Bierstadt

Finally the divorce is granted. Two years, it took, with Ludlow fighting like a Tiger for what lost privilege? A privilege never presumed? Bierstadt and I spent much of the time in the South, in the Bahamas, away from the bitter gossip and horrid press. Bierstadt has kept a calmness in the face of this unwonted publicity, hatred, and inconvenience; he is my rock. Curious to think that the man who "ruined" me is my at the same time my very salvation. We have had no happiness in the form of children, and today I awoke and found blood on the pillow case, which means the disease is more advanced than we had thought. I am glad I did not hesitate to leave Ludlow. My parents are more than reconciled, and have built Albert a studio behind their house in Waterville so that we may visit and Albert can continue working undisturbed. We plan to build a house there one day. On Wednesday, Albert and I will be married, at last.

Leaving

How I have mustered up the courage to do this, I shall never know. I hear the words of Reverend Argyle thundering in my ear, I keep my Bible by me, but still I feel damned to eternity. My mother and father have supported me, in a grim-faced and sorrowful way, but they do not know Albert . . . yet. They were shocked beyond belief at my "conduct," but shall never know that the child was not Ludlow's, but Albert's. How could my life have come to this pass? I left Bridie at our house - mine and Ludlow's - so that when he returns there will be at least someone there. Albert's studio and apartments are very strange, filled with books in every language, it seems, and camera equipment, paints and supplies of all kinds, and the doorbells rings incessantly with callers looking for his return. A Colonel of the Union Army came and sat with me gravely for an half an hour, with his great calvary hat on his knee, sipping tea like a maiden newly "out." He insisted on seeing (and calling me), "Mrs Bierstadt," but I was grateful to him for bringing me news of Albert's safety and imminent arrival. His eyes were the deepest wells I have e'er looked on, I shudder to think what sights they have seen, and am disturbed yet proud that such a man would esteem my future husband, Albert, so.

Crushed

Saw Bierstadt again. We sinned. He led me to the rustic park near the river's edge, where we watched the boats turn in the current, and the ducks in the lea of the plants along the water's edge, and it grew hot, then cool damp as dusk drew down. We did not speak, or at least, very little, and as the evening wore on we found ourselves lying tangled in the long grass. Such sighs! When I returned to the Hotel, Ludlow was passed beyond all waking, from laudenaum. I sat beside the bed, with my hand upon the counterpane; - I could not bring my traitorous hand to touch his, lying there, soft and innocent as a child's - and listening to his troubled sleep, restless tho' drugged. I thought about our life together: in four years, Ludlow has not touched me like a husband, but tonight with Albert, it seemed as natural and right and beautiful as the rising of the stars. Finally I fell asleep, with my gown still fastened, and my hair pinned up, somehow, and woke to prepare myself hastily for the new day before Ludlow wakened and took note of my state. Today is our last day together before he and Albert go West.

Westing

My cousins Letty and Hester are coming with me to St. Louis to meet Ludlow and Bierstadt, who are off to the Far West. I suppose they may be there, or fighting in the War, so the danger stalks them wherever they may go. This is the farthest I have ever gone from home.

Waiting

I am waiting for my life to begin. Ludlow is out until all hours with his writerly colleagues. I am lonely, except for when my cousins visit. The ladies in his circle not very nice, they ridicule my "country manners" and make remarks about Ludlow's youthfulness. It is true, he has a motherlesschildishness about him, which my own mother had remarked with some concern. I do not know what is wrong, but there is no chance of children yet, I think. I do not know how to begin. Meanwhile, I am sought out to be like a vase of flowers or an interesting decorated pot, or lamp, or some such thing. Painters have taken up with me, and they paint me to look like paint drying, it is so boring. Ludlow demanded the painter hand this particular likeness over, because it looks like I am naked. I don't mind, since the artist has made my nose and chin look as sharp as files, and I do not like the rather grim expression, which has become more and more the rule with me. My father has taken to calling me "his sad poppet," which I abhor. They ask a little too keenly how I am doing. I am at a loss whether to stay in New York this sweltering summer with Ludlow, or to go up to my parents where at least it is cool, and I can row on the river. Ludlow shows no interest in travel any longer. He was scandalized by our trip South, where the morals were so corrupted. He tried not to show me, but I overheard him telling Bierstadt about how men went about in public, in the evenings, with their mistresses in plain view, while their wives were at home; - no doubt with their lovers! Stupidly, the old ladies in Ludlow's circle accuse me of "flirting." One called me a "Dulcinea" and an "ensnarer," as if I would have anything to do with her old husband. She thought I did not overhear her, as she was talking behind her fan. So unfair.

A Showing

Ludlow and I went to the Tenth Street Studios yesterday for a Premiere showing of paintings by Albert Bierstadt. There he was, the very man who pulled me from the river when I had my mishap! We laughed and explained to Ludlow that we had met, but I think Ludlow was too distracted by meeting the Great Man (because Bierstadt is very much the coming thing, with these big paintings making such a smash) to take note of the coincidence. Bierstadt's paintings are rather grand, overwhelming. I felt inundated by them. One has to stand well away from them to see them, but there were so many people crowded about, staring at the canvases a nose's length away as if trying to detect their secrets. I prefer to come back another time to see how they actually look. I am not sure that I like them, or him, for that matter. When we parted he took my hand familiarly and looked at me piercingly with those strange, small, almost Oriental eyes, and begged me to come back another day when there was no public viewing. Ludlow, however, is in raptures and rushed off to write a review immediately for the Post. I can see that we will be seeing much of Mr. Bierstadt, in future, for a painter needs a critic as much as a critic needs a painter. I hope he does not become tiresome.

Mad New York

Finally! We have left Papa's house and moved to New York City. Ludlow has found us a little apartment, five rooms, and a maid, and we are our own little family, at last. His father lives five blocks away, and frequently joins us for dinner. I am so very happy, even though the rooms are small and very dusty. People came thronging by right away; Ludlow has so many friends from Union College, and from his writing. Strangers, even, will come to the door asking to meet him. I am hardly able to keep up with all the comings and goings. Ludlow is out very late most nights, he comes in and sleeps on the little divan in the anteroom, so he will not disturb me, he says, but I lie awake and listen to the City; I cannot sleep for excitement and exhaustion.

A Wedding

Ludlow has asked me to marry him. I have my Aunt Lydia's wedding ring to wear. Ludlow has given me a mourning brooch with a braid of his mother's hair. He wept as he gave it to me. "How she would have loved you, as I do," he cried. I stroked his brown curls. He is such a little boy, sometimes. Although I am only eighteen, I sometimes feel much older than he. We will make a life together, and be brave for one another. Papa has asked us to live with him and Mother for a time, until Ludlow's writing has a chance to take hold. We do not want his prior reputation to take over all of his writing, especially as Papa is in the Legislature and must be mindful of public opinion. So Ludlow must find another means of going on, and he and Papa have had many earnest and manly talks about it. I believe he is going to be a very fine writer, and only needs to find his way into steady work with a magazine or journal, or even a newspaper. While we are here in Waterville, Papa has arranged for Ludlow to work for Mr Henderson at the Times, so that he will not lose the habit of writing and so that his name is before the public. It is such a lovely arrangement, and when we return from our wedding trip to Florida, we will start to look for a place of our own in New York City.

My Father's Home

A Fall

The day was sultry and Benjamin would not come down to the river with me. I went by myself, and pulled the boat into the stream by myself. What a stupid, obstinate boy Benjamin is, now that he is fourteen! I had a lovely row and returned in good time for dinner, but as I prepared to step onto the bank, a man startled me by suddenly appearing and taking the boat's rope to help me. I faltered in my stride, and dropped into the water! My dress floated up around me like a bell, my new black straw was soaked entirely, and my petticoats floated up around my knees. The man did me the courtesy of not laughing, but I could tell that he was amused by the way his small, deep set eyes twinkled. After helping me up, he waded into the water and then swam strongly with great strokes to the boat, which had started itself downstream quite merrily, and brought it in, but by the time he clambered out, I had run half-way to the house. Mrs Hudson did not like my coming through the kitchen, soaking wet and dripping buckets, at all, and I had a hard time explaining my lateness at dinner. "Oh, Rosey, why did you bother to change for dinner on such a hot day!" complained Mother, but I quickly changed the topic to our upcoming trip to Albany, which started her off complaining about the dust on the roads, thank heaven! That man must be the McClellan's guest from Dusseldorf, a painter I think, for I thought I detected the slightest of accents in his speech. But nevermind, I am sure I will never see him again as we leave for the capital tomorrow.

Rosalie

I knew the moment I met him that he would be my making and my unmaking.