From the bottom of my heart, THANK YOU!!
Remembrances
of Libbie’s Wedding
Wandering
the aisles, she almost passes it by as she peruses row upon row of dusty books
lining the bookstore shelves. Fingertips dancing along their spines, Studying
titles and probing for hints of what might lay within, she stays her search
when she reaches it. An unassuming,
slightly shabby cover certainly offers her no recommendation, but beyond reason
she pulls it from the shelf nonetheless.
(Was
it just in recollection that her fingers seemed to tingle as she did?)
Running
her hand over its bindings, reveling in the soft, worn leather beneath her
palm, she opens the book at last and breathes in the musty tang of its pages. Skipping
past flyleaf and preface, she turns to the first page and reads:
Diary—which may compose the
reminiscences of the life, from day to day, of
Miss Emmie E. Hawley
A.D. 1858
Medina, Lenawee County, Michigan
15 April 1858-
This I find
to be my birthday. Arose this morning at six o'clock; set emptyings at 1/2 past
six; sponged my bread at eight; had it baked by one; at ten Father was reading
his Bible & Mother the newspaper. It is now two o'clock; it has been
raining all the morning & is cold enough to snow. Mother says, "Here
you are twenty years old & not married yet." "I think I feel as
happy today as I should with a man and half a dozen children to bother
me," I replied. Thus passes the first day of my twentieth year.
“Oooh …an old diary!”
Realizing that she has spoken the words
out loud, she takes a quick look around to be sure no one has heard, then chuckles
to herself at her eager reaction. But she has to admit, she is intrigued, and fingers kissing
pages she skims a few entries, then flicks ahead to read a few more. Captivated
by her find, she holds the volume tight to her chest and nearly rushes the
counter in her excitement. Ignoring the shopkeeper’s attempts at conversation,
she sidesteps her typical practice of bargaining for a better price and willingly
pays the stickered-price for her prize. Stuffing the now paper-wrapped volume
into her purse, she gathers the rest of her packages, and exits the door before
opening her umbrella. Balancing it precariously over her head with too-full
hands, she hurries to her car through a gusty rain.
Not
thirty minutes later, the rest of her purchases put away, hair toweled dry and swathed
in her favorite sweats, she pulls the diary from its brown paper wrappings. A
fragrant Earl Grey now steams in a cup by her side as she settles into her
favorite chair, pulls a blanket across her lap and once more softly cracks the worn
cover of the book. Pouring over the words on the page, she gradually becomes
alert to an unassuming inner voice growing ever louder, as if the diarist
herself is speaking. Disconcerted, yet inquisitive, her mind’s eye begins to crowd
with vivid images and antiquated prose seeming to dance the distance of space
and time, until at last the diarist’s world is all she can see or hear…
~
It is well past sunset. The colors that earlier splashed the
sky have faded to a brilliant black as the wind draws gauzy clouds across the
sky. A glow of moonlight, nearly bright enough to read by, pours through my
window, washing across the page as I sit, pen in hand, prepared to record the
events of yet another day. This volume in my lap has been a constant friend,
“my only confident” at times, and today—the day before Libbie’s wedding—it
feels especially so. Leafing through its pages, I recall the many moments that
preceded this one. My twentieth birthday. Parties and Church meetings.
Weddings, births, and deaths—and the early-September announcement of the engagement
of my dearest friend Libbie—and her beloved Sylvenus. In this moment, ‘tis this
event which captures my thoughts.
Pursuing an October wedding before an anticipated move out west, their
preparation time seemed far too brief. Yet, in spite of the shortness of the
time, they looked so happy on that day.
But then I began to sense a shift. Not just in the circuit
of the year—crisping leaves and mellowing sunlight—but, I saw a change in
Libbie, too. The wedding fast approaching, she put on a blissful smile whenever
our friends offered their good wishes or asked about plans for their move. She
smiled and chattered as if she hadn’t a care in the world; but behind her eyes,
I saw a rising panic, like a church bell growing ever louder as the wedding day
loomed nearer.
Why
did you not speak up? Did you know what she was so afraid of?
The clear distress of this unaccustomed inner voice drives
me from my chair and in my confusion I toss down the diary, moving toward the
window in search of distraction. For a moment, I breathe deeply, attempting to
slow my startled heart, listening intently, yet hearing nothing more. Whatever it
was, it has vanished now; clearly it was just my jangled nerves.
From my window, I stand silent sentry over the moon-soaked
landscape, watching silhouettes of wind-tossed trees pirouette along the side
of the barn, listening to the groanings of barn walls and the cattle inside, and
feeling the chill of the night. In spite of the lateness of the hour, my
brother mends a harness by swaying lantern light in the barn’s open
doorway—doubtless assisted by the brilliant moon suspended overhead. My eyes
then turn farther afield, drifting slowly over sacks of newly-threshed grain
piled high on a wagon, and wandering out to the fields along the horizon—toward
Libbie’s father’s farm.
Libbie.
I return to the chair, pick up my diary, and prepare yet
again to write of my day. But I can not do it. Not yet. Instead I ruffle
through the pages and read, remembering…
Tuesday, April 20, 1858. Last Christmas and New Years I
attended Cotillion parties with Venus Hamlin. Libbie wants him pretty badly,
she can have him if he will marry her. I do not
want him for a companion, no! no! not but that I like him. I do very much as a
friend, our dispositions are too much alike & though they are cousins she worships him.
Your
life seemed so simple then, didn’t it? Or were you just playing with your
remembrances here?
A small smile twists my lips when I recall my imaginings as
I penned those words, clearly fancying myself the overwrought heroine of one of
my favorite books, as I begged to be released from a hateful proposal. Yet
there was no one forcing me to marry. I said no to his proposal with no regrets
or repercussion—although I never did speak of it to Mother.
Wednesday,
May 12, 1858.
Am all alone…writing & meditating. I do hope Sylvenus will marry his cousin
Libbie and not ask me for company anymore because I do not want to trifle with
him; he is too dear a friend and I can not marry him. I do not love him as a
wife should love a companion.
Venus and I had been childhood playmates, and fast friends
since. But for this one thing, there
was nothing I would not do for him. But there it was—for this one thing, I
would break his heart.
Hmmm….
Ignoring the buzz of that inner voice and continuing to
read, I remember Mother’s words telling me I am too choosy, that I will
“sometime take a broken stick” of a man, just to avoid the humiliation of
becoming a spinster. But I would not—I know I would not.
Hesitating a moment, I hear in my mind a skeptical hmmph, and outside an unforgiving murmur
in the trees that seem to shake their fists at my window—and I shudder.
You
hope you would not—but are afraid you will in the end. There must have been
such pressure on you—at your advanced age of 20—to marry. Girls just didn’t
have much choice then, did they?
Shaking my head to force out the unfamiliar voice that disconcertingly
fills my thoughts tonight, I turn my eyes back to the page before me.
Sunday,
July 25, 1858.
Libbie & I had been there only a short time when Venus came & visited
with us. Ah me, I verily know we can never forget the past. I almost dread to
be near him; he seems to be lured away into thought.
I simply did not love Venus as a wife
should love a companion—and I knew that neither of us should be forced to settle
for that. So, in spite of our long friendship, I did all I could to avoid him.
I eluded his attentions in town, at church socials and neighbor’s picnics,
careful to escape being discovered alone in any place he might approach to
discuss his eternal devotion. Even the blazing July afternoon Libbie and I fled
the stifling heat of the church Quarterly meeting—in hopes of spending a few
peaceful hours reading and gossiping in the cool green shade of the Medina
cemetery—became my snare when Venus found us there.
“Emmy. Libbie. How strange to find you both out here! Was
the meeting not to your taste?”
Libbie’s voice faltered in her reading, and looking up from
the book in her hands, we both turned to see Venus approaching across the
churchyard.
Groaning inwardly, I pasted a smile on my face, but noted
the softening look in Libbie’s eyes as she looked at him. Wearing a lovesick gaze,
her attention was fully turned to him as she nearly dropped the book to the
ground and fumbled for something to say. Noting her response, my smile became
genuine. Maybe there was a way to make us all happy in this. I remembered her
family’s clear regard for Venus, and obvious desire that not only would Libbie
wed soon, but choose a husband from amongst her kin. Marrying a cousin,
particularly such a distant one as Venus, would be a very good choice in her
family’s eyes. Clearly, Libbie was already smitten. It was merely a matter of
turning Venus in her direction. Surely, it would not be difficult.
Seriously?
Did you really think that would work?
But the afternoon did not progress as I had hoped. Venus
paid little attention to anything Libbie said, focusing instead on my every
word or movement. Even my attempts to point out to him Libbie’s many talents
(“You should see the hat Libbie is making--it is the prettiest I’ve ever seen.
And her cakes? Light as a feather. Whoever makes her his wife will be the
luckiest man in the world”) fell flat, making Libbie alternately blush and turn
pale as Venus responded with only the slightest hint of interest. My continued
rebuffs of his attempts to turn the topic to our past friendship eventually led
him to lapse into silence, turning a fallen leaf between his fingers, and in
spite of my apparent failure to turn his regard toward Libbie, I was relieved—it
was the only peace I’d felt since he first appeared.
Like the heat, his continued devotion was suffocating.
However, over the weeks that followed, there at last appeared
to come a quiet change—Venus seemed struck by Libbie’s obvious devotion.
Budding in the few, small attentions he paid her in the Medina cemetery, her
earlier interest began to flower, finally opening fully before me in an ardent
declaration of her love for him. Denying a desire for anything more from life
but the prospect of living it as Venus’ wife, Libbie claimed only such a
marriage would satisfy her. I wanted to see her happy, and if becoming his wife
would make her so…well, ‘twas my wish, too. I knew she must marry someone—and soon, in order to make her
parents happy—and I truly believed his notice would become her happiness. All
would be well.
I wish him well for Libbie loves him.
Pausing, I fixate on that one diminutive line…
Did
you really think you could make it right for them both simply by wishing it so?
Were you so blind to her predicament that you thought even having a husband infatuated
with someone else would be enough for her?
Provoked from my reveries, I glance toward the window. Hours
have passed; the moonlight has shifted across the floor, while the wind
continues to drive clouds across the sky, alternately revealing and obscuring
the room. My oil lamp sputters, and recognizing the night’s chill, I reach for
the comforter on my bed, pulling it around my shoulders and snuggling deep in a
quest of warmth. But a chill remains, for its source is not wholly the night
air.
Still not prepared to write, I allow memory to reclaim my
attention, my eyes returning once more to my diary.
August 15, 1858. Libbie & I rose at six, breakfast
at seven. …Libbie & I lie on the bed and read a story, “The Doomed
Sisters.” Libbie half & I remainder. After we had finished reading that
delightful story; we lay there awhile and talked…she wept.
It seemed such a short time ago, the
afternoon I spent with Libbie, stretched across her bed absorbed in the pages
of our favorite book.
Closing the book with a dissatisfied sigh, I rolled over and
looked at up at Libbie, now sitting up on the edge of the bed.
“I do love that book;
it is so very dramatic! Yet no matter
how many times we read it, I am always sad in the end. It seems so unfair, the way the bad sister is
treated by her family and friends—and for such a paltry thing as refusing to
marry the man of her father’s choice. How sad it would be to grow old all alone
without love.”
As I spoke, I watched her face seem to stiffen and
shutter—as if all previous sentiment was being pulled inside her and locked tightly
away. Was this fear?
Well,
duh!
“How good to know that we
will never suffer this fate,” I said quickly in an effort to deter what seemed
to be a growing collection of tears in her eyes. “Venus truly seems as fond of
you as you are of him—and your parents are so happy at a possible match. You
will marry well, Libbie, and live long and happy. Myself? Well, that remains to
be seen, but…
In spite of my words meant to comfort, the tears in her eyes
spilled at last.
“Oh Emmie…I don’t know what to do.
Father is so determined I will marry soon, and Mother reminds me almost daily
that it is well past time…” She stops, drawing a few quivering breaths, gathering
herself and her thoughts as
the tears continue to roll down her cheeks. “I do love Venus
so, but I am not sure… what should I do? How can I marry anyone simply because it is expected of me?”
Moments later, Venus arrived for tea. Dabbing at tears, and
applying a smile, she leapt up at her mother’s call, straightened her skirts
and went out to greet him—with me trailing along behind her
Once in his presence, Libbie’s mood turned slowly to
misgiving. All was not well, I saw in
a moment. In spite of the smile fixed on
her face, I could see she was worried about her choice—or its lack; in spite of
his recent attentions to her, his affections still seemed fixed on me—and his
behavior that night did nothing to assuage her doubts. If he so much as spoke a
word to me or glanced in my direction, her demeanor nearly glowed with
distress.
Libbie’s fears threatened her happiness, and I did not know
how to dispel them.
And
you still don’t, do you?
This errant thought pulls me back to the present. In the
heavy silence of the house I note the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the
bureau, and I am jolted with the realization that it is already…tomorrow.
This is the day my dearest friends will be wed, and I…? There
is nothing I can do that might help. The dread that holds me captive now
confines the words I would commit to the page. How can I admit—even to myself—the
mistake in judgment I have made.
But
what could you do? It’s not you who is pushing her here—it is the customs of
your society that are forcing her hand. An unmarried girl is simply a drain on
her family’s resources. It is her responsibility to her family to marry. If she
finds love, so much the better for her, but marriage is her responsibility,
nonetheless. But you know this…don’t you?
Somehow these foreign reflections do not comfort me. I had encouraged Libbie in her quest for
Venus’ affections, assured her of his regard, and helped her plan her wedding. I was so sure that once he had found someone
else—someone who actually loved him—his infatuation with me would fade away. I
was sure this marriage would be the perfect solution for them both—resolving
the pressure to wed from Libbie’s parents, gaining Libbie a loving husband and
Venus a wife who would truly love him.
But
what about now?
I am not so certain anymore.
In my wish for my dear friends’ happiness, I had never
before that moment considered the possibility that, in spite of all their
smiles and plans, nothing had actually changed.
I close my diary and close my eyes. I must believe all will
be well.
But, today
is Libbie’s wedding.
~
After a restless night, dawn—at last—arrives; for the moment,
the air is still and clear. Yet, as the morning progresses, the wind rises once
more and clouds blow in to half-conceal the sky, like mounds of uncombed cotton
bolls stretched across the blue. Although Mother worries against a likely rain,
I scarcely notice the darkening skies. My time is spent in battling my growing
dread and baking a chocolate cake. Libbie’s brother Royal arrives at two—just
as we had arranged—for a supper of Mother’s baked chicken. At five we leave for
the wedding in his brand-new covered carriage, but I am heedless of all save
the refurbished wind and the fading light of day.
All too soon, I find myself standing—cake in hand—outside
Libbie’s front door. Festooned with flowers, the house is already filled with
the genial voices of family and guests. The aroma of foodstuffs brought by
neighbors drifts the air as they arrive from all over the county to become part
of the celebration of a neighbor’s marriage.
Setting the cake on the already heavily-laden sideboard,
Libbie’s mother hurriedly leads me away down the hall, babbling on about the
beauty of the bride and the quality and stability of the groom, repeating once
more that Libbie is waiting to see me as soon as I arrive.
Fingers now resting on the doorknob, my heart pounds wildly
in my chest and I can feel my stomach churn with an icy dread at the moments to
come. Inside, my dearest friend is preparing to marry the man of her dreams,
and I am here to wish her well, to share in her joy—all the while knowing that
his heart still looks to me. Inside, she dons her happiness, unwittingly
tangled in the unseen and unraveling threads of her life. I hesitate another
moment, gathering my thoughts with a final deep breath.
How
will you face her? What can you possibly say in the face of her doubts?
Squaring my shoulders, I steel myself with a smile and push
open the door. Standing in front of a mirror, she catches my eye in the glass
before she turns to face me.
“Emmie! You’re here.
What took you so long?” Voice quavering through a veil of anxiety, she flutters
toward me with hands full of flowers.
“Help me? I can’t get it to stay on.”
Tamping down my earlier trepidation, I chuckle a bit and
grasp the offering from her hand. ‘Tis
only bridal nerves. With a wry sort of smile, I look her half in the eye,
and stroll once more the familiar playful paths of our friendship.
“You have always been a bit helpless. How do you ever manage
a day without me?”
Setting the wreath on her head and frowning in concentration
I silently work hairpins through the profusion of fragrant blooms and glossy
curls until all are secured in their place. Taking her by the shoulders, I spin
her back toward the mirror, taking a step back to admire the effect. Beaming at
her, I force a brightness I do not feel.
“There, you are perfect. See?”
Watching intently, eyes wide and dark, she regards her
reflected image. She wears a bewildered expression, as if she is searching for
a response within her mirrored gaze.
The quiet thickens like a clammy fog, until I can hear
nothing but the sound of my own jagged breath.
Restless at her lack of reply, I pat her hair, smooth her shoulders, and
try one more time to quell my increasing unease.
“Do you remember when we were little? The day we…”
But before I can finish my thought, Libbie bursts into
tears. Reeling back from the mirror, she flings herself at me and buries her
face in my shoulder.
“Oh Emmie!” In her despair, she can find no other words.
Tears trace her cheeks, searching in vain for some small corner of reassurance.
Shushing her softly, I enfold her in my arms, gently rubbing
her back and murmuring soft, nonsensical words about this day being the
happiest of her life, reminding her of the wonderful future that lay ahead with
the man she loves, and telling her that she shouldn’t cry. I do what I can to
comfort and reassure her.
But there is no answer to her quandary. Hoping for love, she
is instead succumbing to the same business arrangement that every woman must in
the end—she accepts a love-sworn proposal of marriage, but takes on instead an
arrangement meant to secure her future. Freed from society’s censure of
spinsterhood, but consigned instead to a life of hardship and drudgery; she
moves from sweetheart to chattel. And without love, how unbearable a fate that
will be.
I do not ask her why she cries.
You know what her answer would be. To make her
speak it would be too cruel in the face of the only choice she has.
A brisk tap on the door reminds us both of the world that
waits outside. Gently freeing myself from her embrace, I kiss Libbie’s damp
cheek, straighten her dress, and secure a smile to wish her well once again
before opening the door to her mother. Crossing the threshold into the hall, I
hear a quiet “Thank you, Emmie,” then move to join the gathering for the
ceremony.
Moments later, I watch as a white-faced groom leads his
tremulous bride to the altar.
Libbie’s tears do not reappear, yet she wears in their place
an air of acquiescence that surrounds her like a smothering vapor, choking the
life from her face. In this moment, she looks more the condemned prisoner than
a blushing bride taking the final steps that will deliver her from single life
to wedded bliss. I wonder if anyone else sees her distress.
The two of them stand like marble figures before their
families and friends, flawless in their loveliness, yet stiff and icy-cold. The
time-honored rite goes on as custom requires—mutual vows and a golden band,
weeping from a mother and admonitions from the Good Book—until Brother Pack at
last declares them man and wife. Slipping on a stilted smile as if on cue, she
waits for her new husband’s kiss—yet it never comes. In the muddle of merriment
which follows, perhaps no one else notes its absence save me.
At the preacher’s pronouncement, as is custom, all present
spring forward to kiss the pair and wish them happy. I have been to enough
weddings to know what follows. Libbie’s mother surely dabs away a few lingering
tears, and wrings her hands in joy at seeing a daughter married at last. Her
younger sisters certainly skip ‘round the couple, laughing and declaring their
delight in the beauty of the ceremony, unquestionably looking ahead to the day
when they, too, will become brides. Her father undoubtedly offers a hearty
handshake, and a booming “Welcome to the family” to the groom. But in this
moment, I am aware of none of it. Standing on the fringes of the fete, I can
see only one thing.
Seemingly spellbound in the midst of the celebration, he
stands at her side—looking only at me. In this moment, I watch as Venus
abandons his new bride—my dearest friend—and find myself mired in disbelief at
his actions
He approaches, reaching for my hand.
Raising it to his lips, he gazes into my eyes and gives his
first wedded kiss not to his bride, but to me. In my desire to avoid both my
family obligation and a husband I do not love, I wished on my friend a husband
who did not love her.
Tearing my eyes away, I pull my hand from his, but not so
violently that I gain the attention of the well-wishers gathered nearby; I
would not have Libbie see this for the world. Hurrying like a ghost from the
room, I am soon standing alone on the porch taking deep gulps of air, fanning
my heated face and trying to sort my jumbled thoughts.
Surely, it will all be right. Certainly, he will grow to
love her and forget this silly infatuation with me. Undoubtedly—in time—all
will be well.
But
you don’t really believe that, do you?
October 12, 1958…. I went with Libbie to her room;
helped her arrange her collar and put a wreath of flowers on her hair and she
was ready. “Oh, Emmie,” she said & began to cry. I said I was sorry to see
her weep when she should rejoice but did not ask her why,—we both knew too
well….I was almost as sad as happy for all through the ceremony Venus stood as
one spell bound and looked at me… I respect them both and sympathize with his
past devotion—may all end well.
Putting down my pen, and looking up to observe the gusty rain
outside my window, I face at last the truth of my own thoughts.
I do not believe that it will.
~
At
the chime of her grandmother’s clock in the hall, she is dragged back to her
own consciousness. Unaccustomed images recede as quickly as they came, leaving her
with just the text on the page and her own jumbled thoughts. Still settled in
her favorite chair, her tea—untouched—has gone cold. Has she somehow left this
place, she wonders—or has her imagination merely run away with her? Feeling the
warmth of the chair beneath her, she recognizes that whatever happened, it was
all inside her head. A bit relieved, she smiles to herself at her whimsy and
rises from the chair with a stretch.
Glancing toward the window, she realizes that
the rain has stopped, and tiny patches of blue peer out between the grey…
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