The House of Hawthorne (12 page)

I
have a friend, Cornelia Parks, who in addition to her talents at mesmerizing me hosts the most fascinating parties. At Connie’s hands I fall into an even swifter trance than I did with Dr. Fiske, and without the crisis. Nathaniel is somewhat mollified, knowing that no other man interferes with my sphere, though he dislikes Connie’s doing so almost as much.

As the October sun sets, Nathaniel escorts me across the Boston Commons, on our way to a gathering to meet Miss Margaret Fuller, the woman Emerson has appointed editor of
The Dial
. Nathaniel and I are very small compared to large Boston, but it is somehow ours because of the sacred connection we have walking through it. Our boots rustle and crunch the fallen leaves, and the chill in the air encourages us to lean closer. It is as if nature conspires with me to draw in my love.

We pass by a tree with fiery orange leaves, which complement
my violet satin gown. Mary helped me select the fabric, which was a gift from Nathaniel, and we sewed it together, pairing it with a simple cream-colored cloak. My family is aware of my relationship with Nathaniel, though we do not often discuss it. Mother has accepted defeat in her campaign to encourage me to a life of chastity, because she sees the fullness of my happiness, and that is what is most important to her. There remains a small strain with Elizabeth, though I have had her blessing, and I fear it will always remain. Nathaniel believes his own family does not have an idea of our love. I think he is foolish to believe they cannot know, but I will not vex him by speaking such a thought out loud. I have learned that Nathaniel is pained by quarrels or negative speech of any kind.

I pause to pat the bark of the orange-leafed tree, and gaze up at its blazing foliage.

“I am sorry you will soon lose your fiery crown,” I say, “but I am grateful for your color, which emphasizes my own.”

“Yes, thank you, good tree,” says Nathaniel, lifting his voice to mimic my own and giving an awkward thump to the trunk.

I shove him for teasing me.

“Silly man,” I say. “It is not yet natural for you to address plants in such a way, but perhaps you will allow me to mesmerize you, so I might command your mind to change.”

“I would welcome mesmerism from you and
only
you,” he says. “I wish you would welcome such interference from
only
me.”

“If you would consent to the practice, I would welcome it, but you remain a stubborn skeptic.”

“Fine,” he says, stopping his walk and closing his eyes. “Entrance me.”

“We cannot do it here, but the next time we find ourselves alone in your rooms, I will honor your request.”

I give him my naughtiest smile, and he pretends to feel faint until I pull him along, resuming our walk to Connie’s house. We proceed in silence for a few moments, and I am nearly overcome with joy to have Nathaniel on my arm. If I die tomorrow, I am convinced that the affection I have known in our courtship is more than others have experienced in a lifetime.

“If I close my eyes, we are in Italy,” says Nathaniel, “strolling the Isolino di San Giovanni, bathed in sunset’s fire. There, do I sound like you?”

“If you sounded like me, you might mention the angels’ breath stirring our hair, and the benediction of the sun shafts.”

“You are my angel and my benediction, and your company is all I need to sustain me.”

We draw closer to each other, and I can almost see the Italian landscape rising around us. I am overcome with an idea. I will paint this moment for Nathaniel, this moment that feels like a marriage. It will be art just for him, so I may not fear that it will hang on the walls of the Athenaeum. It will be a representation of the mingling of our souls as one, as we walk together on a broad landscape, gazing toward the sunset.

“I long for the days when we may be fully married,” I say, “living in creative communion. You will write and I will paint, and the power of each of our artistic mediums will be enhanced
by the work of the other, inspiring a fullness of creation not seen since the days of Eden.”

“It is nearly too overwhelming to fantasize about,” he says. “I never knew such earthly happiness could be mine.”

I lift his hand to my lips and press it there. I am eager for more of this talk, but I am met with a heavy sigh.

“What is it?” I say.

“I wish I could simply leave you at the door and fetch you in several hours’ time. You know how I detest mingling amongst people.”

“It is good for you to part from your solitude,” I say. “You are a gift to the world, though you do not know it. And besides, I do not wish to waste a single moment when we are in town together. Our separations make me ill.”

“Then come home to my fireside, Sophy.” He stops walking and pulls me to him. His lips are at my ear in an earnest whisper. “We can be in perfect solitude and not have the distraction of other human beings.”

I thrill at the thought of sharing kisses at Nathaniel’s fireside, but I am also afraid of where that will lead. We spent last night in such a way, and it required more willpower to take leave of him than when I gave up morphine.

No, we must socialize.

“As much as I long to do so,” I say, “Connie will be hurt if we do not arrive when I told her we would.”

“I do not report to Connie,” he says, pulling away from me. “She is not my queen, and I worry about the effect she has on
you. You are very sensitive and adoring, and I do not want her taking advantage of you with this mesmerism business in which you insist on engaging.”

“She has no control over me, and makes me well so I am able to spend more time in the world. Mesmerism is the answer to many of life’s ailments, and is certainly better for me than morphine.”

“While I agree with you on that count, it simply does not seem proper. When you allow another into your
innere
, you give them an almost sacred entrance into your body. It is indecent.”

I pull Nathaniel toward me, and lay my cheek on his chest. “No one may have full entrance into my soul but you.”

He rubs my neck, and groans before stepping back to admire me.

“Your hair is so sweetly done,” he says. “What is this new style?”

“Grecian braids,” I say, turning in a circle so he may see all of me. “Tonight’s party will be a transcendental feast in the Greek style.”

“What does that mean?”

“I do not know, but I have the hair to support the theme.”

We are climbing the stairs of Connie’s building, and he steals one more kiss on my cheek.

“You are a little goddess,” he says.

Suddenly the door is pulled open, and we are ushered into the crowded house. Connie separates me from Nathaniel, absorbing me into her orbit and leading me through rooms decorated with fragrant yellow roses, busts of Plato, golden fabric draped over
tables abundant with oranges, tomatoes, cheese, and flaky dough puffs. I wish to pause and eat a bite from a platter of lamb kebabs, but Connie does not stop until we reach Margaret Fuller, a somewhat dowdy though commanding woman with light hair and blue-gray eyes. Her smile upon beholding us pleasantly transforms her face, and I curtsy to her.

“I have heard much praise of your fascinating conversations from my sister Elizabeth Peabody,” I say.

“Elizabeth is your sister—how wonderful,” says Margaret. “She is one of the founders of our transcendental society, and one of the brightest minds in it.”

“She is,” I say.

“And are you the sister who sings or who paints?”

“I paint,” I say. “When my head allows it.”

“Well, I have seen your painting of a
Scene Near Bristol
at the Athenaeum, and just tonight as I walked across the Commons, I thought how like that warm landscape Boston appeared. I do hope you are well enough to continue your creations. You decorate the world.”

Her words touch me so that my face colors, and I whisper a thank-you. I can hardly believe someone thought of my art before they had met me. It is both thrilling and somehow troubling—as if a little piece of my soul is outside of my body, inspiring others. What a great responsibility art is.

I glance around the room to see where Nathaniel has wandered, and I soon find him in a corner where several ladies have him pressed to the wall panels, no doubt praising him for his writing. For a minute or two I am able to observe him without
his seeing me, and it is long enough for me to feel overwhelmed by my love for him. Even with him surrounded by doting women, I have no fear or jealousy, because I know that he is mine, made for just me. I could watch him all night, but he is drowning, and I must rescue him. I summon his spirit and think his name, and in seconds he finds my eyes. The relief on his face is so dear that I hurry to him, and excuse him from company.

“Thank you,” he says. “It is too much.”

“I know, darling. Hold on to me.”

He gazes at me but, as I lean closer to him, we are interrupted by a bespectacled man and woman.

“Pardon the intrusion,” the man says, “but I must introduce myself. I have heard so much about you, Mr. Hawthorne, though I have not yet had the pleasure of reading your work. I am George Ripley, and this is my wife, Sophia.”

Mr. Ripley extends his hand, and I can feel Nathaniel recoil. He is too overwhelmed to speak more. I try to think of why I know George Ripley’s name.

“How nice to meet you both,” I say. “I am Mr. Hawthorne’s . . . friend. Miss Sophia Peabody.”

I nudge Nathaniel, who finally reaches for Mr. Ripley’s hand and mutters a greeting. I suddenly remember why I have heard of Ripley.

“Ah, Mr. Ripley,” I say. “Mr. Emerson says that you are one we should meet. He wrote with high praise of your ideas.”

“Emerson flatters me,” says Mr. Ripley. “It is he who inspires. In fact, we were discussing the merits of an opportunity in
communal living, and he mentioned Mr. Hawthorne by name. Miss Fuller might be joining.”

Connie interrupts us to direct our attention to the fireplace, where Margaret will begin her talk. We pardon ourselves from the Ripleys, and I feel Nathaniel relax after we are away from conversation with strangers. I squeeze his arm for reassurance.

While Connie introduces Margaret, she unfolds a tall tripod of a chair that she had been carrying and settles herself with remarkable ease in front of the room of onlookers. Margaret is the epitome of grace and, while Emerson has described her as regal, I imagine her as more of an enchantress or faerie. Tonight she speaks of Greek mythology, but has such a gently coercive way about her, the audience soon contributes, and a full and fascinating discussion ensues.

“When we speak of such things, hours are no longer relevant,” she says. “We are of eternal time, connected to the past and future by our full immersion in the moment. Does not this moonlight reaching in through the window remind us of Selene, the moon goddess, and her love of Endymion, and are we not there when we conjure their love through words?”

“I agree,” says Nathaniel, to my shock. He can scarcely put a sentence together in a conversation with few, but now speaks before a room of many. How inspired he must be! The group seems to shrink into the shadows, and it is as if the moonlight and firelight illuminate him and this muse before us in holy conversation. “The past forever reaches to us, wishing us to keep it alive, though
we often try to outrun it. In this case, however, it seems fitting to preserve a love so beautiful, the love of Selene and Endymion.”

“Is their love all beauty, though?” says Margaret. “A man asleep? A man who finds love with another? The poets would have us believe Selene’s love was not enough, so he went searching until he ended up back at her feet.”

“Love is beautiful even when there are challenges,” says Nathaniel. “Those challenges make the union sweeter.”

“Perhaps you should try your hand at poetry, Mr. Hawthorne,” says Margaret to the room. There is much agreement and many smiles.

Nathaniel’s face is flushed. He has never been more beautiful to me. I wish I were Selene, and I could cast a sleeping spell on him forever, so I might arrest the aging process and have him just like this to kiss and love every night by the moon.

“I have always enjoyed that a woman cast the spell in that story,” continues Margaret. “That she initiates and leads, and ultimately dominates.”

Nathaniel looks at me before he speaks, and I feel many eyes turn to me.

“A woman in full possession of her passion is a mighty force indeed,” he says, “and it would be heaven to be ruled by such a goddess.”

There are sighs from the women around me, and maybe a groan or two from the gentlemen, but my love for Nathaniel rises up, blotting them all away. Even the sibyl on the chair, who has facilitated this public exercise on the exploration of women and men in love and in learning, is rapt.

The crowd begins to disperse, heading for tables of food, and Margaret remains in her chair, staring from Nathaniel to me and back again. When her gaze fixes on him, I am reminded of a face I once saw, but cannot recall where. Margaret’s look is dark, but not quite sad. She stares openly, so I do not think it is adoration, but there is something in her that reaches to Nathaniel as if in supplication.