Familiar Spirit

How bored my friends are with me, with my silent misery. I try not to weary them with my constant complaints, my eternal longing for Walter, but then I find that I have nothing to say to them beyond a few, mechanical comments on the weather and the rate at which children grow. They say—so obviously eager to offer some positive advice—that the new house will be good for me. In new surroundings, I will find it easier to forget. Forget. They all want me to forget him. That is the sum of their advice, the patent medicine they offer. Face reality, Nancy. Admit he is gone. Forget him.

Such good, sensible, realistic advice, and I can no more follow it than I can fly. I continue to hope and wait for Walter’s return because I know of no other way to live. I cannot give up the only man I have ever loved. Without him, I scarcely exist. Only the children give me a reason to go on living—for what would they do without me?

My stubbornness in clinging to foolish hopes—my stubbornness, too, has been offered as a reason for why Walter left me—makes my friends sigh for me. It can do no good, they say. Refusing to forget will only make life harder for me.

But one person agrees with me. I met someone today who believes that stubbornness can do wonders. Who believes that all is not lost, so long as I truly want Walter back. Someone who thinks that I can accomplish something by refusing to forget and refusing to give up.

Who is this person? Oh—only Yolanda Ferris, Ursula’s strange sister, back from an extended stay in Europe and as out of place in our quiet little community as an eagle in a hen house.

February 13

Yolanda called today.

I find myself fascinated by her, drawn to her where others are repelled or frightened. She is “not our sort,” of course. Poor Ursula is shamed by her, but she is family and can hardly disown her, despite her loose talk, her public smoking, fast ways and bold way of looking. She is rather contemptuous of us all—she finds us slow and provincial and boring. I was flattered that she sought me out, that she found me different enough from the common herd to be worth knowing.

She talked about her life in Europe, and about books and music and art—the sort of conversation I have been starved for. I did worry about keeping up my end of the conversation—my life has been devoted to the children and to Walter for so many years that I have not had much time for literature or music, dearly though I love them—but she did not seem to mind. She seemed as happy to talk as I was to listen—grateful, I suppose, for a sympathetic ear. The things she told me! The things she has done, the places she has been, the famous people she has glimpsed or even spoken to in the great cities of the world! She talked about her life in London and Paris and Berne. I am tempted to set down some of the things she told me here—they were so much more interesting than my poor, dull life. The stuff of an exciting novel. She made me forget my troubles in my interest. My spirits were lifted higher than they have been in six months. She made me remember those exhilarating conversations of my school-days, when everything seemed possible, and the whole world might be attained with a little effort. How my world has shrunk—although I let it go willingly, gladly, for love. Only to lose even that. A depressing note to end on, after those bright hours with Yolanda. And yet I always come round to that in the end.

February 15

If only there were something I could do. Something positive. Forgetting is a negation, and I don’t want that. I want to cling to my memories and my love for Walter and make them real again. I don’t want to lose myself in wishes, but to make use of them. I want my love to be so strong that it will compel his return, that it cannot be denied. If I had been strong enough, if I had loved him enough, would he have ever left me? But now that he is gone, why should it be forever? Men do leave their wives and then return to them, just as they take leave of their senses, only to return to them when the liquor wears off. If I could make Walter feel the power of my love, surely he would return?

February 17

God bless Yolanda. She listens to me and understands as no one else does. She may look bold and hard as brass, but when she presses my hand and tells me not to give up hope . . .

February 18

I told Yolanda, a little timidly, my thoughts on love, and my perhaps foolish dream of compelling Walter’s return. She did not think it foolish. She was very interested. She encouraged me to go on thinking of Walter. She said that if I could learn how to will, how to use my will for what I wanted—