Anne: A Novel

by Constance Fenimore Woolson

Jeanne-Armande, finding time to make a flying visit to her country residence the day before she sailed, had been seized with the sudden suspicion that certain articles were missing, notably a green wooden pail and a window-curtain. The young priest, who had met her there by appointment, and opened the door for her with his key (what mazes of roundabout ways homeward, in order to divert suspicion, Jeanne-Armande required of him that day!), was of the opinion that she was mistaken. But no; Jeanne-Armande was never mistaken. She knew just where she had left that pail, and as for the pattern of the flowers upon that curtain, she knew every petal. Haunted by a vision of the abstraction of all her household furniture, piece by piece, during her long absence—tables, chairs, pans, and candle-sticks following each other through back windows, moved by invisible hands—she was seized with an inspiration on the spot: she would sell off all her furniture by public sale that very hour, and leave only an empty house behind her. She knew that she was considered a mystery in the neighborhood; probably, then, people would come to a Mystery's sale, and pay good prices for a Mystery's furniture. Of one thing she was certain—no buyer in that region knew how to buy for prices as low as she herself had paid. Her method of buying was genius. In five minutes a boy and a bell were secured, in half an hour the whole neighborhood had heard the announcement, and, as mademoiselle had anticipated, flocked to the sale. She attended to all negotiations in person, still in her rôle of a Mystery, and sailed for Europe the next day in triumph, having in her pocket nearly twice the sum she had originally expended. She did not once think of Anne in connection with this. Although she had given her authority to use the half-house, and had intrusted to her care her own key, it seemed almost impossible that the young girl would wish to use it. For was she not admirably established at Weston, with all the advantages of mademoiselle's own name and position behind her?

And thus it was that only bare walls met Anne's eyes as, followed by Nora, she went from room to room, asking herself silently what she should do in this new emergency that confronted her. One door they found locked; it was the door of the store-room: there must, then, be something within. Li was summoned to break the lock, and nothing loath, he broke it so well that it was useless from that hour. Yes, here was something—the unsold articles, carefully placed in order. A chair, a kitchen table, an iron tea-kettle with a hole in it, and two straw beds—the covers hanging on nails, and the straw tied in bundles beneath; there was also a collection of wooden boxes, which mademoiselle had endeavored, but without success, to dispose of as "old, superior, and well-seasoned kindling-wood." It was a meagre supply of furniture with which to begin housekeeping, a collection conspicuous for what it lacked. But Anne, summoning courage, directed Li to carry down stairs all the articles, such as they were, while she cheered old Nora with the promise to buy whatever was necessary, and asked her to unpack the few supplies she had herself purchased on her way through the city. The kitchen stove was gone; but there was a fire-place, and Li made a bright fire with some of the superior kindling-wood, mended the kettle, filled it, and hung it over the crackling flame. The boy enjoyed it all greatly. He stuffed the cases with straw, and dragged them down stairs, he brought down the chair and table, and piled up boxes for a second seat, he pinned up Anne's shawl for a curtain, and then volunteered to go to the store for whatever was necessary, insisting, however, upon the strict allowance of two spoons, two plates, and two cups only. It was all like Robinson Crusoe and The Swiss Family Robinson, and more than two would infringe upon the severe paucity required by those admirable narratives. When he returned with his burden, he affably offered to remain and take supper with them; in truth, it was difficult to leave such a fascinating scene as two straw beds on the floor, and a kettle swinging over a hearth fire, like a gypsy camp—at least as Li imagined it, for that essence of vagrant romanticism is absent from American life, the so-called gypsies always turning out impostors, with neither donkeys, tents, nor camp fires, and instead of the ancient and mysterious language described by Borrow, using generally the well-known and unpoetical dialect that belongs to modern and Americanized Erin. At last, however, Li departed; Anne fastened the door. Old Nora was soon asleep on the straw, but not her young mistress, in whose mind figures, added together and set opposite each other, were inscribing themselves like letters of fire on a black wall. She had not expected any such outlay as would now be required, and the money she had brought with her would not admit it. At last, troubled and despairing, she rose from her hard couch, went to the window, and looked out. Overhead the stars were serenely shining; her mind went back to the little window of her room in the old Agency. These were the same stars; God was the same God; would He not show her a way? Quieted, she returned to her straw, and soon fell asleep.

In the morning they had a gypsy breakfast. The sun shone brightly, and even in the empty rooms the young day looked hopeful. The mistress of the house went in to the city on the morning train, and in spite of all lacks, in spite of all her trouble and care, it was a beautiful girl who entered the train at Lancaster station, and caused for a moment the chronically tired business men to forget their damp-smelling morning papers as they looked at her. For Anne was constantly growing more beautiful; nothing had had power as yet to arrest the strong course of nature. Sorrow had but added a more ripened charm, since now the old child-like openness was gone, and in its place was a knowledge of the depth and the richness and the pain of life, and a reticence. The open page had been written upon, and turned down. Riding on toward the city, she was, however, as unconscious of any observation she attracted as if she had been a girl of marble. Hers was not one of those natures which can follow at a time but one idea; yet something of the intensity which such natures have—the nature of all enthusiasts and partisans—was hers, owing to the strength of the few feelings which absorbed her. For the thousand-and-one changing interests, fancies, and impulses which actuate most young girls there was in her heart no room. It was not that she thought and imagined less, but that she loved more.

Herr Scheffel received her in his small parlor. It was over the shop of a musical instrument maker, a German also. Anne looked into his small show-window while she was waiting for the street door to be opened, noted the great brass tubes disposed diagonally, the accordions in a rampart, the pavement of little music-boxes with views of Switzerland on their lids, and the violins in apotheosis above. Behind the inner glass she saw the instrument maker himself dusting a tambourine. She imagined him playing on it all alone on rainy evenings for company, with the other instruments looking on in a friendly way. Here Herr Scheffel's cheery wife opened the door, and upon learning the name, welcomed her visitor heartily, and ushered her up the narrow stairway.

"How you haf zhanged!" said Herr Scheffel, lifting his hands in astonishment as he met her at the entrance. "But not for the vorse, Fräulein. On the gontrary!" He bowed gallantly, and brought forward his best arm-chair, then bowed again, sat down opposite, folded his hands, and was ready for business or pleasure, as she saw fit to select. Anne had come to him hoping, but not expecting. Fortune favored her, however; or rather, as usual, some one had taken hold of Fortune, and forced her to extend her favor, the some one in this instance being the little music-master himself, who had not only bestowed two of his own scholars as a beginning, but had also obtained for her a trial place in a church choir. He now went with her without delay to the residence of the little pupils, and arranged for the first lesson; then he took her to visit the contralto of the choir, whose good-will he had already besought for the young stranger. The contralto was a thin, disappointed little woman, with rather a bad temper; but as she liked Anne's voice, and hated the organist and tenor, she mentally organized an alliance offensive and defensive on the spot, contralto, soprano, and basso against the other two, with possibilities as to the rector thrown in. For, as the rector regularly attended the rehearsals (under the mild delusion that he was directing the choir), the contralto hoped that the new soprano's face, as well as voice, would draw him out of his guarded neutrality, and give to their side the balance of power. So, being in a friendly mood, she went over the anthems with Anne, and when the little rehearsal was ended, Herr Scheffel took her thin hand, and bowed over it profoundly. Miss Pratt was a native of Maine, and despised romance, yet she was not altogether displeased with that bow. Sunday morning came; the new voice conquered. Anne was engaged to fill the vacant place in the choir. Furniture was now purchased for the empty little home, but very sparingly. It looked as though it would be cold there in the winter. But—winter was not yet come.

Slowly she gained other pupils; but still only little girls "for the sgales," as Herr Scheffel said. The older scholars for whom she had hoped did not as yet seek her. But the little household lived.

In the mean while Père Michaux on the island and Miss Lois at the springs had both been taken by surprise by Anne's sudden departure from Weston. They knew nothing of it until she was safely in the half-house. But poor Miss Lois, ever since the affair of Tita and Rast, had cynically held that there was no accounting for anybody or anything in this world, and she therefore remained silent. Père Michaux divined that there was something behind; but as Anne offered no explanation, he asked no question. In truth, the old priest had a faith in her not unlike that which had taken possession of Heathcote. What was it that gave these two men of the world this faith? It was not her innocence alone, for many are innocent. It was her sincerity, combined with the peculiar intensity of feeling which lay beneath the surface—an intensity of which she was herself unconscious, but which their eyes could plainly perceive, and, for its great rarity, admire, as the one perfect pearl is admired among the thousands of its compeers by those who have knowledge and experience enough to appreciate its flawlessness. But the majority have not this knowledge; they admire mere size, or a pear-like shape, or perhaps some eccentricity of color. Thus the perfect one is guarded, and the world is not reduced to despair.

During these days in the city Anne had thought often of Helen. Her engagements were all in another quarter, distant from Miss Teller's residence; she would not have accepted pupils in that neighborhood. But it was not probable that any would be offered to her in so fashionable a locality. She did not allow herself even to approach that part of the city, or to enter the streets leading to it, yet many times she found herself longing to see the house in spite of her determination, and thinking that if she wore a thick veil, so that no one would recognize her, there would be no danger, and she might catch a glimpse of Miss Teller, or even of Helen. But she never yielded to these longings. October passed into November, and November into December, and she did not once transgress her rules.

Early in December she obtained a new pupil, her first in vocal music. She gave two lessons without any unusual occurrence, and then—Of all the powers that make or mar us, the most autocratic is Chance. Let not the name of Fate be mentioned in its presence; let Luck hide its head. For Luck is but the man himself, and Fate deals only with great questions; but Chance attacks all irrelevantly and at random. Though man avoids, arranges, labors, and plans, one stroke from its wand destroys all. Anne had avoided, arranged, labored, and planned, yet on her way to give the third lesson to this new pupil she came suddenly upon—Helen.