"Ruth has already got her wedding dress--how queer that is."The speaker never moved her eyes from the idle scene on the other side of the window as she spoke. Her voice lacked any eagerness to its inflection. Long practice of gossip and news-sharing had robbed these of their sensational novelty. Habit alone dictated their continuing, just as habit kept her disinterested position on the window-seat, looking at the same empty scenery day after day.
"Don't say 'queer,' Alice," another remarked carelessly from her seat across from the window. She had the same tedious, uninterested note to her rebuke--completely lacking severity--as Alice took with the gossip. Her hands rapidly plucked a needle in and out of a sheet of fabric, languid in spite of their motion. "It's becoming unfashionable."
"Crass, you mean," I cut in, the impatience of my tone bursting like black ink over the blank page of the room's stifled atmosphere. "Why can't you just say what you mean, Dot? Crass today and crude tomorrow, and there goes a perfectly good word. Why do people hate words so?"
There was no answer to the question, and its passion slipped away unnoticed in a disagreeably agreeable silence that followed. Alice pretended to be interested in the scenery. Dorothy pretended to be embroidering something. I kicked the carpet angrily and then stamped out the urge to do so again. It was pettish, and I hated feeling pettish. I shifted restlessly on the round piano seat instead, pretending to smooth my skirts.
"Did she spend very much on it?" Dorothy was the only one I knew who could ask a question suddenly without sounding interested. "On the wedding dress, I mean."
"Not above thirty-five or forty dollars, I've heard." Alice blew on the window and wiped away the condensation lazily. "I'm wearing as much in the threads on my back, and this is my day dress."
"At least," I addressed the cover of my book. "At least she cannot be accused of extravagance."
"More like poverty, poor lamb," the endearing term sounded hateful without any associated compassion or spirit. I wanted to throw my book at Dot's face. "But at least she was not extravagant, as dear Anne says, and did not spend outside her means."
Dear Anne! Dear Anne scowled.
"Yes, but for her wedding--" Alice checked her eagerness and continued placidly. "Well, for anyone's wedding a good deal of extravagance is expected. It's practically in the Bible nowadays, along with wives putting their necks under their husbands' feet--poor devils."
I wanted to ask whether she meant the husbands or the wives. Simply groveling like a worm under someone's foot could not be the essence of submission, and the act had a serpent-like connotation that probably indicated the reverse. I thought perhaps I pitied the husband more. Instead, I spread my hands wide and shrugged, announcing:
"I haven't seen the dress myself. I didn't ask. The point is moot, anyway. Ruth hasn't even got a beau."
The useless plucking of Dot's hands at the embroidery cloth stilled. Even Alice's steadfast eyes flickered a moment from their view at the window. Then the fraction of a second passed, and the atmosphere of surprise left the room.
"Hasn't she?" remarked Dot calmly, when Alice seemed too disinterested to take up the subject again.
"No." I did not care to elaborate.
"Who would have her?" asked Alice of the linden-tree.
"Who will have any of us?" demanded I, sounding fiercer than I wished. Perhaps it was not fierce enough. "All we ever do is sit in here and talk of things that none of us care for."
"My dear girl," the linden-tree received a superior smile in my stead. "Anybody would be delighted to have us. That is precisely what every man expects from his wife."
There was no answer for that, except several violent actions which my languid hands would never commit. All my passions were intellect-bound, and I hated myself for it. I turned angrily back to Dot. "Ruth said she knows it's silly, but at least it's not expensive. She calls it her poor, cheap little act of faith."
"I expect they'll saint her tomorrow," said the window-seat.
"Sooner her than any of us!"
"You needn't be hateful, Anne," Dot interjected mildly.
"If I am, I am equally so to myself as any of you. But you are right. I don't need to be. We are hateful enough as it is without anybody saying anything expressly." My own tone was as mild as hers, and I was shocked for a moment to taste spite in it--still more shocked to recognize myself as my opponents' equal in a game of long-seated and placid malice. The realization cut off whatever I had thought to say next. I sat, dumb-struck, for at least ten seconds.
These ten seconds wore into twenty, another uncomfortable and uncompanionable silence. I suddenly remembered a family party in this same parlor, while I was still small and constantly reading in corners. Alice, her recalcitrance much less subdued in those days, had gotten onto the piano seat and persuaded some young, stupid uncle of ours to push her round and round. And so he did - and round and round she went, until I was stomach-sick and furious, my eyes unable to leave the dizzying motion and return to my book.
"I do not consider it an act of faith to pin my hopes up for all to see," Alice remarked at last, her voice cutting through the memory but failing to return me completely to the present. Round and round and round... "No wedding dress for me, until the occasion does merit some extravagance. Then all shall be remarkably well-done."
Dot nodded amiably over her embroidery at the both of us, agreeing with goodness knew what. Mother had nodded in just such a manner, as that stupid uncle talked loudly of some ridiculous story involving a few mutual acquaintances--all were properly shocked, unwilling and yet eager to hear more--the gossip swirled in my ears with the motion of the piano-seat in my eyes--round and round and round--Uncle might have put his foot out and stopped it, but instead he kept slipping his toe over and nudging it 'round again, and I was old enough to know that it did nobody any harm but nobody any good--round and round and round and round and round and round, until--
Crash! The piano seat had unscrewed itself, and both cousin and cushion tumbled to the floor with a thump and a shriek. I remembered that moment, when the idle chatter had halted and all the minds which had been so forwardly fixed on the gossip turned for a glorious moment to consider the safety of the child. Alice bawled. Never had there been such a frantic commotion, on the part of adults or child, but I had never seen the contents of the room appear so sensible before--nor have I since.
"I haven't bought my wedding dress," Alice repeated, and I awoke to myself swiveling slightly on the piano seat. I realized I was staring at her, and she was discomfited enough to be looking oddly back. Perhaps if I strode over and yanked her from the window-seat, a second fall... but no. It would take more than a tumble from a seat to wake her up; she had been asleep so very long. She retreated her gaze first.
"It is a pretty gesture, all the same," Dorothy was saying, in that tone of hers that meant she felt complacent enough about something to do nothing very like it herself.
I nodded absently and busied myself again with my book, soothed (though perhaps fancifully so) by the memory of the spinning chair falling asunder with a crash, and all the world springing forth to life for one glorious moment.
Tomorrow, I was determined to see the dress.
N.B.: Several things I'd like to point out about this story. First, it is set more than a few years back - at least enough for the thirty-five or forty dollars on a dress to be worth a bit more than they are now. Beyond that, I can't give you a date. It's such a vague story; does it matter?
Secondly, I have deliberately not described their faces or their clothes. This is partly because their speeches invite images readily enough (or at least to my mind), and partly because they are just enough of a reflection of a general state of wrestling in my own soul for their faces and appearance not to matter. (When I say 'general' I mean just that. I have never had this specific conversation within myself, nor do I claim to house four complete people within my soul.)
Thirdly, I do not really know what the point or the plot is. Plotwise, I do not intend to play with these characters any more. This is the story, and we must both be content with it. Pointwise, you may tell me how glad (or unglad) you are to see someone finally writing about... what? If someone will tell me what it seems to be about, I will gladly listen... but I may be very unable to say 'yea' or 'nay.' I have not made up my own mind yet, you see. Quite honestly, I thought of the first line, was entertained, and dreamed the rest from there. Personally, I think any story having one straightforward "point" is a little tedious, if not impossible. Even in something as simplistic as Aesop, one may see other things than the stated moral--not contrary or to the exclusion of the moral, but working in tandem. That, however, is neither here nor there. I digress.
And a last and inglorious fourth, some of these folk may (as a matter of coincidence) bear names of real folk in life. Here again let me reiterate the second point, with an addendum: these are not the dregs of any particular experience in my literal life any more than my soul-life. Anne, Dorothy, Alice, and Ruth are not literal or parallel images of people I know. I have never had this conversation within or outside myself. Using 'Anne,' a variation on my own name, was deliberate; that is, deliberate laziness and unoriginality. I didn't want to think of anything else. 'Ruth' is the name of one of my younger sisters, but as far as I know she has not purchased her wedding dress yet, nor is she likely to do so.
"If someone will tell me what it seems to be about, I will gladly listen..."
Perhaps thoughts and feelings? Perceptions of yourself? Doubt? Admiring someone eles faith and thinking yours was to small?
I'm just guessing here.
At first I thought maybe it was a disguised attempt at writing out some frustration at fellow students one might be forced to work clinicals with or fellow works one might be forced to endure in a working as a nurse. Or just ignore me, I'm to tired to think theologically.
It seems reminiscent of L. M. Montgomery to me. Very well-written, great use of words, and I think you were quite right not to describe the conversants, since that is something the reader is entirely likely to imagine vividly enough for himself if left alone.
Hmm. No, this isn't part of a frustration with the opinions or ideals of anybody specific I know. I don't think people like Alice or Dot exist, at least not as pagans. Their ideals are not fashionable now. If it is the outworking of a frustration with any group of people I know, they would probably be Christians. That is not to say that the Christians I know are like Dot and Alice, but that the ugliness of these two is more easily disguised and tolerated in a Christian setting. But as I said, there is no specific instance.
Well - alright, I did have one thought as to the general purpose. Since the spiritual metaphor of a bride waiting for her bridegroom stands, the beauty of Ruth's gesture in purchasing a wedding dress and being /ready/ (if we are to take this story as more symbolic than anything else) is greatly increased. But I don't think it's the size of the faith that bothers Anne; I think what rankles most with her is the inactivity of passion and will and limb on the part of herself and her sisters. If Anne wants anything, it is not Ruth's faith; it is for something to fan her own into life - the exercise of faith rather than its proportions. That, at least, is how I understand my own character. (Remember, she is not directly analogous to me or my feelings...)
I thought of that, Elai - perhaps a blend of L.M. Montgomery and Elizabeth Goudge (which is funny, because I put 'Green Dolphin Street' down for the last few weeks... I suppose the effect lingered). And I've gotten halfway through so many stories and realized, 'G'ack, I haven't described these folks yet!' and /then/ clumsily inserted descriptions - at last, I just decided to ignore the compulsion. I was curious to see if the characters would stand without it, or if it really is an indispensable part of writing. ;P I don't think I could craft a whole novel that way because people /will/ be tedious and insist on knowing whether Balrogs have wings or not, but for a shorter piece... it works.
" If Anne wants anything, it is not Ruth's faith; it is for something to fan her own into life - the exercise of faith rather than its proportions."
I guess maybe that's what I was trying to say, I don't know. I don't think I'm word-crafty, but probably less likely when it's 11:30-something and I'm trying to calm my tired, scared mind down.
Maybe Anne wants to get up do something but is afraid or feels she has too much holding her back?
And weather Balrogs have wings? Hehehe *snork* Good Ol' Erestor.
I shouldn't try to pin Anne down to any one statement. "She wants to be married" - "she wants to do something" - "she wants to feel something" - "she is an emblem of the repressed female at the turn of the twentieth century" - I don't care! I didn't /mean/ any of those - that is, I didn't /see/ them when I saw /her/ - so if they seem to be the driving point of the story, I have made a very poor job of it.
Insofar as this story is about a person, I don't think it can be pinned down to any one problem-point, just as a human being cannot be accurately defined as a "problem" in the sense that problems have strict terms and solutions. (Humans have problems, but they're much more complex than equations.) If a character can be summarized by one statement - "he wants money," "he has brown hair" - then the author has failed to convey a glimpse of a whole person; so with this fragment of a story.
I'm sorry if I seem to be arguing with you. I know I'm not contradicting /you/ - I'm just trying to muddle this out, and you're being a very effective catalyst. :)
(Good catch on the Erestor bit, by the way. I was hoping someone would snag that...)
This reminds me of the thought thought of shaking the sleepers from apathy or mediocrity into wakefulness, into passionate living.
and also the verse "But if I say, "I will not mention him or speak any more in his name," his word is in my heart like a fire, a fire shut up in my bones. I am weary of holding it in; indeed, I cannot."
Jeremiah 20:9
I captured this: "If Anne wants anything, it is not Ruth's faith; it is for something to fan her own into life," then saw that Lilly already captured it, but decided to post it here anyway for emphasis. So there. I think that's "the point," assuming there needs to be one - which I don't assume. It's just a good piece of writing, Anna: full of tension and a "good use of words," as I believe some other such person wrote somewhere in here. Nice piece.