Fruitlands (8 page)

 

O
CTOBER
11, 1843

I have been very bad, and so have Anna and William. We are all sorry for what we did. Mother has taught us that fibs lead to lies, and lies tangle you into webs from which there is no escaping. So it was. Though we knew of it, Anna and I had told no one; William continued
to play with the stray dog down near the river.

The poor dog was looking weak. William said he must have something more than bread. We had no flesh from animals for the dog, and no way to procure a piece of cow. William said he knew how to fish. I recalled seeing fishhooks at Fruitlands left by the last tenant. Anna said we must roast the fish, as the dog was not a seal or a walrus to eat the fish raw. I got the fishhooks. William caught the fish. Anna and I helped him roast it over a small fire while the dog looked on with his tongue hanging out.

Mr. Lane happened to be nearby and saw the smoke and discovered the fire and the fish before the dog had even one bite.

Mr. Lane and Father spoke very severely to us, telling us how the fish was one of God's creatures just as we were. I cried. Anna is in her room with a bad headache. William is up in the hayloft and won't come down. Mr. Palmer took the dog to a friend at a nearby farm.

 

O
CTOBER
11, 1843

I felt badly for catching the fish, though I don't think the fish and I are so much alike in our feelings as Father says. I am sorry for William. Though Mother is kind to William, I believe he misses his own mother. The stray dog was not exactly a mother, but he was someone for William to love. Mr. Lane is a good man, but he is so upright in his behavior he would not be a father who could be easily loved.

I am sorry for Anna as well. Anna is so unhappy when Father is angry with her. When I am scolded I sulk and cry and stamp about having fits of remorse. In no time I have forgotten all about it. Anna says nothing when she is scolded but only cries and keeps all her misery inside herself. Then it turns into a headache that plagues her for the whole day.

 

O
CTOBER
21, 1843

Is it possible? We have had snow. When I looked out of our attic window this morning, swatches of snow lay on the ground. The bare branches of the trees were frosted with white icing. Dabs of snow sat like little
hats upon the tops of the pumpkins. The ugly heap of rubbish we have not yet buried has been bewitched into a sleeping polar bear. I shook Lizzie awake. We threw on our clothes and raced outside, Anna and William close behind. There was scarcely enough snow for a snowball fight but we did the best we could. By noon the sun had taken the snow away.

The men are chopping and splitting wood for winter fires. Mother said the chopping and splitting should have long since been done, but Father and Mr. Lane have been traveling to Boston and New York and even to Connecticut to seek new members for our family.

We were sent out to look for dead branches and twigs for kindling and to gather any squash left upon the ground. We put the squash in the cellar to keep. The carrots and parsnips will stay bravely in the chilly ground to sweeten.

After supper Mother knitted wool socks. There was some question about using wool, but Mother said no sheep dies from having its wool cut and sheep are probably happier in the summer with their heavy coats removed.

I and my sisters put on a play from Shakespeare.

 

O
CTOBER
21, 1843

Mother wears a troubled look upon her face. I heard her say to Father that our barley and flour supplies are dwindling, and there is no money to buy more. This afternoon I walked into the kitchen without Mother hearing me and found her sitting with her hands over her face. I believe she had been crying. She quickly sent me off to fetch some apples. By the time I returned, she was busily at work shredding cabbage for our salad.

Yet Mother will say no word against Father's hopes. When Mr. Lane and Father are not nearby, Mr. Palmer grumbles, but Mother always takes Father's part. “Here at Fruitlands,” she says, “we are pioneers in the improvement of mankind. No sacrifice is too great for such an undertaking.”

This evening I heard a different story. I was helping her wash the dinner dishes. “Louy,” she sighed, “sometimes I find myself wishing we were back in Concord in our little house with our dear friends around us.” If Mother loses hope, how will I keep up my spirits?

To cheer Mother up we put on a play for her. She is fond of Shakespeare, so Anna, Lizzie, and I acted the three witches from Macbeth. We made pointed hats from paper and cloaks
from bedspreads. We tangled our hair, put flour on our faces to make them white, and used a charred stick to darken the skin around our eyes. For a cauldron we borrowed the tub in which Mother boils her clothes. “Double, double toil and trouble,” we chanted, “fire burn and cauldron bubble.”

As we tossed into the cauldron everything we could lay our hands on, from Father's nightcap to Mother's shoe and
Mr. Lane's toothbrush, there was much laughter. We stirred and stirred until at last I reached into the cauldron and pulled out Mother's corset.

Mother laughed so hard she could hardly get out the words, “That is surely the work of witches,” for Mother hates her corset and will not wear it. When we went to bed we were all in a merry mood.

I awoke in the middle of the night to see if it had snowed again. It was too cold to go outside to the privy, so I used the chamber pot, though I will hate to empty it in the morning.

 

N
OVEMBER
14, 1843

Anna and I have been sick, but not very sick. William is so ill he cannot even sit up in bed. He has been ill for two weeks. We tiptoe about the house and peek into his room to see how he is. Mother has made him barley water. There are no lessons. Mr. Lane spends all his time caring for William. Father is still traveling about looking for people to join us.

The winds have discovered every crack in the house. We wear our coats indoors as well as outdoors.
When I went to take the laundry from the line, it had frozen into stiff boards. It is amusing to see us talking in the house, for little clouds come out of our mouths just as though we were outdoors. We sit on our hands while we read and wear our caps to bed so that we look like elves. Anna creeps out of her room and up the stairway to the attic so we can all sleep close and cozy.

Though we packed the squash and turnips with straw when we put them in the cellar, they have frozen solid. We thaw them as we need them by putting them to bed with us for the night.

 

N
OVEMBER
14, 1843

I do not see how things can get much worse. Our wood is running out, we have very little food, and there is no money to buy more. Father's spirits are low and Mother wears a frown. I know she has written to our uncle for money, but so far none has come. I heard her telling Father that we must leave Fruitlands while we are still all alive. Mother is so troubled, she has refused to sit down to meals with us. My sisters and
I are so upset at her absence, we can hardly eat.

Father will not listen. Only today he suggested taking apart the barn and carrying its wood into the forest far from human habitation. There he would build a house removed from all evil influences. I suppose we might as well freeze to death in the woods as at Fruitlands.

Mr. Bower has gone to live at Mr. Palmer's farm, so there is no one here but the Lanes, Mother and Father, and my sisters and me. Is it not sad that everyone has deserted us? I feel so sorry for Father and wonder what will come of his noble dreams for Fruitlands. If I thought staying all winter at Fruitlands would make Father's dream come true, I would gladly starve or freeze or even both. But I am afraid the starving or the freezing wouldn't help. Father's head is ever in the clouds. His noble thoughts keep him from feeling the cold wind or the hunger in his stomach. He does not see how cold and hungry we are.

Mr. Lane has surprised me very much. He has been caring for William day and night in a most tender way. He is such a stern man, not given to weakness, but he is ever so upset at William's illness. Yesterday he traveled through the snow to the farm where Mr. Palmer had taken the stray dog and brought it back to William. The dog sleeps on William's
bed to keep William's toes warm and has all the bread it wants.

 

N
OVEMBER
29, 1843

Today we are all trying to be cheerful, for it is Father's birthday and my birthday as well. William is recovering and was able to join us for breakfast. Mother made corn cakes, which we had with maple syrup. Mr. Palmer came yesterday and brought a load of wood so that the room was nearly warm.

Mother gave Father socks she had knitted. Father received from Mr. Lane a book from Mr. Lane's library which Father has admired. William made a bookmark to go with the book. Abby May gave Father an abandoned bird's nest she had discovered in one of the alder bushes. After Father thanked her she insisted on taking it back, for she is very fond of it.

Anna, Lizzie, and I each wrote a poem for Father. He liked Anna's best, saying my poem, which was about snow falling on graves, was too unhappy a subject. When you are unhappy, I think it is more honest
to write unhappy poems.

I received a new diary from Mother. Anna knitted mittens for me, and Lizzie mended the holes in my best stockings, something I kept forgetting to do. In the evening Father read some very pretty lines in Mr. Wordsworth's poem. My favorites lines in the poem are:

Those words are so lovely they make me want to cry. I repeated the words “vales and hills” and “golden daffodils” over and over until Anna told me to stop. I wish I could write words that people would want to say over and over.

 

N
OVEMBER
29, 1843

Mother was once again at the dinner table, which was the best birthday present of all. She has told Father and Mr. Lane that
she will not stay at Fruitlands. When she leaves, we are to go with her. I don't know whether I am glad or sorry. Certainly it is uncomfortable here in the cold with little food and daily sicknesses. Still, it is terrible to see Father's disappointment. He had such dreams for Fruitlands. He wanted Fruitlands to be a perfect place, but you cannot have a perfect place unless you have perfect people. And none of us has turned out to be perfect. I think I am the least perfect of all.

It's very sad to have to give up a dream. I don't think Father will be happy until he finds another dream. Mother and I are satisfied with the world as it is. Father wants to polish it until it shines like a diamond. I can't think that is wrong. I do think in a perfect world with perfect people, Father would be more considerate of Mother and would like me better.

Though Father is forty-four and I am only eleven, I cannot but feel that I am the older of the two, for I think more about wood for the fire and food for the table than Father does.

I went to sleep repeating to myself Mr. Wordsworth's lines.

 

D
ECEMBER
2, 1843

Ours is a very sad house. We learned that when Mr. Lane went into Concord yesterday, he was put in jail for not paying taxes on Fruitlands. Mr. Palmer came to tell us. He had hurried so to bring us the terrible news that he had not taken the time to comb the crumbs from his beard. I saw that he had had more than plain bread to eat.

Mother and Father turned out their pockets to see if they could find enough money to release Mr. Lane. Mother had only pennies and Father had nothing at all. Mother said Father should travel to Concord to give Mr. Lane support and consolation. Father said the sight of Mr. Lane in prison would shrivel his soul and keep him from the work of finding new members for our family.

William was upset. I believe he thought he was to be an orphan. To cheer him up my sisters and I took him sledding down the hill with us. He was very sad at first, but after a few tumbles in the snow he cheered up.

A pale and shaken Mr. Lane arrived just before dark. A friend had paid the taxes. In the evening Father and Mother and Mr. Lane had a long talk.

 

D
ECEMBER
2, 1843

Mother is always ready to help those in need, but who will help us? We have little food, and our firewood is nearly gone. Mr. Emerson no longer sends money. It is whispered that he told someone, “Alcott and Lane are always feeling of their shoulders to see if wings are sprouting.” Mother wants us to leave Fruitlands, but Father says he will make another trip to New York to see if he can find support for his dream. Mr. Lane will go with him.

Mother said Father is like Christian in
The Pilgrim's Progress,
who started out on his journey to the Celestial City without his wife and children. Father said Christian would gladly have taken his family on the journey, but they would not go. I am not sure I would wish to go on that journey, for Christian met with snares, traps, pits, blood, bones, hobgoblins, and dragons. It is bad enough to be cold and hungry.