are left to themselves, their lives are contented. So this brings us to our Club. this is proudly called the "Determined Club". We elect officers. I somehow seem to assume the right to be President. Vice President is Donald and our two contemporary playmates on the hll are named Secretary and Treasurer each. That established, we have officers and two members.
Two members? There stands Winter, her enormous violet eyes stare at us. She doesn't speak. Stu is happy; he couldn't care less. Winter stands, the violet eyes brim with tears. She stands and simply waits. This could lead to trouble; Janet could be called and could forbid the Club. Besides, you can't have a club without members. We need Winter. Donald, inspired, decides "Head Member. We now have a club with officers and a Head Member, and one member. Winter, with the confidence of her new status, asks, what we are "determined" about?
I must now explain why I have been using all my diplomacy to throw out a sort of take-it-or-leave-it attitude. "We could give a play? Charge admission?" Silence. " We'd have costumes, and things," I offer into the distance. "You can't have a play," states the now important Winter, "Without a play!" I draw a breath. I try to keep my voice down. "I might write a play?" And then before anyone can object, "You can all be in it; I mean all of us can be in it; all of us will have parts." I stopped, no longer indifferent. "Come on, it will be fun!"
So all projects are put aside. We fling ourselves into Production. Yards of cheese cloth, I bought, and glue, gold paper and dyes…As for me (Shakespeare and me) the play simply writes itself, which, of course, is natural, because it's the theme of every story I've ever read. Happily, I do realize this. So, happily, the drama grows with the usual Princess and Prince and suspense to a glorious climax with Princess (me, of course) always to the fore. (Be patient, my nemesis is coming.) We zoom into Production. I live in a stained glass world.
This is what happened. Our parents, who have arrived in Blue Hill to surprise us, have a friend who has a Beautiful Daughter, an Only Child. She is no friend of ours. Our parents insist that she be included in the cast. "There aren't any more parts in the play," I put my foot down. You don't argue with parents; at least we don't. "Just add a few lines," they say lightly. "You can add another character, a witch or something." A witch becomes a part of he plot; she is very unimportant. I only let her appear with a line or two.
We stitch and pin and dye. We make golden paper swords and crowns. We are mad with excitement. we rehearse; we are inspired actors and actresses. And then — "Vaulting Ambition — which o'er leaps itself…
The play opens. Two young writers had asked to see the play and then asked hat they might add a line or two. The first shock is the witch. We have not included her in our rehearsals, but now, at the moment of our opening, we see the witch. Here she is. Her mother has made her costume. It is made of silk scarves, draped and curved and swirling. Her hat is a tall cone of a hat with a high peaked tip. It makes her very tall and very much beyond us. We stand in our cheese cloth, bunched and safety-pinned, home dyed. Our dusty shoes show beneath the hem.
We say our lines, but where's the drama? Where is the Princess? The witch switches and strides and declaims. applause is tumultuous. Where are my inspired words? What has happened? Where is My Play? The play is a smash hit. Our parents and their friends clap and clap; the witch bows and bows. She spreads her arms to include us in the applause, but we are bunched into a little sort of huddle.
The witch is kind, and so are the two young writers. As for me, where did the idea come from that I wanted to write a play? and who would be stupid enough to want too be an actress? But other summers come, and life goes on.
