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Washington, D.C., United States, December 8, 1882

Friday, snow

My name is Marianne Hooper Adams. Pen Fun Pavilion wWw. ｂiquge。 ｉｎfo

Who am I? I've been asking myself this question.

Of course, I am the daughter of Robert William Hooper and Alan Sturgis Hooper.

Wife of Henry Brooks Adams.

The newspapers called me a "socialite".

My family and friends call me "Shamrock".

It's actually strange that our three siblings have their own names, but they always seem to be forgotten, and everyone likes to call us nicknames. My brother Edward William Hooper was nicknamed "Ned", my sister Alan Sturgis Hooper was nicknamed "Naira", and I was called "Shamrock".

However, I am not referring to names, family backgrounds, titles, etc., but to the identity of an individual independent of society.

In my own salon, I have heard other women talk about me in private, saying that Henry has spoiled me and should not have let me always show up to run the salon, and that I am too dissatisfied to be married to such a wonderful husband, and that his family is the most prestigious in the world.

Maybe I'm too greedy to keep to myself?

My mother passed away when I was very young. But my father told me that my mother told me to be independent and to live for myself, and he also said that he would always support me in whatever you liked.

My brother and sister have been doting on me since I was a child, and they told me, "When the clover finds its fourth leaf, it's the luckiest moment in life." ”

I used to think that Henry was my fourth leaf.

I loved him, even as deeply as I did when I first met.

But ten years later, I know that I haven't found clover.

Thank God, things are finally turning around.

June 27 is the 10th anniversary of my marriage to Henry. His gift to me was a puppy called the Marquis, which reminded me of the old Duke, who looked alike but had very different personalities. I love puppies, but I love the gift that Ned and Naira gave me together - a camera!

I'm obsessed with this amazing machine. I think images are more important for me to express my thoughts than words, and to record a moment through the camera, not just to reproduce it as it is, but to find in the photograph that something deep inside you is as if it were imprinted in the photograph.

Henry was very supportive of my photography studies and remodeled a room on the third floor for me, so that I not only had my own studio, but also a darkroom.

Although my work was praised by my teachers and friends, I was not satisfied, and I always felt that something was missing from the photos. What I want is not false praise, but real help.

It was the middle of the night, the room was quiet, and the only light came from the lamp on the table, which was soft in brightness.

There were snowflakes outside, and the Marquis was lying at my feet, so warm that I felt as if I was floating in mid-air. I rarely let it into my studio, and to be honest I don't want dog hair in this room.

As long as the door is open, the marquis will obediently lie on the carpet at the door, and will never come in. As soon as the door was closed, it would make a fuss, and while grabbing the door, it would call at the same time, and it would often make a noise to Henry, and he would come up from downstairs to see what was going on.

Tonight, I have closed the door, and let the Marquis in, and have begun to write this journal secretly.

I was a little uncomfortable to hide this from Henry. I could even hear my husband downstairs in his study—the occasional leaning forward when he read, or the clatter of his chair when he stood up, and the occasional coughing that scared me—and if I heard his footsteps coming upstairs, I would quickly close the book and hide it.

I can't let him see what I've written on it, and I can't tell him why I'm writing this diary.

I glanced at the table clock on the table. It's almost eleven o'clock, and I have to hurry up and write.

Because soon the whole house would be completely silent, and Henry would creak on the stairs and come to the third floor to pick me up with a glass of hot milk in his hand. It was his habit, and when I had drunk the milk, we would go to the bedroom together and go to bed at twelve o'clock on time.

So, I'm going to hurry.

It all went back a month.

November 3 is the 34th anniversary of my mother's death. Henry and I haven't been back for four years since we moved to Washington, so he took me back to Boston this year. On the day of her death, my family went to my mother's grave to pay our respects, and after that, there was a small gathering in the evening for relatives or former friends of my father and mother.

At the banquet, I met an acquaintance whom I hadn't seen for a long time, Mrs. Elizabeth Agassi, the principal of the girls' school when I was in school.

The girls' school was established by her and her husband, Louis Agassius (4). The first time I met Mr. Luis Agassius was at the entrance ceremony. I had heard of him from my father for a long time, and to tell the truth, Mr. Agassi's monthly "Saturday Club" meeting at Parker's cottage was unknown to everyone in Boston? At the entrance ceremony, the students present could ask him a question, and I had the audacity to ask when women would join the "Saturday Club," which caused him to laugh. I was impressed by his answer, saying, "Just solve that puzzle, anyone can join, young and old, and hopefully one day you'll be able to join." ”

The members of the-Saturday-Club call themselves "science wanderers" – and that's just their way of mocking themselves, and I can't help but laugh at the thought of these high-minded scientific pioneers comparing themselves to beggars and Neapolitan wanderers. However, it was this group of scientific wanderers who, when they gathered, sketched out the structure of a scientific research institute for our country. When the Civil War broke out, I went to war as a volunteer with the American Health Association, and there were many citizens who wanted to do their part in the war effort, and they actively submitted their own inventions. The generals of the Northern Army only discovered that these inventions were of great help in warfare. In February, Mr. Agassius was supported by Massachusetts Congressman Henry Wilson. With Wilson's help, they redrafted a bill. The bill was quickly sent to Parliament, and on March 3 President Lincoln signed a congressional decree establishing the National Academy of Sciences (5).

The last time I saw Mr. Agassis was after the end of the Civil War. He presented me with the "Women's College Representative Award" and praised me, saying that he was very proud of me, and that my excitement that day could not be calmed down for a long time. The couple then went on two expeditions to Brazil. Unfortunately, a year after I got married, I heard that he had passed away.

Meet the Headmaster, Mrs. Elizabeth Agassis, again. She wasn't as serious as I was at school, and we both had some cocktails, and it was a relaxed atmosphere - Liz, she asked me to call her so affectionately, and we talked a lot.

She said that many years have passed since the last goodbye. I should have been happy to see you again, to see you with a sparkling wedding ring on your left hand. But I found that even though you were smiling all the time, you didn't look happy.

I never thought that someone would observe me in such detail and experience the feelings of my heart.

I was silent for a moment, and then spoke my heart to her. I poured out some of my grievances about real life, especially my reluctance to move from Boston to Washington, D.C. I didn't like the atmosphere there, and even though my life had become much more noble on the surface, it was as empty as a castle in the sky. For the first time, I told people that I wanted to be a professional videographer and open a shop to take pictures of people in the future, and that was my dream.

I talked about what my mother asked me to do - "pursue myself and achieve my dreams" - but I must have disappointed her now.

Liz smiled and said that she and my mother were old acquaintances, and that since my grandmother's generation, the women of our family have been models of freedom and independence. She secretly told me that when my mother married my father, someone said that the marriage was "perfume sprinkled in the desert wind" - a flower stuck in cow dung.

My eyes widened, a little incredulous. My father is a famous doctor in the Boston area, so he can't be so embarrassed by them!

Liz knew that I had an unusual, intimate relationship with my father, and understood that I would be upset to hear this. She shook her head and said, "It seems that I don't know my mother.

I was about to argue with her, but Liz changed the subject. She suddenly mentioned photography, saying that she knew someone who was very skilled in photography, and he might be able to help me, and he was not a stranger to me.

I wondered who it was.

But she mysteriously refused to tell me to go to Parker's hut on Saturday, but everything was to be done in secret, and the meeting was to be kept in absolute secrecy, not even to my father, my siblings, or even my husband.

Parker's Cabin! Saturday? Is it the Saturday Club's secret testing session? I can't believe my ears.

Liz looked incredulous when she saw me, and she said something that had happened to her.

She asked me if I knew of the "American Philosophical Society (6)"?

How could we not know? It was a national society founded by President Benjamin Franklin himself, an academic society that preceded the "National Academy of Sciences" 120 years ago.

I nodded vigorously.

She said that she officially became one of the first female members of the American Philosophical Society on October 15, 13 years ago. She firmly told me that the status of women has been improving with the world, and my dear don't rest on your laurels and get out of the box that encircles you, that's the original purpose of your education.

That night, I lay in my father's room for us, looking at Henry's back, and couldn't sleep for a long time.

When I woke up in the morning, I thought I would still feel hesitant. But I was wrong, I had already made my choice, and when I heard "Parker's Cabin", I had already decided.

Fortunately, his father invited Henry and Ned to go hunting at Beverly Farm with them. I made an excuse to say that when I was catching up with my female classmates and having afternoon tea, someone would pick me up, and I didn't need to arrange a car.

Actually, there was a similar small party, but I was troublesome and turned it off, and now it's just an excuse.

After Henry and the others were gone, I spent the morning as usual.

After lunch, I sent the servants away and began to prepare.

I changed into a more formal dress, and I didn't want to look like a vulgar salon hostess, nor did I want anyone to think of me as an old-fashioned female pedant. Sitting in front of the mirror, looking at my face, the wrinkles on my forehead, and the crow's feet at the corners of my eyes, I was thirty-nine years old. Although he is no longer young, he is also younger than his peers. I took out my makeup, put on a light makeup, applied a little powder, and brushed it on. Looking in the mirror again, I told myself that today was "combat makeup" and couldn't be too delicate, so I wiped off the excess lipstick with a tissue and it looked much lighter.

I called and hailed a taxi.

The car drove into the city and went straight to its destination.

I gasped. Looking out the window blankly at the black, the events of that day seemed to happen right in front of me. Every morning after that Saturday, I woke up in bed and felt as if the world looked different.

I looked down at the journal in my hand. The pen had slipped off my fingers, drawing a thin blue line on the paper. Liz was right, I didn't know much about my mother. But lately, I've been reminded of something, something about my mother.

"Mommy, Mommy. ”

"Don't look, don't look, get out, quick!" my father shouted at me.

The room was covered in blood, my mother was lying in a pool of blood, I was a little girl, I was terrified, I can't remember exactly what happened.

How the hell did my mother die? What happened? What did I see?

When I closed my eyes and tried to recall that day again, I knew I hadn't forgotten it. Now every cell in my body remembers that feeling, and I know it's coming back.

It has only been placed in the corner of memory over time, and now it is slowly awakening.

Actually, this isn't the first time I've kept something to Henry. Two years ago, I published my book anonymously under the title Democracy: An American Novel, and the editor-in-chief of the publishing house is a friend of mine, and I implore the editor-in-chief to announce that the author is a man and that he must not reveal the truth to anyone.

And this time, the secrets seemed to be accumulating, and I was nervous that I would be asked to hide everything from him.

But I had to do what I was asked to do, and I had to secretly write down what happened every day.

I'm going to stop writing here. Because, I heard the pendulum clock ringing in the hallway on the third floor.

It's midnight.

Henry was going up the stairs, and I was going to close the diary.

Tomorrow, I'm going to keep a record of what happened that Saturday, and I want to figure out if this whole thing was a coincidence, or if it's a fate that can't be escaped anyway. (To be continued.) )