Mama and Papa approved. “Independent thinking. Independent heart.”
Jean Baptiste Basion. A made-up name for a selfmade man. He told parlor stories, making light of his childhood poverty, the drunken father who beat him. He made us laugh with his tale of being abandoned to Jesuits. “Bad food. Straw beds. Jesuits loved me. To them, I was Original Sin.” Years, he endured their catechisms, their repressive scorn. “Until I could read and write well enough to run away. An actor’s life for me. If I’d been a priest, I would’ve missed the pleasures of the Assings.” Then, he winked at me.
Imagine, an artist’s soul locked in a cleric’s robe! The thought of his suffering made me cry. Ludmilla was exasperated with me. Mama murmured, “Awakening love.” Papa accorded me respect.
All summer, I fed my passion with poetry and romances.
Only once, in the garden, with pine yielding its lush scent, did Jean Baptiste kiss me. Light. The touch of a butterfly.
I wrapped my arms about his neck. “Marry me.”
He laughed.
“Please.” (Such young earnestness I had.)
“I thank you for the honor.”
If he’d said nothing more, all would’ve been well. A noble knight deflecting praise.
“But you are an indulged, spoiled girl. Whatever would we have in common?”
“I’m going to do great things,” I insisted.
“Beyond bearing a dozen children?”
I hit him. Hard. In his chest.
He laughed, gripping my hands. “A farce? How sentimental. I’ve misjudged my part. Forgive me, Fräulein.”
“I
am
going to do great things. Travel to America. Become a great artist. A painter. Essayist. Journalist.”
“Why not free the slaves, too?”
“I will.”
Jean Baptiste laughed. He was still laughing when he skipped up the steps, into the house, and bid my parents farewell. Still laughing as his carriage clip-clopped down the road. What a tale he’d tell! He’d dine on it for months. Amused by the Assing girl.
All night I cried, curled beside Mama (the only time Papa had the bedroom door closed to him). By dawn, my face was puffy, swollen from tears. Mama promised me, “You will be loved beyond reason. Like Isolde, you’ll want to die for this true, great love.”
How prophetic it all seems!
Yet, by dawn, I hurt not so much from Jean’s rejection. Rather, I ached that he’d found fault with my America. Slaves were servants, weren’t they? Indentured bondsmen? But from one’s station, one could rise. Egalitarianismwould rule. Jean Baptiste was proof of that.
I was on the edge of a precipice:
How could Americans not be free?
Winter 1839, Mama collapsed. Papa called in a consulting doctor. But neither man knew what made Mama take to her bed, wither, and fade. Her belly swelled. “Love’s fruit,” Mama said, convinced she was pregnant, that true love and the seeds of passion had defied age.
Next, her arms, legs, and ankles swelled. Tumors rested against her veins. Mama wailed: “How can I be dying?”
Hard, rocky masses choked off color (turning her skin yellow, then blue). Choked off breath. Mama accepted her fate. In her journal, she wrote:
Hail to me, the happy one! I call out in joy at the end of my life
,
For I have not lived in vain, for I have known love!
Brave Mama! Her last entry:
You, Amor, I served always
.
Of all the gods you reigned supreme
.
For Mama, dying was another art. She quit life with more grace and peace than I’ve yet to know. How I’ve missed her!
Mama was buried in a Christian plot with priests and hymns.
“Why have You forsaken me?” Papa cried over and over again when dirt was thrown atop the casket. Papa fancied himself as Job. But no one thought to ask Papa which God. The resurrected Christ or the Old Testament Jehovah?
I didn’t cry for Mama. Papa was furious. But how could I mourn the beauty of her life and passing?
Papa mourned. Weeping, flailing. Sick like a girl. Only Ludmilla could care for him. Ludmilla, the good girl, like Rachel in the
Jean Baptiste Basion. A made-up name for a selfmade man. He told parlor stories, making light of his childhood poverty, the drunken father who beat him. He made us laugh with his tale of being abandoned to Jesuits. “Bad food. Straw beds. Jesuits loved me. To them, I was Original Sin.” Years, he endured their catechisms, their repressive scorn. “Until I could read and write well enough to run away. An actor’s life for me. If I’d been a priest, I would’ve missed the pleasures of the Assings.” Then, he winked at me.
Imagine, an artist’s soul locked in a cleric’s robe! The thought of his suffering made me cry. Ludmilla was exasperated with me. Mama murmured, “Awakening love.” Papa accorded me respect.
All summer, I fed my passion with poetry and romances.
Only once, in the garden, with pine yielding its lush scent, did Jean Baptiste kiss me. Light. The touch of a butterfly.
I wrapped my arms about his neck. “Marry me.”
He laughed.
“Please.” (Such young earnestness I had.)
“I thank you for the honor.”
If he’d said nothing more, all would’ve been well. A noble knight deflecting praise.
“But you are an indulged, spoiled girl. Whatever would we have in common?”
“I’m going to do great things,” I insisted.
“Beyond bearing a dozen children?”
I hit him. Hard. In his chest.
He laughed, gripping my hands. “A farce? How sentimental. I’ve misjudged my part. Forgive me, Fräulein.”
“I
am
going to do great things. Travel to America. Become a great artist. A painter. Essayist. Journalist.”
“Why not free the slaves, too?”
“I will.”
Jean Baptiste laughed. He was still laughing when he skipped up the steps, into the house, and bid my parents farewell. Still laughing as his carriage clip-clopped down the road. What a tale he’d tell! He’d dine on it for months. Amused by the Assing girl.
All night I cried, curled beside Mama (the only time Papa had the bedroom door closed to him). By dawn, my face was puffy, swollen from tears. Mama promised me, “You will be loved beyond reason. Like Isolde, you’ll want to die for this true, great love.”
How prophetic it all seems!
Yet, by dawn, I hurt not so much from Jean’s rejection. Rather, I ached that he’d found fault with my America. Slaves were servants, weren’t they? Indentured bondsmen? But from one’s station, one could rise. Egalitarianismwould rule. Jean Baptiste was proof of that.
I was on the edge of a precipice:
How could Americans not be free?
Winter 1839, Mama collapsed. Papa called in a consulting doctor. But neither man knew what made Mama take to her bed, wither, and fade. Her belly swelled. “Love’s fruit,” Mama said, convinced she was pregnant, that true love and the seeds of passion had defied age.
Next, her arms, legs, and ankles swelled. Tumors rested against her veins. Mama wailed: “How can I be dying?”
Hard, rocky masses choked off color (turning her skin yellow, then blue). Choked off breath. Mama accepted her fate. In her journal, she wrote:
Hail to me, the happy one! I call out in joy at the end of my life
,
For I have not lived in vain, for I have known love!
Brave Mama! Her last entry:
You, Amor, I served always
.
Of all the gods you reigned supreme
.
For Mama, dying was another art. She quit life with more grace and peace than I’ve yet to know. How I’ve missed her!
Mama was buried in a Christian plot with priests and hymns.
“Why have You forsaken me?” Papa cried over and over again when dirt was thrown atop the casket. Papa fancied himself as Job. But no one thought to ask Papa which God. The resurrected Christ or the Old Testament Jehovah?
I didn’t cry for Mama. Papa was furious. But how could I mourn the beauty of her life and passing?
Papa mourned. Weeping, flailing. Sick like a girl. Only Ludmilla could care for him. Ludmilla, the good girl, like Rachel in the
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