A colonial mansion, a hereditary estate,
I would say a haunted house, and reach the height of romantic felicity—
but that would be asking too much of fate! Still I will proudly declare
that there is something queer about it. Else, why should it be let so cheaply?
And why have stood so long untenanted? John laughs at me, of course,
but one expects that in marriage. John is practical in the extreme. He has no
patience with faith, an intense horror of superstition, and he scoffs
openly at any talk of things not to be felt and seen and put down in figures.
John is a physician, and perhaps— (I would not say it to a living soul,
of course, but this is dead paper and a great relief to my mind—) perhaps
that is one reason I do not get well faster. You see he does not believe I am sick!
And what can one do? If a physician of high standing, and one's own husband, assures
friends and relatives that there is really nothing the matter with one but
temporary nervous depression— a slight hysterical tendency— what is one
to do? My brother is also a physician, and also of high standing, and he says the same
thing. So I take phosphates or phosphites whichever it is, and tonics, and
journeys, and air, and exercise, and am absolutely forbidden to “work” until I
am well again. Personally, I disagree with their ideas. Personally, I believe that
congenial work, with excitement and change, would do me good. But what
is one to do? I did write for a while in spite of them; but it does exhaust me a
good deal-having to be so sly about it, or else meet with heavy opposition.
I sometimes fancy that in my condition if I had less opposition and more society
and stimulus—but John says the very worst thing I can do is to think about
my condition, and I confess it always makes me feel bad. So I will let it alone and
talk about the house. The most beautiful place! It is quite alone, standing
well back from the road, quite three miles from the village. It makes me think
of English places that you read about, for there are hedges and walls and gates
that lock, and lots of separate little houses for the gardeners and people.
There is a delicious garden! I never saw such a garden—large and shady, full of
box-bordered paths, and lined with long grape-covered arbors with seats under
them. There were greenhouses, too, but they are all broken now. There was some
legal trouble, I believe, something about the heirs and coheirs; anyhow, the place has been empty for years.
That spoils my ghostliness, I am afraid, but I don't
care— there is something strange about the house— I can feel it.
I even said so to John one moonlight evening, but he said what I felt was a draught, and shut
the window. I get unreasonably angry with John sometimes. I'm sure I never used
to be so sensitive. I think it is due to this nervous condition. But John says if
I feel so, I shall neglect proper self-control; so I take pains to control
myself-before him, at least, and that makes me very tired. I don't like our room a bit.
I wanted one downstairs that opened on the piazza and had roses all over the window,
and such pretty old-fashioned chintz hangings! but John would not hear of it.
He said there was only one window and not room for two beds, and no near room for
him if he took another. He is very careful and loving, and hardly lets me stir
without special direction. I have a schedule prescription for each hour in the day;
he takes all care from me, and so I feel basely ungrateful not to value it more.
He said we came here solely on my account, that I was to have perfect rest and all
the air I could get. “Your exercise depends on your strength, my dear,” said he,
“and your food somewhat on your appetite; but air you can absorb all the time.” So we took
the nursery at the top of the house. It is a big, airy room, the whole floor nearly,
with windows that look all ways, and air and sunshine galore. It was nursery first
and then playroom and gymnasium, I should judge; for the windows are barred for little children,
and there are rings and things in the walls. The paint and paper look as if a
boys' school had used it. It is stripped off the paper— in great patches all around the head
of my bed, about as far as I can reach, and in a great place on the other side
of the room low down. I never saw a worse paper in my life. One of those sprawling flamboyant
patterns committing every artistic sin. It is dull enough to confuse the eye in
following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate and provoke study, and when you
follow the lame uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit
suicide— plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard of
contradictions. The color is repellent, almost revolting; a smouldering unclean
yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight. It is a dull yet
lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others. No wonder the
children hated it! I should hate it myself if I had to live in this room long.
There comes John, and I must put this away, he hates to have me write a word.
