Had the Newbery Medal existed in 1917, Understood Betsy surely would have won it. I can't imagine there was any stronger candidate than Dorothy Canfield Fisher's novel about public and personal education and the importance of developing the habit of learning while young, when one's psyche and worldview are moldable enough to adopt new form. Until age nine, orphaned Elizabeth Ann is so overprotected and micromanaged by her Aunt Frances that she's prevented from defining her own life to any extent based on her own thoughts and experiences. Elizabeth Ann has learned to pick up her aunt's cues as to what she should think on any subject. Dear Aunt Frances loves the young girl so, and feels such sorrow for her as an orphan stranded in the world without a parent's love, that she bundles Elizabeth Ann up against the world's perceived coldness and never believes she is insulated enough. She sees a timid, pale, sickly girl who's no match for the uncaring outsiders certain to harm her if she steps out from her aunt's petticoats, and Frances's fear seeps into Elizabeth Ann's subconscious from infancy, infecting her with an insidious paranoia that's been her companion so long she feels as though it were a genetic inheritance. She cowers from good-natured dogs on the street, eats little more than required to keep her alive, and would rather sit quietly with Aunt Frances indoors than risk playing with kids her age outside. Elizabeth Ann completes her lessons at school but rarely interacts with other students, and Aunt Frances ensures that won't change by her frequent trips to educate the teachers on her niece's fragile state, her special status apart from other boys and girls whose affect isn't so delicate. By the time Understood Betsy begins, with Elizabeth Ann having learned nine years of overcautious habits from her beloved aunt, she's hardly a real girl at all, but a synthetic replica of what Aunt Frances believes a dignified young female with a big heart should be. Elizabeth Ann's entire childhood could easily have been wiled away in the recesses of her aunt's home, shielded from doing chores or forming her own opinions or any activity that might prove overwhelming, but fate intervenes at the height of Aunt Frances's well-intended coddling. It's a good thing fate does step in, for otherwise we would not have this book.
When Great-aunt Harriet is hospitalized on account of a chronic cough, Aunt Frances's relentless attention is removed from Elizabeth Ann for the time being. Aunt Harriet's medical care must be supervised constantly by a family member, and Aunt Frances hasn't time to volunteer for duty and devote herself to Elizabeth Ann. Arrangements are made for the slender ghost of a girl to board with trusted cousins temporarily, but when that doesn't work out, she's shipped to rural Vermont to be kept by the Putney cousins, a change of which Aunt Frances is not apprised. Elizabeth Ann's formerly omnipresent companion would be aghast at the child winding up with the Putneys; Frances's limited experience with them suggests the family has no idea how to properly raise a youngster. They assign chores and aren't vigilantly attuned to the emotional whims of children, and that won't do for a sensitive girl like Elizabeth Ann. She dreads her destination at the Putney farm as she rides the rails to get there, her aunt's anxieties weighing on her poor heart. The world is a dark, unsympathetic realm indeed, and without Aunt Frances to advocate for her, Elizabeth Ann will be trampled by thoughtless rogues. How will she survive her stay with the Putneys?
Preconceived notions of Putney neglect run wild in the girl's imagination, but she soon relaxes in the presence of affable, sweet Aunt Abigail, whose rotundity Betsy (Betsy?) has never seen the like. She doesn't mind Uncle Henry's unruffled, low-key demeanor so much, either. She remains unsure of Cousin Ann a little longer, for the physically imposing farm woman will brook no nonsense, and Elizabeth Ann's faint heart wouldn't dream of instigating any. Somehow she senses Cousin Ann won't be moved by protests that her young boarder isn't capable of performing basic chores, or going to school without a caring adult paving her way by alerting the teacher what activities Elizabeth Ann can and can't be expected to take part in. She isn't sure she likes Cousin Ann, but the woman's personality is a river with too rough a current to be resisted. To even dip her toes in the churning flow might injure tenderhearted Elizabeth Ann, so she avoids the torrent whenever possible. As Betsy relaxes her defenses to allow the Putneys influence on her, she discovers that life on a farm isn't as insufferable as she'd been brought up to believe. Betsy is given some autonomy for the first time in her life: she's asked to help with the cooking, churn butter with Aunt Abigail in the cool basement, walk to school without accompaniment, and is given freedom to make friends with whomever she takes a liking to. Not every kid in school is her friend, but Betsy will form as many rewarding relationships there as at the Putney farm, relationships we can no longer imagine her life without by the end of this book as color, light, and warmth flood the stage via a cast of characters Betsy had no idea existed before her fortuitous stay with the Vermont cousins. How could Betsy conceive what it's like to care for one younger, smaller, and more defenseless even than herself until she's given charge of the stray kitten she names Eleanor, whom none but Betsy has time to adopt as a pet? What about sweet, cuddly Molly, a supplementary little sister whose presence forces Betsy to clear her mind and come through in dicey situations when her first instinct is to cry until a grownup swoops to the rescue? With a girl needier than herself to consider, Betsy can't indulge in self-pity or give up when confronted with hardship. If she doesn't take care of Molly when it's just the two of them, no one will. The responsibility may even help Betsy understand Aunt Frances's overprotectiveness a bit better, for no setup more predictably breeds cosseting than loving a child who seems little and vulnerable, sure to be run roughshod over by inconsiderate strangers if you don't intervene.
Modern technology, even of the era, isn't part of life at the Putney farm. Decent mirrors are scarce, so Betsy is taken aback on the day at the fair when she sees her reflection and almost doesn't recognize herself: strong, tan, and looking much more confident than the frail girl she was with Aunt Frances in the city. Nothing about the girl she sees reflected now suggests sickliness. She's come into her own on the farm, a country girl ready to seize what opportunities come her way and not back down from the challenges of real life, which seems to manifest itself around here more obviously than in the shelter of Aunt Frances's wings. Yet Betsy's tenure with the Putneys was never a permanent arrangement, though we the reader stew more over her inevitable departure than Betsy does in the book's dwindling chapters. The life she's made in Vermont is ever so more richly rewarding than what she knew in her first nine years, and Betsy finds herself in the surprising predicament of not wanting to leave her new family for the hermetically sealed existence Aunt Frances still offers. What is she to do? When you don't shy from the difficult moments of life, sometimes solutions materialize out of thin air as if they hovered there all along waiting to be snatched, though we couldn't see them until the moment they were needed. Betsy's future may turn out differently than she expected or hoped, but it's a joyous adventure she's starting out on either way, full of humor, gladness, and the awareness of what we have in one another and how fortunate that makes us. At last, Betsy has grown to understand herself.
"Not a thing had happened the way she had planned, no, not a single thing! But it seemed to her she had never been so happy in her life."
—Understood Betsy, P. 166
The excellence of this novel is its many multi-layered, soul-affirming episodes. I could write for hours of Betsy's escapades with the Putneys and her peers at school and what she learns from them. Her education in self-sufficiency commences on the wagon ride home from the train depot with Uncle Henry, as Elizabeth Ann sits in frightened silence and imagines falling off the wagon and being stomped by the horses. Uncle Henry knows she has no reason to fear, and distracts her from her visions of doom by shifting partial responsibility for directing the horses to Elizabeth Ann right away, nonchalantly handing her the reins so he can do some figuring on paper. Elizabeth Ann is horrified at being given control of the beasts, but self-preservation forces her to exercise command over her equine escort. She commits errors in driving the team, but nothing life-threatening, and for the first time ever she's taken charge in an unfamiliar situation. What a thrill to manage such large, powerful animals. As Betsy proceeds to exercise occasional authority in small ways around the farm, she realizes that just because she hasn't done something before is no reason she can't do it now. It's the beginning of her empowerment as she engages with the real world for the first time.
Betsy's view of history is turned upside down by a talk with Aunt Abigail, who frames a story about her own grandmother by mentioning she was born the year America's Declaration of Independence was signed. For Betsy, there always seemed a divorce between people of history and us today, as if humans of the past weren't alive and conscious in the same way as us. But when Aunt Abigail tells of her grandmother living contemporaneous to the birth of America, this illusion is swept aside. "Why! There were real people living when the Declaration of Independence was signed—real people, not just history people—old women teaching little girls how to do things—right in this very room, on this very floor—and the Declaration of Independence just signed!...To tell the honest truth, although she had passed a very good examination in the little book on American history they had studied in school, Elizabeth Ann had never to that moment had any notion that there ever had been really and truly any Declaration of Independence at all. It had been like the ounce, living only inside her schoolbooks for little girls to be examined about." We don't realize it, but most of us feel this way about history. It boggles the mind to think of people hundreds or thousands of years ago living and feeling just as we do now. We're so removed from their dramas that we subconsciously categorize them as legend, fictions from which we presumably can learn. Real education begins when we see the lives of past individuals as at least as relevant in the grand scheme of things as our own, perceiving that their accomplishments and tragedies felt as immediate and earth-shattering to them as ours feel to us. Once we view history this way, we'll never again dismiss it as insignificant.
Cousin Ann's forceful demeanor shapes Betsy's initial response to the Putney lifestyle, and gives insight into the mysteries of human personality and how widely it influences the events of our lives. "(P)ersonality...is perhaps the very most important thing in the world. Yet we know only one or two things about it. We know that anybody's personality is made up of the sum total of all the actions and thoughts and desires of his life. And we know that though there aren't any words or any figures in any languages to set down that sum total accurately, still it is one of the first things that everybody knows about anybody else. And that really is all we know!" Betsy's personality, too, is an enigma. How much of her wallflower mentality is an unintended side-effect of her upbringing by Aunt Frances, who meant only good by insulating her niece from harm? When removed from her aunt's fastidiously maintained environment, Elizabeth Ann soon changes into another sort of girl, revealing new layers of personality that thrive under a different set of external conditions. Portions of Betsy's personality clearly were obscured by Aunt Frances, but she isn't an entirely different girl with the Putneys. Understood Betsy gives us a lot to mull over regarding personalities.
Betsy sees much of herself in six-year-old Molly at school, and Molly becomes a canvas on which to repaint her own childhood, correcting mistakes her overbearing school teachers made when she was Molly's age. Betsy clings to vestiges of her own erstwhile apprehension in the early days of her new life, but even a girl taught to fear everything can't find reason to shrink from Molly. "No, it was impossible to be frightened of such a funny little girl, who peered so earnestly into the older child's face to make sure she was doing her lesson right." Young ones are a perfect tonic for worry and fear because no one is less apt to do harm than a little kid. Betsy is able to embrace Molly without anxiety and see that she can teach the girl a thing or two, and in so doing observes more clearly her own value. If you can't bravely engage the big, sometimes unfriendly world, first engage an impressionable child. They'll make it so much easier to grow to love the world. Betsy's empathy for how it feels to be a scared rabbit makes her a better teacher for Molly as she helps improve her reading. "Elizabeth Ann had never had anything to do with children younger than herself, and she felt very pleased and important to have anybody look up to her!...Elizabeth Ann (corrected) Molly gently when she made a mistake, and (waited) patiently when she hesitated. She had so fresh in her mind her own suffering from quick, nervous corrections that she took the greatest pleasure in speaking quietly and not interrupting the little girl more than was necessary. It was fun to teach, lots of fun!" Having an empathetic teacher does wonders, and the instructor benefits as much as the student. Much like her epiphany about history, Betsy realizes the way she views education is skewed by misplaced administrative priorities. In her city school, the reading assignments were much too easy because her math skills were below average, keeping her in a lower grade. But as her teacher in Vermont puts it, "what's the use of your reading little baby things too easy for you just because you don't know your multiplication table?" That's when the true goal of formal education dawns on Betsy. "(N)ever before had she known what she was doing in school. She had always thought she was there to pass from one grade to another, and she was ever so startled to get a glimpse of the fact that she was there to learn how to read and write and cipher and generally use her mind, so she could take care of herself when she came to be grown up." Parents and teachers often lose sight of schooling's true purpose, too, that it's about learning how to learn. When this truth is imparted to students, it's the first step in turning over control of their education to them. No part of schooling should supersede giving students the desire and ability to learn for themselves.
Dorothy Canfield Fisher was a passionate promotor of the Montessori education system, emphasizing the custom needs of individual children rather than peer standardization, and she recognized that community involvement is part of healthy, broad-based education. Betsy is surprised one day when a gregarious farmer joins their play at recess, hitching himself to the opposite end of the tug-of-war rope and playfully dragging all the students and teachers across the schoolyard. It's terrific fun, and Betsy marvels that an older person would condescend to play with youngsters. That wouldn't have happened in her city school. "Never, why never once, had any grown-up, passing the playground of the big brick building, dreamed of such a thing as stopping for a minute to play. They never even looked at the children, any more than if they were in another world." It's sad when grownups and kids isolate from each other as if they were from disparate castes and mixing would be unseemly. Diversity is a major part of what people have to offer one another, variegated perspectives enhancing our view of the world. Why create division where there is none, as if age were an impassable blockade to friendship, fun, and learning from one another, when we truly need each other so? Playing together among different age groups would be a boon to lifelong education, an untapped experiential reservoir we shouldn't continue to ignore. Consider the dimensions added to Betsy's worldview by spending time with Aunt Abigail, who's more than sixty years older than the little girl she's taken into her home. Betsy sees the world without much awareness of the past, but Aunt Abigail has seventy-two years of memories and wisdom on which to draw. Before electric clocks were affordable for farm folk, Aunt Abigail's grandmother kept track of time using a rudimentary sundial, one that was just a single gouge in the pantry windowsill. Her grandmother could instantly tell the time from the sunlight's position in relation to that gouge, but Aunt Abigail has lost the knack for it. Her forbears were able to do many things that later generations have forgotten, and she wonders if this might not be a good thing. "I declare! Sometimes it seems to me that every time a new piece of machinery comes into the door some of our wits fly out at the window! Now I couldn't any more live without matches than I could fly! And yet they all used to get along all right before they had matches. Makes me feel foolish to think I'm not smart enough to get along, if I wanted to, without those little snips of pine and brimstone." The more technology develops, the more we outsource our survival acumen, and there's no telling where that will lead. I have to think Aunt Abigail's right to say we're better off the more we know how to do for ourselves, whether or not we ever have to fall back on that knowledge to survive.
There are so many lovely stories in this book, but I'm running out of room to write about them. The scene where Aunt Abigail, Uncle Henry, and Elizabeth Ann conspire to feed the dog scraps when Cousin Ann is out of the room is one of the most charming I've ever read. The previously overprotected little girl can't stifle her exuberant shout of laughter at the silly scene as the grownups put on straight faces to convince Cousin Ann they weren't breaking the rules by feeding the dog from the table. The scene is that ultimate rarity in literature, a true perfect moment, and I look back on it as the point when I fell unabashedly in love with Elizabeth Ann/Betsy. Her decision to start a sewing society with a few friends from school is another defining moment, after Betsy learns that six-year-old 'Lias Brewster's perpetual grunginess and ragged clothes are the result of neglect by his drunkard stepfather. To make up for the mean comments she and other girls used to whisper behind 'Lias's back, Betsy proposes they get together and make nice new clothes for him from scratch. But are their motives for helping the boy wholly selfless, or is there a hard lesson for Betsy and her sewing circle to learn about themselves from their act of charity for 'Lias? The episode takes several unexpected turns before the end, and has an emotionally resounding conclusion that adds luster to an already magnificent book.
I love Understood Betsy, and can't express enough admiration for what Dorothy Canfield Fisher accomplished in it. This timeless, ageless novel should touch hearts forever, one of the premier works of children's lit. It is in a class by itself.