54 
Against Entreaties and Persuasions

The next evening the sisters gathered again in front of the fireplace for the second installment of Robinson Crusoe. They had seen little of Amanda all day. She had been down for lunch but had not participated in any of the day’s chores, keeping to herself all afternoon in her room. She had not spoken a word at supper.

When the dishes were done and the kitchen clean and a nice fire crackling, they all took chairs in the big room. Amanda sat to one side, expressionless.

Sister Gretchen picked up the book, opened it to where they had left off, and began to read.

My father, who was very aged, had given me a competent share of learning, as far as house-education and a country free-school generally go, and designed me for the law; but I would be satisfied with nothing but going to sea; and my inclination to this led me so strongly against the will, nay, the commands of my father, and against all the entreaties and persuasions of my mother and other friends, that there seemed to be something fatal in that propensity of nature, tending directly to the life of misery which was to befall me.

“It seems that many young people set their sights contrary to what their parents want for them,” Regina commented. A few nods went around the room. Sister Gretchen continued.

My father, a wise and grave man, gave me serious and excellent counsel against what he foresaw was my design. He called me one morning into his chamber, where he was confined by the gout, and expostulated very warmly with me upon this subject: he asked me what reasons, more than a mere wandering inclination, I had for leaving his house and my native country, where I might be well introduced, and had a prospect of raising my fortune, by application and industry, with a life of ease and pleasure. He told me it was men of desperate fortunes, on one hand, or of superior fortunes, on the other, who went abroad upon adventures. . . .

He pressed me earnestly, and in the most affectionate manner, not to play the young man, nor to precipitate myself into miseries which nature, and the station of life I was born in, seemed to have provided against . . . and that he should have nothing to answer for, having discharged his duty in warning me against measures which he knew would be to my hurt . . . and though he said he would not cease to pray for me, yet he would venture to say to me, that if I did take this foolish step, God would not bless me; and I would have leisure hereafter to reflect upon having neglected his counsel, when there might be none to assist in my recovery.

I observed in this last part of his discourse, which was truly prophetic, though I suppose my father did not know it to be so himself; I say, I observed the tears run down his face very plentifully . . . and that when he spoke of my having leisure to repent, and none to assist me, he was so moved that he broke off the discourse, and told me his heart was so full he could say no more to me.

Gradually Amanda was growing uneasy.

She saw the parallel clearly enough with what her own parents had tried to do in urging her not to go to London. But this was just a story, after all, she tried to reason. Let this fellow Robin Crusoe, or whatever his name was, be as stubborn and rebellious as he wanted—what was that to her?

What was any of it to her!

She had a good mind to get up and leave. Yet still she sat for a little while longer.

. . . I took my mother at a time when I thought her a little more pleasant than ordinary, and told her that my thoughts were so entirely bent upon seeing the world . . . and my father had better give me his consent than force me to go without it; that I was now eighteen years old . . . and if she would speak to my father to let me make but one voyage abroad, if I came home again, and did not like it, I would go no more, and I would promise, by a double diligence, to recover the time I had lost.

This put my mother in a great passion; she told me she knew it would be to no purpose to speak to my father upon any such a subject; that he knew too well what was my interest to give his consent to anything so much for my hurt; and that she wondered how I could think of any such thing after the discourse I had had with my father, and such kind and tender expressions as she knew my father had used to me; and that, in short, if I would ruin myself, there was no help for me; but I might depend I should never have their consent to it; that for her part, she would not have so much hand in my destruction; and I should never have it to say that my mother was willing when my father was not.

Though my mother refused to move it to my father, yet I heard afterwards that she reported all the discourse to him, and that my father, after showing great concern at it, said to her, with a sigh, “That boy might be happy if he would stay at home; but if he ever goes abroad, he will be the most miserable wretch that ever was born: I can give no consent to it.”

“He was a true prodigal, wasn’t he?” said Sister Marjolaine.

“Obstinately deaf,” rejoined Sister Agatha, “—what an apt description of the prodigal mentality.”

It was not till almost a year after this that I broke loose, though, in the mean time, I continued obstinately deaf . . . and frequently expostulated with my father and mother about their being so positively determined against what they knew my inclination prompted me to. But being one day at Hull, whither I went casually, and without any purpose of making an elopement at that time . . . I consulted neither father nor mother any more, nor so much as sent them word of it; but left them to hear of it as they might, without asking God’s blessing or my father’s, without any consideration of circumstances or consequences, and in an ill hour, God knows.

“The age-old story,” remarked Sister Gretchen, “—no one is going to tell me what to do. How well I know. He sounds just like me!”

“I realize it’s only a story,” said Regina, “but why do young people like Robinson Crusoe find following counsel so difficult to heed? I know what you have shared about your past, Sister Gretchen, but I confess, I do not entirely understand it, never having felt such things toward my parents.”

“It would have kept young Crusoe out of a good deal of trouble,” said Marjolaine, “if he hadn’t resented the good advice of this father.”

“How do you know?” asked Anika.

“Oh, I forgot,” she giggled. “I’ve read it before!”

By now Amanda had entirely had enough. She was certain everyone was thinking of her. Finally she rose in the middle of the discussion, left the room, and walked toward the stairs.

“Are you coming back, Amanda?” Marjolaine asked, glancing after her.

“No, the story doesn’t interest me.”

She did not intentionally slam her door, but she made sure the others knew she had closed it tight and would not be listening to anything more that was said.