American Gothic, page 34
I repeat that forgiveness again. So may Heaven pardon me in the hour of need; so may God look upon me with strong affection in the parting of soul and body, even as I pardon and love thee, Eleanor, with a truth and faith eternal! Thee, forever loved, but, ah! not now forever lost?
Notes
MY VISITATION
1 From The Princess, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–92).
2 Shirley (1849), Jane Eyre (1847), Villette (1853): novels by Charlotte Brontë (1818–48).
3 Evoe Athena! Evoe (Latinized version of Greek euoi) was a mystical word usually used to evoke Dionysius, not Athena.
4 From “Garden Fancies: The Flower’s Name,” a poem by Robert Browning (1812–89).
5 From “Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey,” by William Wordsworth (1770–1850).
6 From “Merops,” by Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–82).
7 From “Hermione,” by Emerson.
8 Self-righteously, in the manner of the strict Jewish sect of the Pharisees.
Emily Dickinson (1830–1886)
The outline of Emily Dickinson’s career has become a legend: she lived as a recluse in the upstairs room of her parents’ home, dressed in white, published only a handful of works in her lifetime, and left nearly 1,800 poems, neatly hand-stitched into little volumes, to be found after her death. Whatever else one may say of her fabled eccentricities, they allowed this extraordinarily talented artist the privacy in which to create some of the most innovative poetry of the nineteenth century, works she knew her contemporaries were not prepared to understand.
Poe observed that “terror is not of Germany, but of the soul.” Many of Emily Dickinson’s poems confront the terrors of ordinary life: nightmares, repressed thoughts, the strangeness behind familiar nature.
Text: The Poems of Emily Dickinson: Reading Edition, ed. R. W. Franklin (Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1998). Copyright © 1998 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © 1951, 1955, 1979, 1983 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Reprinted by permission of the publishers and the Trustees of Amherst College.
EIGHT POEMS
F 43
Through lane it lay – thro’ bramble –
Through clearing and thro’ wood –
Banditti often passed us
Opon the lonely road.
The wolf came peering curious –
The Owl looked puzzled down –
The serpent’s satin figure
Glid stealthily along,
The tempests touched our garments –
The lightning’s poniards gleamed –
Fierce from the Crag above us
The hungry Vulture screamed –
The Satyrs fingers beckoned –
The Valley murmured “Come” –
These were the mates –
This was the road
These Children fluttered home.
F 340
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading – treading – till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through –
And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum –
Kept beating – beating – till I thought
My mind was going numb –
And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space – began to toll,
As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here –
And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down –
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing – then –
F 341
’Tis so appalling – it exhilarates –
So over Horror, it half captivates –
The Soul stares after it, secure –
To know the worst, leaves no dread more –
To scan a Ghost, is faint –
But grappling, conquers it –
How easy, Torment, now –
Suspense kept sawing so –
The Truth, is Bald – and Cold –
But that will hold –
If any are not sure –
We show them – prayer –
But we, who know,
Stop hoping, now –
Looking at Death, is Dying –
Just let go the Breath –
And not the pillow at your cheek
So slumbereth –
Others, can wrestle –
Your’s, is done –
And so of Wo, bleak dreaded – come,
It sets the Fright at liberty –
And Terror’s free –
Gay, Ghastly, Holiday!
F 360
The Soul has Bandaged moments –
When too appalled to stir –
She feels some ghastly Fright come up
And stop to look at her –
Salute her, with long fingers –
Caress her freezing hair –
Sip, Goblin, from the very lips
The Lover – hovered – o’er –
Unworthy, that a thought so mean
Accost a Theme – so – fair –
The soul has moments of escape –
When bursting all the doors –
She dances like a Bomb, abroad,
And swings opon the Hours,
As do the Bee – delirious borne –
Long Dungeoned from his Rose –
Touch Liberty – then know no more –
But Noon, and Paradise –
The Soul’s retaken moments –
When, Felon led along,
With shackles on the plumed feet,
And staples, in the song,
The Horror welcomes her, again,
These, are not brayed of Tongue –
F 407
One need not be a Chamber – to be Haunted –
One need not be a House –
The Brain has Corridors – surpassing
Material Place –
Far safer, of a midnight meeting
External Ghost
Than it’s interior confronting –
That cooler Host –
Far safer, through an Abbey gallop,
The Stones a’chase –
Than unarmed, one’s a’self encounter –
In lonesome Place –
Ourself behind ourself, concealed –
Should startle most –
Assassin hid in our Apartment
Be Horror’s least –
The Body – borrows a Revolver –
He bolts the Door –
O’erlooking a superior spectre –
Or More –
F 425
’Twas like a Maelstrom, with a notch,
That nearer, every Day,
Kept narrowing it’s boiling Wheel
Until the Agony
Toyed coolly with the final inch
Of your delirious Hem –
And you dropt, lost,
When something broke –
And let you from a Dream –
As if a Goblin with a Guage –
Kept measuring the Hours –
Until you felt your Second
Weigh, helpless, in his Paws –
And not a Sinew – stirred could help,
And Sense was setting numb
When God – remembered – and the Fiend
Let go, then, Overcome –
As if your Sentence stood – pronounced –
And you were frozen led
From Dungeon’s luxury of Doubt
To Gibbets, and the Dead –
And when the Film had stitched your eyes
A Creature gasped “Reprieve”!
Which Anguish was the utterest – then –
To perish, or to live?
F 431
If I may have it, when it’s dead,
I’ll be contented – so –
If just as soon as Breath is out
It shall belong to me –
Until they lock it in the Grave,
’Tis Bliss I cannot weigh –
For tho’ they lock Thee in the Grave,
Myself – can own the key –
Think of it Lover! I and Thee
Permitted – face to face to be –
After a Life – a Death – we’ll say –
For Death was That –
And this – is Thee –
I’ll tell Thee All – how Bald it grew –
How Midnight felt, at first – to me –
How all the Clocks stopped in the World –
And Sunshine pinched me – ’Twas so cold –
Then how the Grief got sleepy – some –
As if my soul were deaf and dumb –
Just making signs – across – to Thee –
That this way – thou could’st notice me –
I’ll tell you how I tried to keep
A smile, to show you, when this Deep
All Waded – We look back for Play,
At those Old Times – in Calvary,
Forgive me, if the Grave come slow –
For Coveting to look at Thee –
Forgive me, if to stroke thy frost
Outvisions Paradise!
F 1433
What mystery pervades a well!
The water lives so far –
A neighbor from another world
Residing in a jar
Whose limit none have ever seen,
But just his lid of glass –
Like looking every time you please
In an abyss’s face!
The grass does not appear afraid,
I often wonder he
Can stand so close and look so bold
At what is awe to me.
Related somehow they may be,
The sedge stands next the sea
Where he is floorless
And does no timidity betray –
But nature is a stranger yet;
The ones that cite her most
Have never passed her haunted house,
Nor simplified her ghost.
To pity those that know her not
Is helped by the regret
That those who know her, know her less
The nearer her they get.
Louisa May Alcott (1832–1888)
Louisa May Alcott was the daughter of Bronson Alcott, a leading member of the New England transcendentalist movement. Distinguished connections and friendship with such luminaries as Emerson and Thoreau (who tutored the young Louisa) did not keep the family from poverty, and at one point in her adolescence the future author of Little Women worked as a domestic servant.
Before the story of the March sisters brought her fame and wealth, Alcott published a series of thrillers, some anonymously, others under the pseudonym A. M. Barnard. Her thrillers, while written for a quick dollar, are solidly competent productions, and reveal her pleasure in the energetic if raw conventions of the popular literature of her era. They also show her immersion in Gothic fiction, up and down the scale of seriousness, including that of her countrymen Hawthorne (at times a Concord neighbor) and Poe. Most of these stories and novellas were uncollected and were only discovered in the twentieth century by scholar Madeline Stern. However, “A Whisper in the Dark,” first published anonymously in Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Magazine in 1863, was published under Alcott’s name with “A Modern Mephistopheles” in 1899.
“A Whisper in the Dark” is a Gothic tale in the tradition of Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre, with a strong feminist theme. The use of law and medicine to oppress and control women will be seen again in Gilman’s “The Yellow Wallpaper.”
Text: Louisa May Alcott, A Modern Mephistopheles and A Whisper in the Dark (Boston: Little, Brown, 1914).
A Whisper in the Dark
As we rolled along, I scanned my companion covertly, and saw much to interest a girl of seventeen. My uncle was a handsome man, with all the polish of foreign life fresh upon him; yet it was neither comeliness nor graceful ease which most attracted me; for even my inexperienced eye caught glimpses of something stern and somber below these external charms, and my long scrutiny showed me the keenest eye, the hardest mouth, the subtlest smile I ever saw, – a face which in repose wore the look that comes to those who have led lives of pleasure and learned their emptiness. He seemed intent on some thought that absorbed him, and for a time rendered him forgetful of my presence, as he sat with folded arms, fixed eyes, and restless lips. While I looked, my own mind was full of deeper thought than it had ever been before; for I was recalling, word for word, a paragraph in that half-read letter: –
“At eighteen Sybil is to marry her cousin, the compact having been made between my brother and myself in their childhood. My son is with me now, and I wish them to be together during the next few months, therefore my niece must leave you sooner than I at first intended. Oblige me by preparing her for an immediate and final separation, but leave all disclosures to me, as I prefer the girl to remain ignorant of the matter for the present.”
That displeased me. Why was I to remain ignorant of so important an affair? Then I smiled to myself, remembering that I did know, thanks to the willful curiosity that prompted me to steal a peep into the letter that Mme. Bernard had pored over with such an anxious face. I saw only a single paragraph, for my own name arrested my eye; and, though wild to read all, I had scarcely time to whisk the paper back into the reticule the forgetful old soul had left hanging on the arm of her chair. It was enough, however, to set my girlish brain in a ferment, and keep me gazing wistfully at my uncle, conscious that my future now lay in his hands; for I was an orphan and he my guardian, though I had seen him but seldom since I was confided to madame a six years’ child.
Presently my uncle became cognizant of my steady stare, and returned it with one as steady for a moment, then said, in a low, smooth tone, that ill accorded with the satirical smile that touched his lips, –
“I am a dull companion for my little niece. How shall I provide her with pleasanter amusement than counting my wrinkles or guessing my thoughts?”
I was a frank, fearless creature, quick to feel, speak, and act, so I answered readily, –
“Tell me about my cousin Guy. Is he as handsome, brave, and clever as madame says his father was when a boy?”
My uncle laughed a short laugh, touched with scorn, whether for madame, himself, or me I could not tell, for his countenance was hard to read.
“A girl’s question and artfully put; nevertheless I shall not answer it, but let you judge for yourself.”
“But, sir, it will amuse me and beguile the way. I feel a little strange and forlorn at leaving madame, and talking of my new home and friends will help me to know and love them sooner. Please tell me, for I’ve had my own way all my life, and can’t bear to be crossed.”
My petulance seemed to amuse him, and I became aware that he was observing me with a scrutiny as keen as my own had been; but I smilingly sustained it, for my vanity was pleased by the approbation his eye betrayed. The evident interest he now took in all I said and did was sufficient flattery for a young thing, who felt her charms and longed to try their power.
“I, too, have had my own way all my life; and as the life is double the length, the will is double the strength of yours, and again I say no. What next, mademoiselle?”
He was blander than ever as he spoke, but I was piqued, and resolved to try coaxing, eager to gain my point, lest a too early submission now should mar my freedom in the future.
“But that is ungallant, uncle, and I still have hopes of a kinder answer, both because you are too generous to refuse so small a favor to your ‘little niece,’ and because she can be charmingly wheedlesome when she likes. Won’t you say yes now, uncle?” And pleased with the daring of the thing, I put my arm about his neck, kissed him daintily, and perched myself upon his knee with most audacious ease.
He regarded me mutely for an instant, then, holding me fast, deliberately returned my salute on lips, cheeks, and forehead, with such warmth that I turned scarlet and struggled to free myself, while he laughed that mirthless laugh of his till my shame turned to anger, and I imperiously commanded him to let me go.
“Not yet, young lady. You came here for your own pleasure, but shall stay for mine, till I tame you as I see you must be tamed. It is a short process with me, and I possess experience in the work; for Guy, though by nature as wild as a hawk, has learned to come at my call as meekly as a dove. Chut! What a little fury it is!”
I was just then; for exasperated at his coolness, and quite beside myself, I had suddenly stooped and bitten the shapely white hand that held both my own. I had better have submitted; for slight as the foolish action was, it had an influence on my afterlife as many another such has had. My uncle stopped laughing, his hand tightened its grasp, for a moment his cold eye glittered and a grim look settled round the mouth, giving to his whole face a ruthless expression that entirely altered it. I felt perfectly powerless. All my little arts had failed, and for the first time I was mastered. Yet only physically; my spirit was rebellious still. He saw it in the glance that met his own, as I sat erect and pale, with something more than childish anger. I think it pleased him, for swiftly as it had come the dark look passed, and quietly, as if we were the best of friends, he began to relate certain exciting adventures he had known abroad, lending to the picturesque narration the charm of that peculiarly melodious voice, which soothed and won me in spite of myself, holding me intent till I forgot the past; and when he paused I found that I was leaning confidentially on his shoulder, asking for more, yet conscious of an instinctive distrust of this man whom I had so soon learned to fear yet fancy.
As I was recalled to myself, I endeavored to leave him; but he still detained me, and, with a curious expression, produced a case so quaintly fashioned that I cried out in admiration, while he selected two cigarettes, mildly aromatic with the herbs they were composed of, lit them, offered me one, dropped the window, and leaning back surveyed me with an air of extreme enjoyment, as I sat meekly puffing and wondering what prank I should play a part in next. Slowly the narcotic influence of the herbs diffused itself like a pleasant haze over all my senses; sleep, the most grateful, fell upon my eyelids, and the last thing I remember was my uncle’s face dreamily regarding me through a cloud of fragrant smoke. Twilight wrapped us in its shadows when I woke, with the night wind blowing on my forehead, the muffled roll of wheels sounding in my ear, and my cheek pillowed upon my uncle’s arm. He was humming a French chanson about “love and wine, and the Seine tomorrow!” I listened till I caught the air, and presently joined him, mingling my girlish treble with his flutelike tenor. He stopped at once and, in the coolly courteous tone I had always heard in our few interviews, asked if I was ready for lights and home.
