I

The Irascible Pedagogue

It was the year 1881. Lilith, like many of her female friends and acquaintances, felt that with the onset of the suffrage movement, perhaps women would be allowed to have a new, welcome sense of freedom. Unbeknownst to Lilith, the right to vote and other rights freely given to men, were not inalienable, nor preordained by God or by legislative fiat. No, even the right to vote would be far in the future: the 19th Amendment would not become law until 1920.

She was, in her younger years, quite naïve and impulsive, as if the world should turn on her whims. I knew her then. There was also a slight touch of arrogance in her demeanor which was, I suppose, partly due to her attractive countenance. Though one might have suspected differently of a young woman raised in the rude rural culture of the Upper Peninsula, her flaws in character were present even in her youth and would grow and fester, much to my dismay. Lilith was a student at the one room school which I was assigned in this desolate area. And, as she matured into womanhood, she shed her naiveté much like her chemise; but later.

The nascent feminist movement must have given her a giddy sense of liberation which those around her, myself included, found disconcerting. She had a keen, but inelegant intellect and once had told me privately that perhaps females were finding a place in the world beyond the oppressive domain of men. I expect she felt heartened by that thought. I was appalled at her attitude but made light of the matter, not wanting to reveal my growing desire for her while still hoping that she might come around to a proper sense of decorum produced by the able hand of a sensible man. Maybe this newly discovered freedom, built on illusion, I would suggest, is what caused her, on that first lonely evening, to partially undress in front of her bedroom window—with the curtain open, naturally. The one who witnessed this most indelicate disrobing wasn’t her carefree and cocksure husband, James, who was at a Grange Hall meeting. No, indeed no, she reserved this silent exposure for me, a bachelor pedagogue and her former fiancé.

My name is Horace Nelson, or as I always instructed my pupils to call me, Professor Nelson. I lived directly up the hill from Lilith, actually a stone’s throw away, in a small, but tidy yellow clapboard house. It was apparent to all who knew the exacting details of our former relationship that I had built this house on the crest of the hill overlooking her farmstead, not out of indifference, but out of a sense of spite. After many long decades I can admit to myself that, yes, that was the case. I suspect that Lilith might have candidly admitted to herself—with some minor reservations, mind you—that she had thrown me off, the rather ill-suited pedagogue, for her future husband, James. In truth, I believe that Lilith was impressed by his very pastoral and profitable farm, filled with plump cattle and all manner of produce, hay, and potatoes that grew abundantly on this most productive farm in the area. I suppose that James’ choice of fertile ground was propitious, while neighbors barely scratched a living: though I am not deceived by superstition, I wondered if James’ success was the proverbial luck of an Irishman. But upon much later reflection, I wondered if it was providence, as his reward would not be in this world. Regardless, my assumption was that Lilith did not see her betrothal to James as mercenary, but perhaps more as practical, but I would beg to differ.

I am certain that in the immediate distance she could see my shadowy silhouette, standing there in the smoky kerosene lamplight of my stark bedroom, and felt my uncomfortable stare. That first night I f