WORDS IN COLOR: HONORING BLACK LITERARY VOICES (PART 1) – Alice Dunbar Nelson’s "Violets"

Violet Flame 

 

Not as widely recognized as her husband, Paul Laurence Dunbar, Alice Dunbar Nelson was a formidable poet, journalist, educator, and civil rights activist. Born in 1875 in New Orleans to Creole parents of African, European, and Caribbean descent, she was deeply influenced by her rich and linguistically eloquent culture. Raised in a society that valued both French and English, her work often reflected themes of identity, race, and feminism.

Below is one of her short stories, "Violets," from her first published book, Violets and Other Tales (1895) - an anthology of poetry, short stories, and essays. "Violets" speaks to the gain and loss of love. Dunbar-Nelson anthology is a must-read (or at least a quick perusal); the full collection can be accessed [here].

Lesser-Known Facts About Alice Dunbar Nelson:

• She was a key participant in the Harlem Renaissance, though her contributions are often overlooked.
• She navigated a complicated personal life, enduring an abusive marriage to Paul Laurence Dunbar, followed by two more marriages.
• She had romantic relationships with both men and women, often using marriage as a shield against societal scrutiny.
• A fierce advocate for women's rights, she played a pivotal role in the 1920s women’s suffrage movement.
• Alice's mother Patricia Wright was enslaved in Louisiana and Texas until 1865. She was a washerwoman and seamstress of Black and Native American descent. Her father's identity is questionable, but some say he was a white seaman named Joseph Moore. 
• Only in recent years have researchers begun to explore her personal diaries and unpublished works, offering new insights into her political activism and personal struggles.

Alice Dunbar Nelson’s legacy extended far beyond what was expected of an African American woman in early 20th century America. It is my hope that you will seek greater information on the life of this remarkable literary pioneer whose indelible mark in American literature is undeniable.

(The following short story is reposted, courtesy of the Public Domain)

VIOLETS.

I.

"And she tied a bunch of violets with a tress a long lock of hair of her pretty brown hair."

She sat in the yellow glow of the lamplight softly humming these words. It was Easter

evening, and the newly risen spring world was slowly sinking to a gentle, rosy,

opalescentshowing varying colors as an opal does. slumber, sweetly tired of the joy which

 had pervaded it all day. For in the dawn of the perfect morn, it had arisen, stretched out its

 arms in glorious happiness to greet the Saviour and said its hallelujahs, merrily trilling out

 carols of bird, and organ and flower-song. But the evening had come, and rest.

There was a letter lying on the table, it read:

"Dear, I send you this little bunch of flowers as my Easter token. Perhaps you may not be

 able to read their meaning, so I'll tell you. Violets, you know, are my favorite flowers. Dear,

 little, human-faced things! They seem always as if about to whisper a love-word; and then

 they signify that thought which passes always between you and me. The orange blossoms—

you know their meaning; the little pinks are the flowers you love; the evergreen leaf is the

 symbol of the endurance of our affection; the tube-roses I put in, because once when you

 kissed and pressed me close in your arms, I had a bunch of tube-rosesa flower that represents love, sensuality, and desire

 “Language of Flowers,” the tuberose symbolizes dangerous pleasures. it. on my bosom, and

 the heavy fragrance of their crushed loveliness has always lived in my memory. The violets

 and pinks are from a bunch I wore to-day, and when kneeling at the altar, during

 communion, did I sin, dear, when I thought of you? The tube-roses and orange-blossoms I

 wore Friday night; you always wished for a lock of my hair, so I'll tie these flowers with

 them—but there, it is not stable enough; let me wrap them with a bit of ribbon, pale blue,

 from that little dress I wore last winter to the dance, when we had such a long, sweet talk in

 that forgotten nook. You always loved that dress, it fell in such soft ruffles away from the

 throat and bosom,—you called me your little forget-me-not, that night. I laid the flowers

 away for awhile in our favorite book,—Byron—just at the poem we loved best, and now I

 send them to you. Keep them always in remembrance of me, and if aught"anything at all."

should occur to separate us, press these flowers to your lips, and I will be with you in spirit,

 permeating your heart with unutterable love and happiness."

II.

It is Easter again. As of old, the joyous bells clang out the glad news of the resurrection. The

 giddy, dancing sunbeams laugh riotously in field and street; birds carol their sweet

 twitterings everywhere, and the heavy perfume of flowers scents the golden atmosphere

 with inspiring fragrance. One long, golden sunbeam steals silently into the white-curtained

 window of a quiet room, and layathwartFrom side to side of; across. a sleeping face. Cold,

 pale, still, its fair, young face pressed against the satin-lined casket. Slender, white fingers,

 idle now, they that had never known rest; locked softly over a bunch of violets; violets and

 tube-roses in her soft, brown hair, violets in the bosom of her long, white gown; violets and

 tube-roses and orange-blossoms banked everywhere, until the air was filled with the

 ascending souls of the human flowers. Some whispered that a broken heart had ceased to

 flutter in that still, young form, and that it was a mercy for the soul to ascend on the slender

 sunbeam. To-day she kneels at the throne of heaven, where one year ago she had

 communed at an earthly altar.

III.

Far away in a distant city, a man, carelessly looking among some papers, turned over a

 faded bunch of flowers tied with a blue ribbon and a lock of hair. He paused meditatively

 awhile, then turning to the regal-looking woman lounging before the fire, he asked:

"Wife, did you ever send me these?"

She raised her great, black eyes to his with a gesture of ineffableIncapable of being

 expressed with words. disdain, and replied languidly:

"You know very well I can't bear flowers. How could I ever send such sentimental trash to

 any one? Throw them into the fire."

And the Easter bells chimed a solemn requiemAn act or token of remembrance. as the

 flames slowly licked up the faded violets. Was it merely fancy on the wife's part, or did the

 husband really sigh,—a long, quivering breath of remembrance?

(THE END)