Free Quiet Dell: A Novel by Jayne Anne Phillips Page B
Authors: Jayne Anne Phillips
surely kill a delicate woman.
She flees her thoughts by reciting Cornelius’ letters; he writes of women with deepest respect and admiration. Particular lines are her comfort. The cadences run like rhyme, familiar, assenting, protective, assuring her that her correspondent respects her widowhood, believes women worthy, holds Christian attitudes.
Woman’s holy courage was first revealed to me in my mother. I first saw it at my father’s deathbed. . . . Dear, love can never be a light thing with me with such memories. My boyish heart was thus early impressed, sealed by the enduring strength of love. I shall never forget . . . the profound seriousness of the right love of the one man for the one woman, and vice versa.
He is truly fine. How fortunate that he, of all others, found interest in her words. The American Friendship Society, located in Detroit and possessed of good reputation, was the only firm to which she’d sent a carefully worded request for “correspondence, leading to true friendship, fidelity, and matrimony.” Some who responded listed motherless progeny or a frank need for a helpmate. None reflected Cornelius’ education, ideals, or means. She had not mentioned love in her initial notice; she wanted to communicate modest virtue and discourage philandering opportunists, who might use the mails to prey on women. Neither had she mentioned her children or her name, or even her correct initials. She must secure lives for her children, and stability, and she dared hope, at last, for her own soul’s companion, a man for whom no sacrifice was necessary, to whom she could turn openly and trust as she had trusted no one.
To think of her state of mind at that time, a mere month ago! She’d placed her notice only weeks before Lavinia died. The second mortgage she’d taken on the house would see them through winter and satisfy some of the creditors. Snow fell at Thanksgiving just as now. Images of Heinrich’s death, recalled so intensely, haunted her. The snow seemed a visitation of the same snow that fell upon his end, five years ago, blanketing their home that fateful week, just as on the night Lavinia died. Asta nursed her, for she’d had to discharge Abernathy just as the crisis approached. Lavinia, as though she knew resources were gone, slipped quickly into a coma. The children, home from school before Thanksgiving, sat vigil by day. At night, her chair drawn close to Lavinia’s bed, Anna imagined the loud screech of a streetcar’s brakes and sudden, total oblivion. She could afford herself no such luxury, yet she wanted to go and stand amongst the crowds in the Loop, just at the crossing of the tracks.
Cornelius’ letters, first addressing “My Unknown Friend,” began arriving, telling of himself, his past, his hopes for a family, despite his age and widowhood. He, too, was cautious; they determined they would not meet for six months, nor would they speak on the telephone, but would write exclusively until such time as they might proceed decisively, based on trust, loving attraction, and abiding knowledge of their mutual beliefs. He deliberated with her on the children, extolling the wholesome influence of rural life in the gentle Appalachians, yet pointing out that Cedar Rapids, where they would also have a home, was a growing metropolis, and not so far from Chicago, where they could find a fine school for Hart, and a finishing school for Annabel, somewhere their youngest girl would meet sophisticated, quick people to her liking. Grethe, of course, would live at home.
Cornelius was a widower of long duration; Anna would compete with no ghost. His affections would be open to her. She was so young when she’d accepted Heinrich, so inexperienced, despite her knowledge of languages and careful education. Like him, she was an only child. He saw in her a pliable, well-bredgirl whose talent he respected, who would give him the family he desired. Anna had believed herself in love with Heinrich;
She flees her thoughts by reciting Cornelius’ letters; he writes of women with deepest respect and admiration. Particular lines are her comfort. The cadences run like rhyme, familiar, assenting, protective, assuring her that her correspondent respects her widowhood, believes women worthy, holds Christian attitudes.
Woman’s holy courage was first revealed to me in my mother. I first saw it at my father’s deathbed. . . . Dear, love can never be a light thing with me with such memories. My boyish heart was thus early impressed, sealed by the enduring strength of love. I shall never forget . . . the profound seriousness of the right love of the one man for the one woman, and vice versa.
He is truly fine. How fortunate that he, of all others, found interest in her words. The American Friendship Society, located in Detroit and possessed of good reputation, was the only firm to which she’d sent a carefully worded request for “correspondence, leading to true friendship, fidelity, and matrimony.” Some who responded listed motherless progeny or a frank need for a helpmate. None reflected Cornelius’ education, ideals, or means. She had not mentioned love in her initial notice; she wanted to communicate modest virtue and discourage philandering opportunists, who might use the mails to prey on women. Neither had she mentioned her children or her name, or even her correct initials. She must secure lives for her children, and stability, and she dared hope, at last, for her own soul’s companion, a man for whom no sacrifice was necessary, to whom she could turn openly and trust as she had trusted no one.
To think of her state of mind at that time, a mere month ago! She’d placed her notice only weeks before Lavinia died. The second mortgage she’d taken on the house would see them through winter and satisfy some of the creditors. Snow fell at Thanksgiving just as now. Images of Heinrich’s death, recalled so intensely, haunted her. The snow seemed a visitation of the same snow that fell upon his end, five years ago, blanketing their home that fateful week, just as on the night Lavinia died. Asta nursed her, for she’d had to discharge Abernathy just as the crisis approached. Lavinia, as though she knew resources were gone, slipped quickly into a coma. The children, home from school before Thanksgiving, sat vigil by day. At night, her chair drawn close to Lavinia’s bed, Anna imagined the loud screech of a streetcar’s brakes and sudden, total oblivion. She could afford herself no such luxury, yet she wanted to go and stand amongst the crowds in the Loop, just at the crossing of the tracks.
Cornelius’ letters, first addressing “My Unknown Friend,” began arriving, telling of himself, his past, his hopes for a family, despite his age and widowhood. He, too, was cautious; they determined they would not meet for six months, nor would they speak on the telephone, but would write exclusively until such time as they might proceed decisively, based on trust, loving attraction, and abiding knowledge of their mutual beliefs. He deliberated with her on the children, extolling the wholesome influence of rural life in the gentle Appalachians, yet pointing out that Cedar Rapids, where they would also have a home, was a growing metropolis, and not so far from Chicago, where they could find a fine school for Hart, and a finishing school for Annabel, somewhere their youngest girl would meet sophisticated, quick people to her liking. Grethe, of course, would live at home.
Cornelius was a widower of long duration; Anna would compete with no ghost. His affections would be open to her. She was so young when she’d accepted Heinrich, so inexperienced, despite her knowledge of languages and careful education. Like him, she was an only child. He saw in her a pliable, well-bredgirl whose talent he respected, who would give him the family he desired. Anna had believed herself in love with Heinrich;