Ibsen’s Doll
Against all odds of surviving the voyage, the fashionable
young woman had eagerly purchased her ticket for passage to America
on the Titanic.
Benumbed by the boarding experience, her ears ringing with
the babbling colloquy of fellow passengers competing to be heard above the
fanfare of orchestral strains, Aoefa McFee accompanied the steward to her cabin—albeit
inattentively—where she set about to unpack the hat cases and Belles Malles her betrothed had obtained
for her.
Could she be more fortunate the girl wondered, as she took
inventory of her trousseau; the embroidered net wedding gown, limerick lace
veil, and wool crepe walking suit, all of which had been custom ordered, filled
her with tremendous pride, and not a little wonder at the way her life had
changed over the previous year.
Disturbances of sleep—dreams of fading lights and frigid
waters—lay forgotten, buried within her subconscious as she worked to find
space for each precious gown within the luxury cabin.
Everything I need is here, she mused. Fans of every
description, folded and pressed together, rested in a brightly painted
wedge-shaped box. Gloves of doe-skin, lace and hand-painted silk—a pair to
match every carefully chosen ensemble—awaited her fingers to provide shape and
form. Hats from the millinery salons of Paris ,
each a sculptural marvel, lay in readiness to herald her social status for
seasons to come.
Ibsen’s play, The Doll
House, came to mind; an intrusion on her thoughts that seemed to occur each
time she contemplated marriage to the wealthy stranger who had convinced her to
make a new life with him. Jackanapes were the only fellows interested in her
back home, she thought. Kilkenny County
“Marriage proposals are one thing,” she’d been told by her
mother and her aunties, “but to accept a lock of hair from a lover is certain
to bring disaster.” Now that she was alone, memories of such pronouncements
gave her pause.
Overcome by momentary dread, Aoefa McFee yanked a
pearl-studded locket from beneath her collar, breaking the fine gold chain that
had encircled her neck for months.
Perhaps the step she was taking was ill advised.
Quarterdeck activities accelerated, as preparations for
launch neared completion. Rumbling engines chugged to life from somewhere
below. Soon it would be too late.
Trembling fingers secured a winged hat to Aoefa’s upswept
raven curls.
“Understand this,” her mother had said, “I’ll not be there
t’assist ya when the babies are born.”
Vacillating scenes appeared and disappeared before her
mind’s eye like expanding soap bubbles blown from a straw: Mother and Da waving
goodbye, her husband-to-be promising love and devotion, siblings wishing her
good luck through tear-stained faces. Would she be able to live with herself,
no matter what her decision?
Xenophobia overcame her suddenly like a wave of poisonous
gas. Yggdrasil images swirled before her eyes.
Zombie-like, she progressed through the torrent of travelers,
not bothering to excuse herself as she bumped against women with wide-brim hats
and long-rod parasols, until, having made her way back whence she had come, Aoefa
McFee, her chest heaving with breathlessness, exited the ship to leave her
carefully planned future behind.
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