The House of Hawthorne (18 page)

“Am I a terrible bore tonight?” he whispers.

“You could never be a bore,” I say. “You entertained everyone with tales of our ghost.”

“At your prompting. I was grateful you led me into conversation. I had been trying to find the most perfect entry, but I felt burdened by Emerson’s mourning and by Margaret’s judgment, both hanging as heavy as drapes around us. Did you feel it?”

“I did, but not as a burden. I wanted to provide an antidote for each.”

“That is because you are an angel who wants to bring light to darkness. I am so steeped in it myself, others’ darkness seems to cling to my own, like inkblots joining on a parchment. I am a
Ha-
thorne after all.”

I am glad his voice is light. If he had chosen to sound sarcastic or gloomy, what a different feeling I would take from this fine night. As it is, I may speak freely, because he will be receptive in this mood.

“You see only darkness in yourself,” I say. “But that is not all of you, or even most of you. You give far too much care to your ancestors. You only know of the ones who judged. I am sure there were hundreds more who saw the beauty in the world, who could capture a feeling with a line of black marks on a page, who made their wives so happy on earth it was as if they had died and resided in heaven.”

“I will believe it because it comes from your lips.”

The house looms dark and watchful over us in the night. As we climb the hill to return home, it occurs to me that I do not want Nathaniel to share any more of his self with others than he does. Perhaps it is my great gift to know deeply one who is so celestial. Reading my thoughts, Nathaniel looks down at me as if he could devour me. In my rising passion, our guests cannot leave us quickly enough.

I
n the late summer, I feel compelled to visit Mother and show her my fine health of body and mind. Departing from Nathaniel is harder than I anticipated, and our leave-taking extends from the bedroom, to the staircase, to the foyer, to the front walk; it ends at the avenue because he is half-undressed. What a sight to sear into my brain!

We pen heated letters to each other during our short separation, but I make my return sooner than expected after he writes that Margaret Fuller is again staying with the Emersons. Nathaniel writes that he nearly stumbled over her laid out on the grass at Sleepy Hollow, and that they passed an afternoon on a gentle hill, under a canopy of leaves, in rambling conversation about everything in the world. I fret and fidget the entire stage trip to Concord, but when I arrive and Apollo himself is on the lane to greet
me, arms overflowing with flora and eyes shining with love, my fears disperse on the flight of the butterflies around us.

We pass the end of summer and early autumn wandering the forest, strolling the hills, pillaging the earth and ponds for flowers, sketching pictures and words, and drinking from our shared well of passion. On a particularly glorious fall morning, Nathaniel rows us along the Concord in the boat we purchased from Henry Thoreau that we have christened
Pond Lily
. This is one of our favorite occupations of late, though Nathaniel still insists the river is a mud puddle.

“It is ugly,” says Nathaniel, looking over the side.

I reach down and pet its surface.

“There, there,” I say. “Do not listen to his insults. You are fresh and lovely as the morning.”

He looks over the side of the
Pond Lily
and sees his reflection. My impish Narcissus says, “Ah, behold! The river is handsome after all!”

I splash water, dispersing his image, and flick cold drops over his face. He pulls the oars into the boat and rubs his wet skin over my breast until I am giggling so loudly he places his finger over my lips.

“Shhh, my queen,” he whispers. “The villagers will hear us.”

“Let them. As an example of what happens when mortals marry for love.”

He sits up and takes the oars again, his light countenance disappearing under some dark thought that he soon voices, to my surprise.

“Sometimes I wonder, though, if you would not have been better off marrying for money,” he says.

“Hush! Blasphemy!”

“The ugly reality of scarce economics weighs on me. I cannot help but fear you married an idler. My words are stubborn in coming since our nuptials. I am much . . . distracted. Blissfully, mind you, but truly, nonetheless.”

“Nonsense. You are producing. Your publisher is pleased with you.”

“Pleased and penniless. O’Sullivan has yet to pay me for my stories.”

“But there is still a chance we will get our investment back from Brook Farm,” I say. “Margaret writes that the place is thriving. She also hints that she would like to visit again soon.”

“She will no doubt show up and intrude when she wishes, like last time, when she arrived with her friend Sam and caught us in an embrace through the window.”

“Their visit turned out to be a delight.”

“Do you think? With her Sam blathering on to us about getting to work and that life is not an extended honeymoon, and Margaret practically forcing Ellen and Ellery on us as boarders?”

“She only suggested the Channings because of how fond we are of them.”

“She suggested them because of how poor she perceives us to be—how poor we are.”

He looks away from me and at a tree, whose trunk is half-submerged by the high water. It seems out of place and as if it wishes for land but must stand alone until the tide subsides. He
rows us near it, and I run my hands over its bark. Several leaves drop into the water and drift like little canoes toward the browning grass along the bank.

“I am sorry,” he says, “but boarders cannot be allowed in Eden. I will not have my love with you intruded upon, nor my capacity to work.”

“I do not wish for boarders either,” I say, though I do have fond memories of my short stays in Boston boardinghouses during our eternal engagement. “But do not discard the idea of guests altogether. The manse has never been more beautiful and welcoming. We must share our bounty of setting with friends and family before winter comes and freezes the landscape. You have said yourself that the outdoors are too grand to ignore. Once the solstice approaches, you may work by the cheery fireside without distraction. Use the present time to collect ideas.”

He ponders my words, and soon accepts them with a nod. “You are right, as always.”

We continue toward the Emersons’ home, where we will pay a visit, remarking over the golden landscape and the turning world. I will regret when these luscious, colorful trees lining the river will cringe in the cold, when we will not be able to fill our bellies from our orchard and garden, but must ration our meals, and find our heat at stoves and fireplaces. I shiver at the thought.

Nathaniel is quiet on the remainder of the trip. When we reach our destination, he pushes the boat onto shore and carries me to dry ground before pulling the vessel farther up the bank. He takes my arm as we start along the wooded path. In minutes we are being scratched by thickets and brambles, and have lost
our direction. There is a chill in the forest, and my feet feel the cold reaching through my summer slippers. Nathaniel leads me with one hand while he holds back branches and vines with the other, becoming stormier all the while. He is so easily frustrated by the minutiae of life. While I attempt to stifle my giggles, he growls and grumbles and is about to insist we turn back when we stumble upon a clearing and nearly run into Emerson’s ward, Henry Thoreau himself. Henry’s face glows with a warm smile.

“A wood nymph!” I say. “See, Nathaniel, I knew we would find one.”

My husband’s handsome face is contorted in frustration and his usually pristine clothing is torn and soiled, but when he sees how smudged and ridiculous we both are, he laughs. Henry joins in our amusement and leads us to a path we never would have discovered on our own.

“Thank heavens we found you,” says Nathaniel. “I have finally mastered the art of navigating the
Pond Lily
through the Concord, but these woods still seem inhospitable. I had a better knowledge of the wilds of New Hampshire than I do of these small forests.”

“Have you taken the time to stop and listen to what they tell you?” asks Henry.

“No, I have not. I leave all communication with vegetation to my bride.”

Henry smiles. He is a delicate soul, one made of spiderwebs or the veins of a leaf. His stillness is like the river; his craggy face and brown hair are like tree bark. If I did not know him, I might miss him in the woods, because he is one with it.

We emerge from the forest and approach the Emersons’ house. It rises in a stately manner before us in the Federal style of architecture, its large rectangular shape balanced by identical chimneys on either side. Now that Henry is in residence, his touch is evident all around the grounds, which flourish with young trees and autumn flowers. Just as he has planted and nurtured our garden, he has done the same with the Emersons’ land. In spite of the gentle day, I think how strange it is that a dwelling may look so tidy on the outside, but hold such sadness within.

“Do you think they are fit for visitors?” I say. “I know grief is an unwelcome guest that crowds out those in the flesh.”

“It will be good to have your lightness brought into their home,” says Henry.

He opens the door for us, giving it a gentle knock to alert the Emersons to our arrival. Lidian emerges from the parlor, clad in black, her face white and drawn. She greets us quietly and manages a small smile.

“Thank heavens Henry found us wandering the woods,” I say, “or we may have been lost forever. No offense to you, Nathaniel.”

“None taken,” he says. “I am hopeless in the forest. In the town too, for that matter. The farm, the river, on land, at sea . . .”

Emerson’s two remaining children—three-year-old Ellen and infant Edith—play in the parlor where Lidian leads us. A portrait of little Waldo, their deceased son, watches over the room, and I notice Lidian touch the likeness before sitting down on a chair. The girls take turns on a rocking horse before an audience of unblinking dolls. Lace curtains allow the sun to illuminate the room, and oil lamps stand at the ready for nightfall. The tables
and mantels are populated with busts, statuettes, and candlesticks, meticulously shined and evenly placed, without a speck of grime. It is all so tidy.

“Please excuse Waldo; he is working,” she says.

Nathaniel’s face flashes dark with what must be envy. Seeing that Emerson may work undisturbed by visitors at his wife’s protection will no doubt fuel my husband’s desire for seclusion. I find it rude that Emerson would ignore guests for work, but I remind myself that once the creative impulse takes over, it is difficult to extricate oneself from it.

“Nathaniel, how about a turn around the garden?” says Henry. “I have bulbs for you.”

Nathaniel seems relieved at the suggestion. Our own garden has captivated his interest so much that I know Emerson’s will bring him pleasure. He can also enjoy Henry’s quiet fraternity, away from this house of grief. He looks at me, seeking my blessing, and I nod. When the men have gone, I turn to Lidian. How aged she is since the first time I met her, during my courtship with Nathaniel. When I stayed with the Emersons back then, Lidian was bright and fresh and full of ideas; now her eyes are shadowed, her dark hair is graying, and the sadness she bears over her great loss visibly weighs upon her. I kneel at her feet and enclose her hands in mine.

“Lidian, what can I do?”

She begins to cry, and holds a handkerchief to her mouth while looking out the window at the men.

“If you could just make the world spin backward . . .”

“Oh, if I could . . .”

She looks down at me and a smile finds her lips. Edith crawls over and uses my dress to pull herself to standing. Her precious face is inches from mine, and she touches my tears with her finger and mumbles baby talk. I hold out my hands to her, and she reaches for me, so I lift her in a whoosh and delight at her giggles. She waves her arms when I hold her still, so I again lift her. Ellen comes over and wishes for such a frolic too, so I indulge her, but I must stop after one lift because she is much heavier than Edith. The girls resume their floor play, and Lidian resumes her crying. I reach for her free hand and rub it between mine.

“I wish I could muster the energy to play with them,” she says. “Poor Edith has scarcely known her mother to smile.”

“Your smile will return like the spring,” I say. “Mourn your boy, but rest your love and hope in your other babes. They are so dear.”

She nods and looks out the window, where Nathaniel and Henry have disappeared. She speaks almost to herself. “I do not know what I would do without him. . . .”

At first I think she is speaking of her husband, but the way she gazes out the window suggests she means another. Before I have more time to reflect on this utterance, Emerson enters the room with a scowl that deepens when he sets eyes on Lidian. When his gaze meets mine, he arranges his face politely.

“The great sculptor Sophia Peabody Hawthorne graces our study.”

“You are far too kind,” I say.

“And where is the writer husband?” he asks.

“He is outdoors with Henry,” I say. “Shall we all join them? It is such a charming day.”

Lidian moves like one unsure of her footing, but I soon help her outside with the girls. Emerson has put on his hat and joined the men in the garden, and we open blankets to sit upon. The Emersons’ cook brings out the tea service, and we pass the time nibbling apple tarts and pointing out birds to the girls. The men soon join us, Nathaniel now more at ease, sprawled on the grass leaning on one elbow, and Henry at Lidian’s right side. Emerson sits apart from us on a bench.

“If we could just freeze this moment,” I say. “Nothing could ever eclipse the perfection of an autumn day.”

“While the autumn does enchant,” says Emerson, “I have the strange longing for a snow-covered landscape and a cheery fireside by which to read.”

Nathaniel runs his fingers along the threadbare cuff of his worn jacket. I noticed a hole in the socks he put on this morning, and it makes me die a small death inside to see one so fine as he—a man with the countenance of a king—dressed in the clothes of a poor writer. Ralph Waldo Emerson, a man making money on lectures and widely published works, a man with a small fortune in the coffers from his first deceased wife, can look forward to winter, because he will always be warm and full. As much as I longed to come here, suddenly I wish to be at home, reassuring my husband with my touch.

“There is already a chill in the woods,” I say. “The first whispers of winter, crouching among the dryads. Henry, we will need you to escort us back when we go, if you do not mind.”

“I would be glad to,” he says.

We chat of small things for a bit longer, but the conversation feels forced, our individual troubles blocking the communion of our spheres. Nathaniel is tense and quiet, and I have again noticed the special warmth that glows not between Lidian and her husband, but between her and Henry. I can see that Henry is a comfort to her, and wonder if this makes her husband envious or relieves him of a burden. I cannot imagine finding peace in anyone but Nathaniel.