And the Demons Come With Love

Elizabeth has delivered, a healthy and vibrant young boy with his father's eyes and his mother's nose. Rachel could not remain in the room, as she has never before been privy to the delivery of a child. If I am not mistaken, she became sick in the corridor and spent the remainder of the night in her bed.

I am frightened by the fact that I felt nothing; no joy, no sorrow, no bitterness. Only the relief that my purpose had been accomplished. I did not expect to feel much of anything, as I had delivered myself several times and watched with helplessness as God took them from me. While I felt nothing at the delivery, the bitterness of being robbed of my husband and my children begins to seep in. I, who spent every free moment with my priest and confessor, who followed every direction from the clergy and the midwife, had my children taken from me within moments of their birth. Yet Elizabeth, whom I have seen neglect her confessor and who went away from the midwife and into the field, is given a son so healthy as to be sure that he will live a long, healthy life.

There is talk in the village that I have taken to witchcraft or some type of sorcery as I have not attended Mass or held conference with a confessor or priest since I arrived. My dear brother has tried desperately to dissuade such rumors with stories of the loss of my husband and children, but it is to little avail. There are town children who run by the fields to catch a glimpse of me, to toss rocks and throw mud and dung. I have escaped one hell and fallen into another. What more can God do to me?...

... Elizabeth and Charles went off in their carriage this morning to the village church to have their darling son christened and baptized. My brother came to me late in the evening last night with the news that I was requested to stay behind when the carriage left for church. "In any other time and circumstance, sister, it would be your privilege and duty to serve my son as god-mother; this is my desire, and were our dear mother still living...God keep her soul in heaven..." here he drew his eyes to heaven and made the sign of the cross, "But you have not been to church in months, sister. I have seen you neither receive a confessor nor say your prayers. It pains me that you behave such, as there is talk in the village that I harbor a witch in my home. I would that the townspeople could understand your plight, but they do not receive my excuses for you because you certainly do not appear a widow grieving properly. You are no longer responsible for your own soul, therefore I cannot, in good conscience, put the spiritual responsibility of my son in your hands." This was delivered in such a methodical, emotionless manner that it was as if Charles were giving orders to the kitchen servants. Afterwards he quit the room with such finality that no moment was left for my defense.

And so, here it is that I sit in the back garden while the servants scurry through the house tidying up and the field hands toil through the cold rows. The day has been cool and crisp and the horizon is hung low with gray clouds that threaten rain. I am certain it will come a pour before nightfall; I selfishly hope that my brother and his wife are caught unawares in town and are forced to take up lodging in the inn. It would be pleasant to spend one night devoid of the shouting of that horrid shrew, the simpering of my spineless brother, and the constant whimpering and crowing of that child. I have grown to despise the sound of him in my ears, let alone the sight of him. Such a blessing it would be to live out the rest of my days without the sight and sound of children...

August 1902

... My Rachel has taken ill with typhoid fever and has been ordered to bed by the physician. She was moved to the servant's house beyond the back garden at Elizabeth's behest. My brother's wife would not have such an illness in the presence of her darling André. I am sick with her constant doting and proclaiming her wretched child the most beautiful creature to ever leave God's worktable. I would throw the stupid thing in the garden well if ever given the chance, but Elizabeth keeps the putrid creature with her at all times. Charles, my darling brother, has said little to me since they returned from spending the hot, summer months by the sea. Annette, the pompous and ignorant woman who Elizabeth calls her sister, was given the place of honor at the christening and visits daily to see to the "spiritual health" of her god-son. She does little more than glare and follow my every footfall through the house, muttering prayers to each saint and martyr she can recall that I do not cast some horrid spell on her perfect nephew. I am ill tempted sometimes to begin spouting nonsensical poems to see the look of pure terror and scandal on her face as she runs through the house screaming for my brother and the priest.

If I have passed a single day without the town children skipping past the house and screaming and throwing objects at me, then I must certainly have gone blind and deaf. Each morning they come with more vengeance and hatred than the morning before, and they do not leave until well in the evening. They remain beyond the gate at most times, and yet many of the older children have mustered the courage to enter the front garden and taunt me to cast spells of punishment for their torture of me. The little ones bring rotten fruit from the village vendors and gather dung from the farms nearby to supply the older ones with projectiles. I suppose the entirety of my wardrobe will forever reek of their stink. Charles no longer seeks to defend me, but warns me only to remain hidden away on his property for fear that someone from town will lash out in their fear of me. And yet he requires me to stay and play nursemaid to his stupid wife and horrible child...