Doug WaltersBy Doug Walters
First published in February/March, 2007, Volume 4, Issue 1, The Hatchet: Journal of Lizzie Borden Studies.
“Upon Reflection”
(A Cautionary Tale)
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;
But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
The preceding lines are of course Wordsworth’s, penned now so many years ago in nigh the dawning years of the present century.
Christened “Resolution and Independence,” the verse began thus:
There was a roaring in the wind all night;
The rain came heavily and fell in floods;
But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
The birds are singing in the distant woods;
Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;
The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.
Now, lest you think, fair Reader, that you’ve lost your way in the dark of night, stumbled and bent a tender toe over some unseen threshold into the wrong room, let me assure you from the outset that this is not the case. All things are as they have been, and I am yet ye humble (if recently somewhat harried) Compositor.
My tale begins upon a frigid January evening in 1893. The ordinary business in which I find myself usually engaged had slowed to an almost painful crawl. Now I’m used to the periodic peak and occasional valley, you understand, but the hiatus arbeitum had in this instance extended several weeks beyond anything “normal” or for that matter comfortable in a purely economic sense.
So it was (facing impending financial straits) that I endeavored to head the situation off at the pass as it were. Perusing the Evening Standard of New Bedford, I happened across an advertisement for temporary part-time employ, which I looked into immediately. The position involved inspecting the daily output of two hundred hens for Wharton, Weeks & Co. Now you may know that name—I mean the poulterers of some renown. If the name is not familiar, most readers will know their advertisements: “Mutton Gone Bad? Don’t Be Sad! Call Wharton, Weeks & Co.—The Commonwealth’s Premiere Chicken Outfit! Locations in Fitchburg, Billerica, New Bedford, and Somerset. No need for maps—just follow the feathers!”
The salary, by some fortune, was more than enough to get me through the next while—the job was advertised to last about eight weeks. The hours were also quite decent, stretched as they were over four days each week—I’d leave of early morning, barring train delays arrive at the New Bedford establishment at the agreed-upon hour, spend the day inspecting and sorting eggs, and be back in town here again just past dark on most days.
Sunday, Tuesday, and Friday were my days off.
“Our hens for the most part are of a rather strict religious persuasion, refusing to lay on the Sunday,” I was informed by the gentleman who supervised the farm. “Average output most days is somewhere about two hundred twenty or so eggs, sometimes as high as four hundred.
Now Sundays are a different thing altogether—we find maybe a dozen eggs at the most. If not for a few heathen stragglers, who knows? We might find none at all.”
The foreman-proprietor of the New Bedford operation, a gent of about threescore and five years in age, was even kind enough to provide me with such documents as would permit me to ride the train to and from at one-third the normal fare.
Perrigrine Hadley Wingate had, he said, come to New Bedford from up in the woods of Maine during the “great syrup famine” which (so the story as he told it went) had struck the family farm in 1847. The hundred-twenty acres of sugar maples on the family homestead, old Wingate said, had produced just slightly more than three gallons of maple syrup for the year in question.
“Young squirt I surely was,” he said, “but that wintah season made me swear that I’d never make a ‘sap sucker.’ I snuck off the farm one night determined to make my way south and into the wide world. Fate and good fortune led me to Fitchburg, Massachusetts within three months of my leaving home.
“One of the first gentlemen I met there I ran into at a rooming house. He looked me over with a hard, appraising eye, said ‘Well, now young feller, never saw you here before. What’s your business?’
“I told him my tale same as I told you just a minute ago. He said he’d never actually heard of a ‘syrup famine’ but supposed it was indeed possible. He inquired after my family, and I related the particulars. He said ‘Well, boy don’t you think there’s something you need to be doing pretty soon?’ I said I supposed there was. ‘Tomorrow morning,’ he said, ‘you take your little tail over to the telegraph office and send your folks a message saying that you’re okay. Just to be sure you do that you little devil—come with me. I’ve got a right nice house just up the way here. No kids yet, but my wife will sure be proud to see you.
You’re to tell your parents that you’re staying with Mr. & Mrs. Ellicott Bartlett Wharton of Fitchburg, Massachusetts.’”
The telegram was duly sent as Mr. E. B. Wharton of Fitchburg, Massachusetts had instructed.
“The next day,” old Wingate said, chuckling at the memory, “I met Mr. Horace Bentley Weeks—and as luck would have it, also the future Mrs. Wingate within the week. H. B. Weeks had a pretty little daughter near to my own age who left me absolutely dazzled. If I wanted to breathe regular, I couldn’t take long looks at her—that’s what a doll she was! The years matured her you understand, but even today she still bears the mark of that beautiful young girl who put a hitch in my breath those many years ago.”
This then was the situation in which I found myself: Four days a week spent with “Grine” Wingate—pronounced “green”—and the chickens. Despite a rather loose, engaging way of doing his business the old gentleman was particular that things should be done just right.
I will say that I enjoyed the work such as it was. Old Wingate made a fine daily companion, filled as he was with stories—and the chickens ran a close second place. ‘Round two weeks in, however, the sudden change in activity and environs finally took a rather heavy toll. I got off the New Bedford train Monday evening and made my way home, arriving at my humble door just past seven o’clock in the evening. I would have made it sooner but for a train delay of about thirty-five minutes.
Following a light supper (‘Grine Wingate’s egg sandwich lunch stuck with me longer than usual) I settled into my chair for a bit of reading, enjoying the one night a week I usually spent in company of Mr. Edgar Allan Poe.
Inspired by the chime of the city hall clock, which had struck the hour, only a moment before, I began the night’s foray in company of “The Bells”—
Hear the sledges with the bells,
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
When I sat down with Mr. Poe, the city clock announced in clear and confident tones that the hour was eight o’clock. Now, only a second before this self-same city clock was asserting that the half-hour had arrived. My only question was “Which half-hour?” “Tintinabulation—bah!”
The volume of Poe I’d opened had tumbled into my lap. Grumbling, I tossed it aside and rose from my resting place to see just what time it was. The clock face was a bit hard to make out (on account as I was half asleep) but after a moment I determined the hour to be about forty-six minutes past midnight.
“Hmmmmph!” I muttered. “Suppose I’ll go to bed.”
I arose from the chair, stretched and made a half turn in the direction of the next room and my humble feather bed. Before I took two steps there came the sound of two muffled taps upon the door of my domicile.
“Hark! ‘Tis some visitor!” I muttered, chuckling softly as I stepped toward the door. Whatever levity the moment possessed disappeared as I opened the door. I found myself face to face with a woman I’d heard of but never yet seen up close: My midnight caller was a female, fortyish in age—a female who looked very much like Miss Emma Borden.
“Well, who is—is it Miss Borden… Emma Borden?” I opened the door wider, invited her in.
“Indeed it is, sir.” She stepped inside. “Am I disturbing you? It seems we have business most urgent.”
“Well, I was—May I offer you tea, Miss? It will not take but a few minutes.” Miss Emma nodded a “yes, if you please” sort of nod. Off I went towards kitchen and kettle.
The squeak of the pump handle and the flowing water muffled my own mutterings: “I wonder what business most urgent I should have with the Bordens?” That question continued to beat at my brow whilst I prepared things. It was displaced only momentarily by the thought that old Wingate would have a haemorrhage if he saw me sweetening my teacup with a splash of maple syrup.
“Things will be ready just shortly Miss Emma,” I called, peeking my head ‘round the corner. “The water’s just about right presently.”
“Oh that’s fine,” Miss Emma said. “We have plenty of time.”
We do? I asked myself as I made things ready for travel, arranging them on a small tray. When all was set I carried the laden tray into the room where Miss Emma Borden waited. “I’ll bring the water last, Miss. Hot water ‘loose’ isn’t something I’m terribly skilled at handling.”
I returned with the water and in fairly good order two cups were set out. “One or two, Miss?” I inquired, indicating the sugar lumps. “Two, please.”
“There.” I dropped two lumps into Miss Emma’s cup. “The tea should be about ready to pour—shall I?” and Miss Emma nodded.
As I filled my own cup, my nose was assaulted by the pleasant odor of maple. Here’s to you, you old sap-sucker, I thought, as I tasted the tea.
“Tea alright, Miss Emma?” She nodded, smiling a small, thankful smile.
“Good. Now then . . . What exactly has brought you to my humble domicile, Miss Borden?”
She sipped, and then set the cup down. “It would seem sir, that we have business most urgent.”
“We do, Miss? Of what sort?”
“Well, you understand things have been somewhat disarranged the last six months as regards Father’s holdings.”
“Well, yes ma’am I can sympathize there. But what has your father’s business to do with me? I have an account at the bank of course, but no other connections that I know of.”
“No other dealings that you know of? Did you not sir, borrow a rather large sum to procure these premises?”
“Well, no. Miss Emma, you may well have the wrong person here. I own this place straight out, and have now for many years. It came to me thru inheritance. I have made periodic improvements, mind you. But I have never borrowed a large amount of money to do so, from your father, his bank, or anyone else.
“In fact I distinctly remember the last time I borrowed money from your father. I had a bill outstanding at Smiths, and when I went over to pay it I discovered that my wallet had dropped out of my trouser pocket. Your father happened to be in Smith’s just behind me. When I explained the matter to the clerk, your father inquired ‘What does this man owe?’ On being told the amount, your father took out his pocketbook and paid my bill. The sum was exactly two dollars. I thanked Mr. Borden most kindly, gave him my name and some better account of the particulars surrounding my lack of funds.
“I returned to these premises, discovered my wallet just where I thought it would be, and set off again for my first and only visit to number 92 Second Street. I knocked, and was admitted by the maid—Irish girl she is. I inquired of her if Mr. Andrew Borden had yet returned, and was told he had not.
“Could I leave something for him perhaps with Mrs. Borden?”
“You might do that sir, yes. Let me see where she is.” The servant girl momentarily returned, accompanied by your late stepmother. We spoke but briefly—long enough to permit me to explain my business, return the two dollars, reiterate my thanks to Mr. Borden, and bid all a pleasant day.
“I never again had but a passing acquaintance with Mr. Andrew J. Borden. On a later occasion I saw him out somewhere. He laughed, called me by name, and inquired after the state of my pockets.”
“So this isn’t something you’d be familiar with I suppose…?” As she spoke, Miss Emma pulled from her pocket a fair-sized envelope, handing it to me. Centered at the top of the document I withdrew from the envelope was a single word: “Mortgage,” printed in a fancy script. Looking the document over, the passage that concerned me most deeply contained the phrase “payable on demand.” The sum involved was $1,738.00. “No, Miss it most assuredly is not. I have never seen that document in my life.”
“If, sir,—I must ask you—if as you say you’ve never seen this paper, why is your signature affixed to it?”
“My what, Miss? Do you mean to say that…?”—I stopped, dumbfounded.
“There, at the bottom.” Miss Borden pointed, and I saw it. Sure enough, in the blank headed “Mortgagor,” was my name, and my signature alongside.
“But Miss Emma how can—?”
“It would appear that you’ve had some difficulty in repaying the amount. According to records provided by officers of Father’s bank, you sir, are not less than six months behind. Therefore, I have come to you this evening (since you have apparently ignored our notices) to collect the amount indicated there in full—today, by the close of business. If you do not remit the funds demanded, we will be forced to execute foreclosure upon this property by close of business Thursday.”
I was, of course, stunned, in such a way as defies description. Not only had this person (whom I knew only by repute) come into my humble yet happy abode demanding payment of a sum which I was certain I did not have—I was even more certain that I did not owe the amount to begin with. The prospect of losing it all…
“Miss Borden,” I said when at last I regained something of my faculties. “I do not know what to say beyond what I have said this evening. If I am to be put out, then I suppose I must be. You’ll forgive my shock and what I can only call grief at your demand. But as I say—if it must be, then it must be. Your father was to me always a good man. Though I knew him not well, he did do me that kindness which I mentioned. It’s hard to think ill of a man who would do such a thing as that. You’ll excuse my bluntness, but I must tell you that in my mind your visit here this evening puts a permanent blight upon the name of Borden.
I can only appeal to you in the name of one you knew better than I—who once did me a kindness that I would suspect neither of us ever forgot. May I also hope, Miss, that your father’s sense of charity be somehow extended again, though now from beyond his grave.”
“I must have been out that time you mentioned, sir. I never pried into Father’s affairs you understand, but there is some ring of truth to what you’ve said; I cannot deny that. Some might call him hard, and I suppose he might have been in a way—but that depends on one’s point of view, doesn’t it?”
“It does, Miss Borden—indeed it does.” I cannot say just why, but at that moment I reached over and picked up the day’s newspaper, which lay folded on the table. Given the situation as it then stood, I thought it might be prudent to hunt advertisements of rooming houses.
“You’ll excuse me Miss Emma for just a second. May I pour you more tea?” Miss Emma nodded, whereupon I refilled both cups.
“Now then…” I opened the Fall River Daily Globe to an interior page that contained advertisements, hoping there might be a “To Let” ad. My perusal was interrupted as my visitor let loose with a scream of rage, startling me back to the moment.
“Miss Borden—what is it? Is something wrong?”
“Do you know, sir, that never in my life has anyone written a poem about me?”
“What? Why, I don’t know what you mean, Miss.”
“That—there on the first page. There it is, plain as day.” Miss Emma gestured to a story on the first page. The lead paragraph, for some reason, was that by now familiar and oft-quoted quatrain:
‘Lizzie Borden took an axe
And gave her mother forty whacks.
And when she saw what she had done,
She gave her father forty-one.’
Miss Emma repeated the lines again, capping her recitation with a derisive snort. “Ha! It’s not at all fair. I pass forty some years upon this earth never once immortalized or even mentioned in a poetical verse, while my sister—well, there it is as you see.
Now I ask you: Is that a fair thing?”
“Well, no Miss Borden, I should say it isn’t fair. But that there is only a piece of doggerel, the product of some—It’s not even good poetry, really.”
“Do you know, sir, that never in my life has anyone written a poem about me?” Miss Emma repeated.
This was something new to me. “No, Miss, I wasn’t aware of that.” I started to add that as I was not exactly “in” on every intimate detail of the lives of those inhabiting number 92 Second Street from youngster to the present day, so that there was little or no reason that I ought to be aware of that tiny tidbit which seemed so presently important to my visitor, but resisted that urge at the last second. “That’s too bad, Miss Borden.” I said instead.
“It’s more than that,” she said, her voice rising with emotion. “It’s tragic!”
“Well, yes it is a tragedy, Miss Emma.”
“What you said a few moments ago, sir, about the nature of my visit this evening somehow blighting Father—it moved me.”
“Miss Borden, I meant every word of what I said about your father. Whatever the rest might say of him, I will always think of him just as I have said.”
“I believe that sir, I do. As I say, the tale you related of the encounter at Smith’s does ring true. Such acts were perhaps not common on his part, but they were not altogether unknown. Therefore,” and here she paused slightly, “I am prepared to make you the following proposition: If you will do me but one single act of kindness, I will extend Father’s charitable nature to a point just as you expressed it, so that it might somehow extend beyond his grave. Write for me a verse of my own, and I will burn the mortgage document in the stove yonder.”
“It must be the hour, Miss—did you say a poem?” (To say that I couldn’t believe what I was hearing would I think be the understatement of the millennium!)
“Well, I said a verse, but poem will do.” She looked at me rather hard, though not quite so hard as when our discussion had first commenced. The point of her nose seemed softer somehow in the dim light.
“You have your mother’s nose, Miss Emma.” I said this rather absently, you understand, the purpose to break an awkward lull. Miss Emma for her part smiled, unmindful that the statement might be anything other than a remark of admiration upon her apparent bodily bequest from the late Mrs. Sarah Borden.
“Write me Sir, a verse,” she prodded. Her voice had suddenly softened, so as to lose entirely the hard, almost tinny edge of only a moment before. “Write me a verse of my own and that document will be ashes.”
The rhythmic beats of Poe began pounding in my head and the room began to spin:
My state of perturbation
(With circuitous p’rambulations)
Kept increasing, kept increasing
At speeds I’d never seen before.
‘Round and ‘round the room was spinning,
My heart filled with hopes of winning
Once again the precious peace of life
That I had known the day before…
“Now then, what were you saying about a poetical verse?” I will confess myself still a bit addled by the whole business. Generally speaking, one does not think of Miss Emma Borden as the “midnight caller” sort, and yet here she was—demanding a poetical verse, for which in return I would regain my freedom.
“You heard me correctly sir: But one verse of my own, and that document will be ashes.”
Miss Emma glanced over to the table, took note of the volume I’d placed there just before she arrived. “‘Tis some visitor—only this and nothing more.’”
“If you’ll pardon me Miss, I’m not following”—and that much was true. I had however, the vaguest feeling of dread and unease. I must have betrayed that somehow, for she reacted with a short noise that virtually oozed contempt.
“‘Only this, and nothing more’ is exactly what I’ve been for years—do you understand what I’m saying to you?”
“Well, Miss, I believe I do, but I’m not exactly sure. You mean in the sense of—you’ve had no interests?” I was trying to be delicate.
“I mean gentleman callers, sir—beaux, or whatever you might wish to call it. I’ve had interests, mind you, but the interest was never reciprocated.”
“‘Only this, and nothing more.’” I said. “I think I have it now, Miss Borden.” I had it right enough indeed, and didn’t care much for it, to be entirely truthful.
“I was actually napping, Miss Emma, when you knocked earlier.”
I decided to try a bit of evasive maneuver:
It was many and many a year ago
In a Kingdom by the Sea….
“Hold it right—stop! That’s been done finely already by Mr. Poe, thank you. Something of my own if you please.”
I thought for a moment, and brought forth the following, which to be quite honest I thought was pretty good:
‘Twas many a many a year ago
Nigh the shores of the Quequechan river
That a maiden and I went picnicking,
Dined on saltines and goose liver.
“One more verse like that, sir, and your next cup of tea will be distinctly almond-scented!
Ever read ‘Evangeline’?” A hopeful look crossed her face.
“Well, I have, Miss Emma, but there’s one small difficulty, a matter of geography: Uptown Fall River is I’m afraid, not ‘the forest primeval.’ See the problem?” Victories are said to come by varying degree. I knew I had scored at least a minor one on that point. She shrank, as if in momentary defeat.
“I suppose it isn’t. But that fact doesn’t alter things as they now stand. I have still passed two-score years without so much as one word written of me in a poetical sense.”
A boldness overtook me. “I understand that Miss Emma, but you must likewise understand that art takes time. The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, for instance, was not written in a single day.”
Miss Emma observed that while this was undoubtedly true, it could not be said of Mr. Edward Gibbon that he labored under such conditions matching those of my present predicament. Gibbon, she said, was likely not haunted by the spectre of a large mortgage, payable in full upon demand—a point with which I had to agree.
My brain was then suddenly seized—“Miss Emma I think I have it. What would you think of…?” and here I began to recite:
Now many a many a year ago
In bygone days of yore,
Did I make a promise to Mother
As she stood at Death’s yawning door.
“Come closer,” said she, “Darling daughter
And listen to what I say;
Heed these words I shall give you
As you go upon Life’s way:
Do for me what I cannot –
See to your sister dear;
Raise her up and give her Love
That heightens with each passing year.”
I said, “Yes, Mama—I will do that,
But I wish that you might stay.”
“I cannot my child, though I wish it too” –
Then her lifeblood did ebb away.
Now these many a many years later
As Mama in Oak Grove doth sleep,
Does the eldest she left behind her at timesReflect and silently weep.
“Stop—please stop sir!” Miss Emma suddenly cried. I had turned aside to concentrate, so that the shrillness of her sudden plea brought me up short. I noticed when I looked at her that Miss Emma’s shoulders heaved—not much, but only slightly.
“Miss Emma—are you all right?” Now upon reflection I realize that was a bit of a silly thing to ask. Even in the dim light it was fair obvious that something was not all right.
Miss Emma snuffled a bit. “Let me get us a bit more tea, Miss Emma—I will not be but a moment or two.”
My visitor nodded, snuffled again. In a few moments we were sitting again and sipping tea. The mood as you might suppose was far more relaxed.
“Sir, I wish to thank you. You have done me in ways a greater kindness than my father did you that morning at Smith’s. What would you call that verse?”
“Oh I don’t know, Miss Emma,” I said. “What would you have me call it?”
“What about ‘Upon Reflection’?”
“Might work. It’s better than that piece of doggerel in the newspaper?”
“Oh, so very much better sir—you have no idea. This I will tell you: Mother said exactly that to me now thirty years ago. She did not necessarily use those words, but the meaning was just the same. I did make such a promise as that, also.”
“Yes Miss.” I will confess I did not know what else to say, for I found my mind focused mainly upon thoughts of bed and a good night’s sleep. These lines too came to mind:
There was a roaring in the wind all night;
The rain came heavily and fell in floods;
But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
The birds are singing in the distant woods;
Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;
The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.
I could only hope that all would be well on the morrow, and that my night of despondency would give way to a day filled with calm, bright sun.
Miss Emma reined in my wandering thoughts. “Now sir, the time is come when the bargain must be executed. You’ve done me a good and most kind thing, and I will now extend to you the spirit of Andrew Borden’s charity.”
With that, Miss Emma took the mortgage document that she had brandished so viciously but a short time before and proceeded to tear it up, first in half, thence into quarters, then eight pieces. “Have you means of disposing of these sir?” she inquired, handing me the handful of papers.
“I do Miss Emma, and I thank you most kindly.” I rose from my chair, stepped to the stove that was nearby. Lifting the lid, I dropped the paper pieces in. The coals, which had heretofore burned quietly and steadily, leapt up, hungrily consuming the defenseless scraps.
When I turned back the door to my abode was closing. I could hear Miss Emma’s footsteps trailing away. I blessed her despite myself, and blessed the almighty that she had departed at last.
Lacking the energy at that point to even think about seeking out the warmth of my feather bed, I resolved that the tea things would be fine ‘til the morn and resumed my comfortable chair.
“What? I beg your pardon? Well, no, we have no record at all of a current mortgage on your property!” The speaker was the gentleman who had attended my banking affairs for years. Owing to the night’s activity, I thought it most prudent to get over there and see about things at the earliest opportunity. I was waiting, actually, when the institution opened.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I’ve handled your accounts for years, you know that! If there was a mortgage on your properties, I would know about it undoubtedly. To be truthful about things, wouldn’t you yourself know about it?”
Having established that my residence was just that—mine—I returned to said premises. I briefly considered kissing the doorstep on my way in, but reasoned that although my affection and sense of relief might be wholly sincere, there was no reason to look like a fool more than once in a single day.
Entering my domicile, I was stricken by desire of a hot cup of tea. I’m not usually a “tea person” you understand, but I thought since the things were already out from the night before—why not?
I entered the kitchen and noticed immediately that things were not at all as they had been: I had left the teapot, strainer, cups and so forth in the sink—unless I had gone blind, they were simply not at all where I’d left them.
Subsequent investigation turned the things up—yet stowed in their usual places. The teapot, I noticed, was actually glazed over by a thick and rather smelly film of dust. Apart from the night’s use—or what I swore was the night’s use—I last remembered making tea the 25th of December 1891.
I felt a sudden urge to scream but did not. It was all I could do to get to a chair before my legs gave way to uncontrollable trembling.
So ends my tale, fair Reader. Having begun with Wordsworth’s “Resolution” I now close with a resolution of my own: When Valentine’s Day next comes around, if I am caught unaware whilst reading when the hour strikes, it will be something from Keats, Shelley, Browning or Byron!
