He stood and looked down at me. He smiled. “There she is,” he said. “There’s my sister.”
I cannot say I became my old self after that, but the melancholy gradually lifted, replaced with the jittery feeling of emerging, like a creature without a skin or a shell. I began to eat the rice puddings. I sipped tea steeped in St. John’s Wort, and sat in the sun, and reread the Quaker book. I thought often of the fire bell in the night.
At midsummer, without any forethought, I took out a sheet of stationery.
19 July 1820
Dear Mr. Morris,
Forgive my long delay in writing to you. The book you gave me last November aboard ship has been my faithful companion for all this time. The Quaker beliefs beckon to me, but I do not know if I have the courage to follow them. There would be a great and dreadful cost, of that I’m certain. I ask nothing, except your counsel.
Yours Most Truly,
Sarah Grimké
I gave the letter to Handful. “Guard it carefully,” I told her. “Post it yourself in the afternoon mail.”
When Israel’s letter arrived in return, I was in the warming kitchen, surveying the pantries and writing a list of foods needed at the market. Handful had waylaid it from Sabe when it arrived at the door. She handed it to me, and waited.
I took a butter knife from the drawer and ripped the seal. I read it twice, once to myself, then aloud to her.
10 September 1820
Dear Miss Grimké,
I was gratified to receive your letter and most especially to learn that you are swayed to the Quakers. God’s way is narrow and the cost is great. I remind you of the scripture: “He that finds his life shall lose it, and he that loses his life shall find it.” Do not fear to lose what needs to be lost.
I regret to say I have grave and sorrowful news to impart. My dear Rebecca passed away last January. She died of a malignant influenza soon after our return to Philadelphia. My sister, Catherine, has come to care for the children. They miss their mother, as do I, but we are comforted that our beloved wife and mother is with God.
Write to me. I am here to encourage you in your path.
Your Friend,
Israel Morris
I sat in my room at midday with my eyes closed and my fingers laced in my lap, listening for the Voice the Quakers seemed so sure was inside of us. I’d been indulging in this dubious activity since receiving Israel’s letter, though I doubted the Quakers would’ve called it an activity. For them, this listening was the ultimate inactivity, a kind of capitulation to the stillness of one’s private heart. I wanted to believe God would eventually show up, murmuring little commands and illuminations. As usual, I heard nothing.
I’d responded to Israel’s letter immediately, my hand shaking so badly the ink lines had appeared rickety on the paper. I’d poured out my sympathy, my prayers, all sorts of pious assurances. Every word seemed trite, like the prattle that went on at my Bible studies. I felt protected behind it.
He’d responded with another letter and our correspondence had finally begun, consisting mostly of earnest inquires on my part and bits of guidance on his. I asked him pointedly what the Inner Voice sounded like. How will I recognize it? “I cannot tell you,” he wrote. “But when you hear it, you will know.”
That day the silence felt unusually dull and heavy, like the weight of water. It clogged my ears and throbbed against my drums. Fidgety thoughts darted through my mind, reminding me of squirrels loose in their trees. Perhaps I was too Anglican, too Presbyterian, too Grimké for this. I lifted my eyes to the fireplace and saw the coals had gone out.