The Cessation

Years ago, a carpenters' strike hit Corbury Junction, that I abided for some time in Starkfield, Massachusetts. It was the closest place where I could stay not being able to reach the power—house where I worked. This village, so bleak and severely cold, with its silence appeared as if a ghostly town. As I spent more time in the village, I saw the beauty of the place's panorama when the snow ceased to rain, but had no effect for the liveliness of the inhabitants. Ethan Frome, a tall and lean man, is the finest example, the model, and representation of Starkfield. It was years ago, that I became acquainted with the fellow, which allowed me to learn of his sad countenance.

The strike didn't last long, but an issue of disease had influenced the stable, keeping me from arriving at my desired destination. Despite the current circumstance, Harmon Gow—local stagecoach driver—suggested that I request a ride from Ethan Frome. Harmon Gow was an informant on behalf of my curiosity and interest for Frome. Harmon Gow revealed to me Frome's pecuniary difficulties and his lousy way of obtaining monetary aid from people such as Andrew Hale. My first sight of Frome was in a local post office. He looked old, but I learned afterwards from Harmon Gow that he was only 52—most 52 year olds looked 49 as to say. It was only at the time that Frome agreed to offer me up a ride, unhesitatingly bringing me to and fro from work, that I got a glimpse of his taciturn character. I concluded Harmon Gow was right; his concise phrase concerning the man, "guess he's been in Starkfield too many winters." That speculation was soon outlived, when one day I left my biochemistry book in Frome's carriage and in turn acquired an envelope.

There was no way I could return the envelope to Frome nor was I able to stop myself from having a prospect of the content due to my habit of conducting business so hastily. I presumed that the letter within the envelope was one of my documents that I made the decision to read it. The letter began with the mutual preamble, Dear, hand-written on it. Following afterwards was the name of Mattie Silver, whom I assumed one of Frome's female consort. It was later, after reading the whole composition, found that it was Frome's. Before I could ask myself who Mattie Silver was, I wondered how on earth I obtained the envelope. After much perturbation, I decided to act and detach myself from idleness, and meet with Frome to return his rightful possession.

When it was time that once again Frome would kindly drive me back from the train station back to Mrs. Hale's place, I awkwardly gave him back his envelope and he likewise returned my book. "I found it after you were gone," he answered. We began our discussion about the book, particularly on the subject of biochemistry and its progress, and he claimed that it used to interest him. There were some parts therein that he could not understand, then I asked him if he desired to keep the book and that he could too, but for a few moments he did not answer. Fortunately, he did agree to himself to take the book; I handed it to him.

We returned to normalcy—through seven days Ethan Frome continued to take me from the Hale's to the Corbury Flats, until one morning I found that a snowstorm covered the county which delayed my mean of transportation. The climate did not stop the tough Frome and he insisted to take me directly to my destination which was about ten miles that I won't have to miss my work due to the inconvenience of train transportation. We arrived succesfully and I quickly finished my business and we headed out back to Starkfield. By sunset, a misfortune had struck; the winter clouds hastily covered the sky with drops of snow that it became so dark that it was almost hard to see. Soon both of our confidences or our will failed us and we decided not to go any further. Frome offered me a stay for the night at his place and I could not reject due to the current situation.

The structure of his house defined poverty, and it was so isolated. I followed Frome to the barn where he settled his horse and he guided me to the entrance. In the kitchen of Frome's dwelling, a tall pale and skinny woman stood up and took a brief moment of glance at me and then continued her business of preparing the pieces of cold pie for Frome. He looked at me and said,"that is my wife, Miss Frome." My eyes wandered around as to examine the sight and saw the place poorly managed. We continued upstairs and Frome showed me the room where there is a bed for my night's stay. The room looked better than the kitchen, I thought; it seemed to have been useful for a place to write or study. Standing by the door, Frome suddenly exclaimed, "Oh I forgot..!" After gathering a mountain of papers from the stand, he told me to come in and place my belongings aside as his back faced me, and I did as he commanded. Before he could leave the room, I noticed the name Mattie Silver written in large characters on the back side of a sheet of paper in the pile.

It was the very next night that I came to learn of Mattie Silver, from the accounts of Mrs. Hale, which added more light on the letter I had read. The cessation of Ethan Frome and Mattie Silvers' love and happiness twenty years ago contributed to Ethan Frome's sadness and his lonely character. Those stockpile of papers were letters, messages written and send to and from Worcester and Starkfield. "It is a wonder you find Ethan Frome in the local post office these days and a phenomena if you had discerned what compels him to be there!" I thought.