wonder what she thought she was doing. Surely she was not subtly accusing Thomas of playing on her heartstrings, but she could well have been subtly letting him know that she vibrated. Was she a little afraid her own face might have worn, in his presence, some sudden awful thrilling soul-revealing look?
The more I study Grandmother at that age, the more complicated that Quaker girl seems. She has a passion for Augusta, a crush that has lasted now for four or five years. She admires, idealizes, perhaps is in love with Thomas Hudson. She is sought by several young men, including Augusta’s two brothers, who could offer her (and Dickie at least seems to have) a social position to which she is not indifferent. She is dedicated to art, and works hard at it. At the same time, if we accept what she says in the reminiscences, she has been coming to an understanding with Oliver Ward, an engineer two years her junior, whom she has known for one evening and whose existence she has never mentioned to her other friends.
Then in the summer of 1873 she began to be aware that it was on Augusta, not herself, that the uncertain needle of Thomas’s affections was settling. I am guessing, but not wildly. She went back to Milton abruptly, instead of moving permanently to New York as she had been planning to do. There is a marked slackening in the flow of letters. There are no more six-page effusions—only brief notes, and those evasive. The importunity was evidently on the part of Augusta. Susan kept pleading the demands of Longfellow’s Vikings. She said New York stimulated her too much. To the claim that she should not bury herself in the country she replied that if she had great genius, as Augusta had, she might think it legitimate to sacrifice parents and home to it. But her talent was humble and minor, and if it couldn’t be carried on in the house of the parents who had done everything for her, it wasn’t worthy of being carried on.
Such mournful dutifulness and self-depreciation. I suppose she was bruised, poor thing, for in the worst tradition of the sentimental song she saw herself losing both lover and friend. She could not have the satisfaction of charging either with treachery, and she would have reproached herself for ever dreaming of being Augusta’s rival. A perfect match, an ideal couple, she would have been the first to say. Yet it left her out. In bitter moods she may have wondered if he chose Augusta because she was wealthy and well-born and could give him a social base for his career. I suppose she wept for lost gladness and the relinquishment of true friends. The letters mention bouts of sleeplessness and facial neuralgia.
Somehow she brought on a quarrel. I have no idea what about, for key letters are missing, perhaps destroyed in anger or in the passion of reconciliation. Augusta had been planning to visit Milton, and Susan with at least part of her sensibility had been anticipating a love feast. But she must have written some note that infuriated dark-browed Augusta, already pretty impatient with Susan’s defection. At the last minute she wrote curtly that she must accompany her parents to Albany, and could not come, and she signed herself “Very truly your friend.”
One letter of Susan’s tells me all I know about it.
Fishkill Landing
Tuesday night
My dear dear girl—
Your note came this afternoon just after Bessie and I had been getting your room ready and making your bed— our bed where I thought I should lie tonight with my dear girl’s arm under my head. It gave me a queer little sick trembly feeling that I’ve had only once or twice in my life—and then I thought I must see you, not to “talk things over”—I don’t care about things, I only want you to love me.
So I hurried after supper and changed my dress and pulled my ruffle down low in front to please my girl [what, Grandmother?] and rushed into the garden for a bunch of roses—your June roses, blooming late just for you (we have
The more I study Grandmother at that age, the more complicated that Quaker girl seems. She has a passion for Augusta, a crush that has lasted now for four or five years. She admires, idealizes, perhaps is in love with Thomas Hudson. She is sought by several young men, including Augusta’s two brothers, who could offer her (and Dickie at least seems to have) a social position to which she is not indifferent. She is dedicated to art, and works hard at it. At the same time, if we accept what she says in the reminiscences, she has been coming to an understanding with Oliver Ward, an engineer two years her junior, whom she has known for one evening and whose existence she has never mentioned to her other friends.
Then in the summer of 1873 she began to be aware that it was on Augusta, not herself, that the uncertain needle of Thomas’s affections was settling. I am guessing, but not wildly. She went back to Milton abruptly, instead of moving permanently to New York as she had been planning to do. There is a marked slackening in the flow of letters. There are no more six-page effusions—only brief notes, and those evasive. The importunity was evidently on the part of Augusta. Susan kept pleading the demands of Longfellow’s Vikings. She said New York stimulated her too much. To the claim that she should not bury herself in the country she replied that if she had great genius, as Augusta had, she might think it legitimate to sacrifice parents and home to it. But her talent was humble and minor, and if it couldn’t be carried on in the house of the parents who had done everything for her, it wasn’t worthy of being carried on.
Such mournful dutifulness and self-depreciation. I suppose she was bruised, poor thing, for in the worst tradition of the sentimental song she saw herself losing both lover and friend. She could not have the satisfaction of charging either with treachery, and she would have reproached herself for ever dreaming of being Augusta’s rival. A perfect match, an ideal couple, she would have been the first to say. Yet it left her out. In bitter moods she may have wondered if he chose Augusta because she was wealthy and well-born and could give him a social base for his career. I suppose she wept for lost gladness and the relinquishment of true friends. The letters mention bouts of sleeplessness and facial neuralgia.
Somehow she brought on a quarrel. I have no idea what about, for key letters are missing, perhaps destroyed in anger or in the passion of reconciliation. Augusta had been planning to visit Milton, and Susan with at least part of her sensibility had been anticipating a love feast. But she must have written some note that infuriated dark-browed Augusta, already pretty impatient with Susan’s defection. At the last minute she wrote curtly that she must accompany her parents to Albany, and could not come, and she signed herself “Very truly your friend.”
One letter of Susan’s tells me all I know about it.
Fishkill Landing
Tuesday night
My dear dear girl—
Your note came this afternoon just after Bessie and I had been getting your room ready and making your bed— our bed where I thought I should lie tonight with my dear girl’s arm under my head. It gave me a queer little sick trembly feeling that I’ve had only once or twice in my life—and then I thought I must see you, not to “talk things over”—I don’t care about things, I only want you to love me.
So I hurried after supper and changed my dress and pulled my ruffle down low in front to please my girl [what, Grandmother?] and rushed into the garden for a bunch of roses—your June roses, blooming late just for you (we have
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