The Adventures of Allegra Fullerton (13 page)

On many a day thereafter I found my new friend in mutual freedom to be one of the most practical and experienced among us in tilling the land. How often these others looked to him for a solution to some problem or other, for some ballast to the airy boats of their idealism!

D
URING THE FIRST TWO WEEKS
at Newspirit I found myself readily falling into the regimen of physical labor in the forenoon, a period of quiet or rest after dinner, followed by diverse chores or selfcultivations of one's choosing in the waning afternoon, and then supper and whatever light evening duties presented themselves about the lands, barn, or farmhouse. These evening duties might be interrupted by readings or conversation, and by lessons, for the children, under the tutelage of ever-patient Mrs. Miles.

In hot weather the men bathed morning and evening in the brook. For the women and children Mr. Miles rigged a sort of private ring of rough clotheshorses covered in sheets. We women bathed before supper, standing by turns in a shallow tub. The children had the help of Mr. Miles, who would climb makeshift steps and pour water from a large pitcher through a sieve over their heads.

But I found myself, inexplicably, unable to begin painting again. Then one afternoon Mr. Perry took me by the hand into the fields behind the house and said: “You're the painter, Miss Sigourney! Paint this field and those glorious flowers in the sun, if you would for me, please. And look at the surrounding vista—the very essence and atmosphere of freedom.” His request broke the spell of my doubts and difficulties, and I started painting immediately.

As a girl, I had started with flowers and landscapes, mostly idealized, in watercolors. And I began again painting with waters. Thanks to Mr. Dana I had adequate papers, good, springy hair-pencils, and a fine variety of cake colors available to me.

That very week I had dampened and polished the surface of my paper with a wet sponge, and dried and fixed the paper to my drawing board with an application of light red and cobalt-and-lake for sky, and a mix of sepia and gamboge (with a hint of brown pink) for the meadows. As I sat on the hill above the hermitage trying to wash the precise mix of lakes and ochres from my cakes to replicate the lights of a tuft of flowers, I recalled Mr. Spooner's admonition that the colors of Creation are adequate to every emotion and effect, and are therefore of deep and abiding interest in themselves.

Adjusting my tints and washes, I remembered him once asking us, “Is there a landscape or portrait painter alive who dares to paint what he sees?” When no one answered immediately, he continued: “And how many have the power to see things as they are? They emulate one another. And fear they would starve if they were to judge for themselves against the authority of the old masters.” He paused to empty his third glass of wine.

I was not traveled enough to judge properly of the masters in the original. Yet I took his principle.

“Of course the capacity to
see
color is no common thing,” he went on. “Oh, some bold young painter may try his hand, but how can we expect a tyro to produce a revolution, or to diminish youthful zeal through wisdom?”

Julian finally ventured a response. “Perhaps we painters should come out, then, and say, ‘that landscape or portrait is what it is because we must lie to you, ladies and gentlemen, because you can not withstand truth.'”

“Indeed, Julian, why not?”

“Well, because of the consequences of truth, sir, and of the difficulty of the trial. If the paleness of Guido appears unearthly to the herd, nay even to so many painters, it is, I'd maintain, more like nature than most of what is called masterly coloring.” He spoke with energy now. “Do we, do I, really believe in Titian? His coloring? Though artists consider it perfection, is it not far too rich, too warm, even for his country? Let's not forget the unfortunate example of Mr. West, who spent his month in Rome measuring the color of Titian, graduating hues on white paper. Did not West die in the end a mere, an overheated, colorist?”

“And why must a painter portray dignified men and beautiful women on canvas rigged for a masquerade?” Gibbon said. “Because he is not willing to starve!”

“Or a woman starve!” I said, looking at Mr. Spooner.

“Or a woman,” Gibbon agreed. “Even so,” he continued, “if I may be allowed to overstate the case a mere fraction: is it any wonder that we have landscape painters of extraordinary merit whose pictures are not so much like the truth as are the banal daubings of the stage?” Julian and Mr. Spooner laughed. “They are beautiful. They are works of art. But they are not like what we see about us; and if they were they would not sell. Walk into any exhibition at the Athenaeum. Do you see anybody stop to look at a Ruysdael, where you will always see scores gathered before a Doughty or a Fisher? Yet the Ruysdael is the more true, is it not, Father? So again, are the artists wholly to blame?”

“Not at first,” Mr. Spooner agreed. “But once the artist matures, once he has sold his hundredfold of acceptable daubings, is he not then accountable to his gifts and his vision? Or at least let us ask after his accountability if he would attempt the originality and truth of greatness.”

N
OW, NEARLY A MONTH
into my stay here, observing the fields about the site of Newspirit, I began to feel more deeply my own responsibility for risking truth. And as I painted, as honestly as I could and at the request of dear Mr. Perry, I felt myself rising out of the dullness and funk of my captivity.

And then there came a greater joy still. Shortly after that time I looked up over the garden fence one summery morning upon hearing the approach of a horse. And there I saw none other than my dear brother Tom astride a galloping young mare.

TEN

Precious reunion

I
ran to meet Tom. He leapt off the horse. We embraced and danced each other around like silly children. We even wept. Finally, he held me at arm's length to catch his breath and look at me.

“Allegra! Dear Allegra! When I heard you were alive I could not bring myself to believe it. But Mr. Dana finally convinced me of the truth.”

I could not speak, other than to repeat his name, for my surprise at that moment was greater than his. He of course had found me out ahead of time and had spent hours anticipating our precious reunion.

The men of Newspirit were in the far fields, but I introduced him to Lucy Miles, Rebecca Lovejoy, and Miss Sabra Somerby (another who had joined us shortly after I arrived). When we had all settled down, Tom and I repaired to the wooden bench under the great chestnut tree by the front of the house. Not knowing just where to begin, I merely asked, “And Mr. Dana told you everything?”

Everything, I now learned, that I had told Mr. Dana, who had traced Tom, it turned out, to the Lowell mills. There Tom had found employment at first as a weaving-room supervisor. He had by now come to be on good terms with the managers of the mill, whom he had impressed by his mechanical knowledge and skill. He seemed to be completely in their confidence. He had been, in fact, just about to embark on a journey to England, to Manchester in particular, for the purpose of examining English mills and machines, so that the best England had to offer might be purchased or constructed in America.

Most of that first conversation, however, dwelled on my own misadventures. Tom recounted all Mr. Dana had told him, and I filled in a few details to be sure he knew all the truth.

“The man should be hanged!” he said more than once.

“Mr. Dana said he would look into the possibility,” I suggested.

“There's sufficient evidence, he believes, to go forward?”

“That's where the doubt lies. Whether we can gather an indictment. It's my word against his. And that of his cohorts. Would anyone believe me? Such a gaudy tale! And since I've heard nothing so far, the police investigations must not have turned up any irrefragable proof of misconduct.”

“They are probably all in Dudley's pocket.”

“Mr. Dana did not seem to think so.” I hesitated before going on. “There's a larger problem—myself. Do I want to parade my foul experience before the world in the public press? Would people want to believe in the repugnance I felt toward my captor? Want to understand how cunning is the last vestige of one's freedom? Can you imagine what the penny-a-liners would make of it? My very name would become a byword, the butt of savage jokes.”

“But Allegra … he'll never feel the lash of justice. Nay, what's to keep him from tormenting you further some day? Or some other poor creature? You must have courage.”

“It's more a matter of what's practical. I've placed that judgment in Mr. Dana's hands. What choice do I have? Am I to strike down the scroundrel myself?”

“You're forgetting, aren't you, that Mr. Dana has his own interest in quieting this matter? As you've said, he was never willing—perhaps he was not able—to explain satisfactorily his own presence in such a den.”

“Come, Tom. He's much-traveled. He's seen the pits and stews of human degradation. Is it so odd that he might turn his hand to helping a few who are ensnared and degraded in his own city? And isn't he the very sort of young gentleman who, by his association with those who are in the forefront of reforming vice, we might expect to play such a role? The Reform Society, you know, sends its agents forth to save any number of women.”

“He is such an agent, you say?”

“No. But he has acted in this instance, perhaps others, as such a one.”

“Even so,” Tom said after mulling this idea briefly, “he can't be in a hurry to serve as an eyewitness to such spectacles as you've implied, Allegra. And might he not be making amends for misadventures of his own … or merely returning to such scenes out of degraded curiosity, some secret obsession with human nature in extremity?” He paused to judge my reaction. “Surely his own mind is troubled at the prospect of formal inquiry.”

“I'm sure his mind is troubled, Tom, for any number of reasons, and he's too cautious to rush headlong into the courts in any event. Still, I believe you're construing a hasty judgment on him.”

“Perhaps, Allegra. But remember, he benefits nothing from any prosecution of Dudley; on the contrary. And for all his breeding, Dana himself served as a common sailor among brutish men. If we owe your salvation in large part to him, may we be forgiven a little doubt concerning his view of the legal merits of your case?”

“I suppose there's something in that.”

“I say finally this: that man, Dudley, should be punished, and stopped, one way or another.”

“And so he may yet be,” I said. “Still, I now know better to watch and protect myself. Mr. Dudley will lose interest as the months pass.”

“I take him to be more vindictive than that, Allegra. And dangerously mad.”

We sat a moment, each examining the matter in our hearts. To own the truth, I did harbor a deep wish to see Dudley punished. And now he had the wealth and freedom to ensnare others in his perverse web of vices.

Tom spoke first. “At least our uncle is no longer a danger. I returned contrite, but more to the point with enough cash to pay for what we'd taken, with interest, and with news of your disappearance and, so far as I knew at the time, your probable death. From the marks of violence in our parlor room, the police assumed you were abducted, and then when you never surfaced despite every effort, an extensive search … well … we just didn't know what else to make of it. Only now do I see that he had you well hidden and disguised under their very noses.”

“As there is little hope now. He's too wily, and too well placed.”

“You almost convince me, Allegra. He's probably at liberty to do more harm in the world. Yet I say again, one way or another he should be stopped!”

I said nothing at first.

“I confess to dreaming of revenge, Tom,” I finally admitted. “I feel no longer helpless, and I want to strike out. Yet how? And worse: What would be the consequence if in some way I should? Greater embroilments still? More loss of liberty? I try to expel my darker fancies. But I'm not always equal to remaining above them. To you alone, brother, can I speak such things. Hardly even to myself.”

“And why shouldn't you feel this way, Allegra? What sort of unnatural creature would you be, after your sufferings at his hand, if you did not feel like that? But the law may yet catch up with this libertine, and we can bide our time somewhat longer.”

Tom's face grew dark. Then he shrugged his shoulders and turned to me. “At least you're alive and well, and I've found you after all.” He hugged me again. “And doing well enough, by the look of it,” he said, looking about the farm.

“Well enough, dear Tom.”

“Have you any plans? Will you stay on here … indefinitely?”

“I feel indefinite as yet. Say rather that it suits me just now. The safety. These precise circumstances. But I also wish for a life other than theirs.” I nodded toward the women still working in the kitchen garden and waved in the direction of the planting fields.

“I didn't think you'd become a philosopher, when Mr. Dana told me about … all this. This community of projectors. This ‘ennead,' as he put it.” He smiled. “It's a beautiful prospect, all very idyllic, but why shouldn't a serpent find his way into this garden?”

“I shall be exceptionally cautious,” I said. “Dudley is a fraud, a foolish egoist who shall never more gain the advantage of me, despite his wealth. I've learned a cunning of my own. By severest trial, to be sure, but I have learned my lesson well, Tom.”

“Be careful you don't take too much onto yourself … and your new friends. Would even our Mr. Dana be equal to this man? And Dana is in Boston and otherwise engaged, don't forget. After all, how much can you expect of these philosophers, dear Allegra? I fear something more than caution and cunning will be required. Certainly Dudley must never discover where you are. You must be careful whom you see.”

“I take great care, Tom,” I assured him. “Although the Community is open to all who would observe and to anyone who would agree to live by its principles and strictures—few enough people as you might imagine—I shun the company of visitors.”

“When Mr. Dana told me of your false name, I thought it a good ploy.” He laughed. “But we can trust such devices and precautions only so far. When I return from England, we had better reconsider.” He thought a moment. “I'm so much occupied that perhaps it's better to have you here, for now anyway.”

“Be clear, Tom, if there is anything you have in mind.”

“I'm not certain myself yet. Perhaps I can put off my travels to England. My employers know there's a family matter I'm attending to, and they value me. I should beg a little further indulgence and reschedule my mission abroad; it would be but a month's delay perhaps, or less, to book a new passage.” He thought things through a moment. “May I come here for a week if I can arrange it, so that we might better plan your security as we consult with Mr. Dana?”

“Mr. Dana does not come here. I believe he thinks it a fool's paradise, though a safe haven for me.”

“But I can travel to him as needs be. We must fully understand his assessments and then plan accordingly for you—whatever the future brings. We must, in short, be much wiser than we have been.”

T
O BE BRIEF
, Tom's employers indulged him in the “settlement of certain family matters preparatory to his journey abroad,” and he then agreed with Messrs. Miles and Brown and Miss Lovejoy to live among us for a week, contributing to our labors and observing the rules.

I could not see what would come of this arrangement, and felt a little unsettled while I waited for Tom to return. I began to find it difficult to paint again, but I found my old habit of reading to be congenial. I was soon out of suitable reading material, however.

One cool, rainy evening I went into the Community's library looking for something of interest. The library, consisting of all the books each member had brought with him to Newspirit, was in a south-facing, solid little outbuilding beside the house. The walls had been lined with unfinished bookshelves that were by now mostly filled. A small stove had been fitted against the north wall. In the center of the room, on a straw carpet, sat a long, handsome library table and three rustic chairs.

As I entered, I immediately saw little Phebe Miles sitting at the table alone concentrating on a book set before her.

“Oh, hello,” I said. “More lessons? A good quiet place to do them.”

She looked up and smiled back at me.

“Not a lesson, Miss Sigourney. I've finished mine for the day. Though Peter hasn't. It's just old Aesop. Mother said that if Peter and I choose several to memorize and perform on some fine afternoon after dinner, we shall have no other lessons that day.”

“Well then, you had better find some you like. That was good of your mother. Much more fun than lessons.”

“Yes, Miss Sigourney.”

“Don't let me disturb you, then. I've just come looking for something to read.”

The little girl returned to Aesop. She was ten or eleven years old, and seeing her alone seated at the table dressed in her own plain little linen tunic seemed suddenly odd to me, as such dress on the children did not when they were among their family. Not that the lovely girl seemed ridiculous, but simply that I saw with new eyes, as it were, the striking oddity of the philosopher's gown upon a child.

I remained quiet and began to peruse the bookshelves for something to pique my interest.
Sacred Writings of the Ancient Persian Prophets
;
The Divine Pymander of Hermes Trismegistus
;
St. Bridget's Revelations
; Behmen's
Theosophick Philosophy Unfolded
; Jansen's
Spiritual Journey
; Mde. Guyon's
Les Opuscules Spirituels
; Fenelon's
Dissertation on Pure Love
.

“Find anything, Miss Sigourney?” Phebe asked.

“Oh dear,” I said. “I think I've come to the wrong place.” I ventured a laugh.

“Lots of those are father's and Mr. Brown's,” she offered, as if by way of explanation.

“Law's
Way to Divine Knowledge
,” I read aloud. “Swendenborg's
Arcana Coelestia
; Quarles's
Emblems and Hieroglyphics
; Crashaw's
Steps to the Temple
. Oh dear me, Phebe!”

We both laughed. I moved to a bookshelf on the other side of the room, but found little better luck there.

Phebe smiled. I was struck by how many of the books were either of ancient origin, from the preceding century, or from the one before that, and how few were from our own time, as if the librarian who had assembled them thought mankind had lost its way at some point between 1600 and 1750.

“Nothing yet, Miss Sigourney?” Phebe persisted.

“I'm afraid not, Phebe.” I looked further along the next shelf.

“You might find Hesiod or Tusser of interest.” She pointed to an adjacent shelf. “Over there.”

Finally, two shelves down, I found old Tusser.

“Shall I try this, then?” I held up Tusser toward Phebe.

“Good,” she said. “Father refers to him often; there's always something useful in Tusser as to the secrets of husbandry, he says.”

“Then that settles it, Phebe, thank you.” She laughed. “I'll tell you what I learn, but for now I'll let you get back to your Aesop. When will your performance be, then?”

“A day or two, I should think. If the rain stops.”

Occasional performances, readings, and recitations took place in a little clearing in the wood, not far from the house, and I found that I had come to look forward to these harmless recreations.