The Wapshot Chronicle - John Cheever [69]
Pretty child. Hair like raven’s wing. Snow-white complexion. Slender wrists. Felt pity, sympathy too. Rolled by old wind-breaking goat in bushes after Sunday-school picnic. Boss was unpopular, even among Chardon Street beauties. Babes in the wood; she and me. “Father was reading from the Bible” says her mother. “Luke,” says the old man. “Chapter seven; verse thirty-one.” Reads the Bible for an hour. Closed with prayers. Everybody on their knees. Said good-by then. “Good-by, Mr. Wapshot” were the only words spoken by future spouse. Walked home, wondering: Was she stupid? Could she cook?
Took Clarissa to church following Sunday. In company with her parents. On way there made proposal of marriage. “I would like to marry you, Mr. Wapshot,” she said. Some happiness then. Picture was not hopeless. Thought ahead to time after baby’s birth. Stormy weather coming but why not peace and quiet after? Church was deep-water Baptist. Sunny day. Fell asleep during sermon. Late that evening told mother of plans. Sainted old lady did not bat an eyelash. Never told her facts in case. Laconism, like blindness, seems to develop other faculties. Powers of divination. Married following Sunday in Church of Ascension. Father Masterson tied bond. Fine old character. Mother only witness. God bless dear old lady. Went from church to North Station. Took cars to Franconia.
Tedious journey in local. Stopped at every back yard. So it seemed. Backside of every barn on way painted with advertisements. Elixirs. Liver pills. Old circus posters. Dried codfish. Tea. Coffee. Back of barn in St. Botolphs painted: Boston Store. Rock bottom prices.
Young black-haired wife, dressed in best. Made all own clothes. Great sweetness; grace. Remember slenderness of wrists, ankles. Fleeting joy, sadness on face. Much openness. Real meaning of beauty all flow from lovely woman. Poetry. Music. Makes everything touched upon seem like revelation. Writer’s hand. Ugly train coach. “I once rode to Swamscott in the cars,” she said. Musical voice made journey seem like poem. Swans. Music of harps. Fountains. Swamscott not much and trains to same like trains everywhere. Fragrant, supple child, carrying seed of troll. Deep feeling of pity. Also lead in pencil.
Arrival in Franconia. Took hack to boardinghouse. Eight dollars per week. American plan. North country. Cold nights even in midsummer. Pick-up supper in gloomy dining room. No matter. Love blind to cold pudding, sallow-faced landlady, stains on ceiling. Bridal chamber big farmhouse bedroom. Cumbrous bedstead painted with purple grapes. Iron wood stove blazing. Undressed in light, heat of fire.
No fishing in vicinity. Walked with bride in hills. Beautiful scenery. Milky-blue hills in distance. Old lakes. Old mountains. Poignant country, north of mill towns. Then booming. Later ruined. (Unable to meet competition from south and west.) So-called marginal farming. Sam Scat. Stony fields. Most hill towns abandoned even then. Foundation holes, ruined buildings in deep woods. Homesteads, schoolhouses, churches even. Woods in vicinity still wild. Deer, bears, some lynx. Young wife picked nosegay of posies from gardens planted by farmers’ wives. Departed then. English roses. Sweet William. Lemon lilies. Phlox and primrose. Brought some back to bridal chamber. Put in water pitcher. Real love of flowers. Haying weather perfect. Writer worked in fields with farmer, sons. Thunderstorm at end of day. Dark clouds mounting. Cock’s crow. Deep sound of stone hills falling. Get hay into barn before rain. Forked lightning. Heavy wagon reaches safety just as first drops fall. Encircling sound. Long after nightfall, departure of rain, embrace of wife returns to writer all good things. Magic of haying weather. Heat of sun. Chill of storm.
Vacation ends all too soon. Bid good-by to hills, fields, cow pastures, Elysian fields with real sorrow. Pinckney Street, Whittier, Grimes, etc. Sainted