The House of Hawthorne (32 page)

“Do,” says Nathaniel. “I am eager to see such a creation at this juncture, now that you have so much more of life’s wisdom.”

“Should I paint a copy or my own creation?” I say.

“Do not ask us, Mama,” says Una. “It must come from your own heart.”

I ponder her words as we enter the apartment and prepare for sleep. When I crawl into bed, I watch the stars through the window and try to hear my heart’s impulse, but all that consumes my thought is the sound of my husband’s breathing beside me, the creakings of the apartment, and little Rose’s cries from across the hallway. When she does not quiet on her own, I go to her and lift her into my arms.

“Shhh, what is it, Rosebud?”

“The white woman scared me,” she says.

A chill rises on my neck in spite of the languid summer heat.

“It is all right,” I say, though I am unsettled. “It was only a nightmare.”

Rose snuggles into my neck, and I sit with her on the bed, rocking her back and forth until she falls asleep. I lay her down
and cover her with a sheet, full of love for my little lamb in the clutches of night terrors—feelings that will not be assured away while the rest of the world rests.

Though I do not sleep a wink, I am relieved when I see the morning light inch its way across the floor, sending the dark spirits who roam in the night scurrying for the shadows.

Rose does not speak of the white lady again, and I am soon so occupied with our move to the countryside, I forget the foreboding I have felt since my visit to the Trevi Fountain.

T
here is a large, ornate gate at the entrance of the Villa Montauto on Bellosguardo Hill, just one mile from Florence but seeming to exist in a world its own. Count Montauto rents his ancient castle to us for a price so low it is nearly a gift. We must promise only to pay on time, and to fill his crumbling estate with laughter and energy—two stipulations we should have no trouble fulfilling. The young gentleman is his ancestral home personified, having an air of faded dignity. Like the flaking frescoes that adorn the substantial walls, the count looks as if he badly needs a dash of color—a curious thing for a man not yet advanced in years. I imagine that he must have some romantic tragedy in his past that has aged him before his time.

Standing in the large, square entrance hall, gazing up at the wide stone stairs leading to endless rooms, taking in the muted wall paintings of fauns and nymphs that must have once been so
grand, I have a sudden image of myself on a scaffold, adding new color to that which is lost. I am so overcome with this idea that I voice it to Nathaniel, who indulges me.

“Signor, fetch the lady a ladder and a jar of paint.”

The children laugh at the thought and begin to run through the hall; even Una cannot help herself. I caution them and Ada attempts to round them up, but the count lays a gentle hand on my arm.

“Please, signora,” he says. “Their joy is what I had hoped for.”

Ada joins us, and I see that the count admires her loveliness. Our Ada is a gem, and we treasure her beauty of person and soul. There could be no better guide for our children, and I do not think we have to worry about the admirations of gentlemen, for she is devoted to a fiancé back in America whom she mentions with every other breath.

We tour the house to see that it has been prepared, and are happy to meet the dear old couple, Tomaso and Stella, who oversee the property. The stone floors are swept and shining, the curtains of white muslin look fresh and new, billowing in the breeze, and the immense and ornate furnishings are fluffed and dusted so they rest like heavy jewels in each room.

The tower that characterizes the Villa Montauto is what drew Nathaniel here in the first place, so we all follow him to the ancient structure, where two owls and the ghost of a monk are said to reside.

“The climb is difficult,” says the count, “if the ladies would prefer to stay behind.”

“Oh, no,” I say. “We are quite accustomed to walking and hiking, are we not?”

Una and Rose nod, though they look unsure about exploring such a dark and haunted bit of architecture. Ada laughs and takes their hands as Julian charges ahead, brandishing the wooden sword he carries on his person at all times.

The stair is wide, and barred windows allow in a bit of light at each landing. We come to a small, decrepit chamber that the count informs us was the prison that housed the holy monk during the days of Catholic persecution; it is where he continues to reside in his death. I get a chill as we pass, but it is an exciting feeling, and I am not yet winded from our climb. We pass several more rooms at landings along the way, and now that we are above them, the windows are no longer barred, and I catch glimpses of the landscape I am beside myself to view in unobstructed glory. I am beginning to find breathing difficult, but I try to hide how tired I grow. Oh, to be as young as the children, taking steps two at a time, and still able to remark along the way!

When we reach the top of the stair, we disperse along the summit of the tower and share a collective intake of breath. In all my life, I have never seen a landscape like this one. From the loftiest heavens to the deepest depressions, here is the magnificent splendor of creation. I thought I knew Eden until I viewed the vineyards, fig trees, and olive orchards of the Arno Valley. From the highest church spire to the most mean peasant abode exist all states of the world and nature in harmony and proximity.
The sweet lakes supply the rich and fertile hills and fields, and the gentle ringing of convent bells competes with the song of birds and the music of travelers, so abundant in these parts. Here the artist knows he has found the source, and even if history obscures his talents from posterity, he knows that he has existed among and contributed to the well from which all other creatives will drink.

I gaze at Nathaniel, who holds his hand to his heart in a pose I know conveys an ultimate feeling he cannot express with language. He looks at me and we share a moment of satisfaction that impresses itself upon my own heart so that it burns.

“Do you see how all the weather exists at once,” says Una in a voice so quiet, she does not break the spell, but enriches it. Una has learned to introduce an idea without spoiling the mood, and later, I will tell her that she is her father as he would like to be, for he has not yet mastered the art of subtle and poignant observation. It is what most eludes him.

I see what she has noticed—how a storm drags its robes over the valley, while a wash of sunlight blesses an assemblage of houses, and yet another cloud bank shades a field in need of relief from the summer sun. I can see before us the very truth of existence: Life is at all times and all at once a magnificent and terrible pageantry. This must be how God sees the world, and why He is not overwhelmed by the darkness as we small humans are: for He can see those enjoying the light at the very moment that others are in the deepest despair, and He knows how swiftly the weather moves over the land.

It is a summer of enchantment that passes so quickly I fear it is a dream.

We have such an abundance of space, we have all taken suites of three to four rooms each to call our own, where we may arise at our leisure and return at day’s end, after we have enjoyed dinners, and friends, and stargazing, and the talents of the traveling musicians. We eat figs from the trees, eggs from our chickens, and drink wine that Tomaso calls sunshine, for it is golden and sweet and casts a wavering reflection when sun passes through it. The heat and the languor have brought Nathaniel’s writing to a halt, but while this perturbs him, he is not unused to taking the summer months off from his work to allow his ideas to simmer. I assure him that when we return to Rome in the fall, the chill in the air will keep him busy indoors at his writing table, so he must enjoy his physical life now.

And enjoy it we do.

Nathaniel and I have separate sleeping chambers, but we spend many nights in one or the other’s abode, taking pleasure in each other in such perfect privacy, we have even dared to walk about without our clothing, like animated statues. Nathaniel’s person is much leaner and more beautifully preserved than mine, as he is still a living Apollo, but he loves the roundness of my form, and delights in it as Bacchus at the cask.

We awaken late from a night of love, and I slip across the stone back to my chamber to dress, clutching a wilting red poppy in my hands. Nathaniel traced the flower over my body like a
paintbrush last night, and I will press this little beauty to keep always, to remember our passion. I pull on the lightest morning dress of pale blue, for today we will view galleries full of the Virgin, who has won the heart of this heretic through her solemnity, purity, and endurance in the face of great trials.

There is nothing so golden as the sound of merry laughter from one’s children, and that is my joyful welcome this perfect morning. I descend the stairs to the loggia, where the air flows, opening one’s chest, and the scents of peeled oranges and flowers enchant me. The valley is shrouded in mists, and I must stop and view it before joining the group at table. Ada is sweetly adorned with an orange blossom in her fair hair, and her blue eyes and dewy skin are as lovely as the landscape. I am quite sure Julian minds her so well because he is in love with her, as we all are.

“I could paint you,” I say to Ada. “I see a girl—perhaps a princess—looking out over an Italian landscape she has married to inherit, which welcomes her as if she were a native plant.”

Ada blushes and thanks me, and Una stands to retrieve something from the corner. She returns and presents me with tubes of oil paints and a small canvas.

“From me,” she says. “I asked Papa to help me secure it for you, now that we children are older, and you have more leisure.”

I am so moved by my daughter’s offering that I am rendered speechless. My girl has intuited that she and her siblings need me less, and she gives the gift to fill my time and satisfy my impulses when they cannot. I was speaking from fancy when I said I could create original art. But perhaps I can try now that I have lived for
many years and understand all of life’s passions, joys, and hardships.

Nathaniel joins us and scolds Una kindly. “I wanted to be here to see her receive it.”

“I still glow from the gift,” I say. “Though I am afraid I will disappoint you if I do not use it right away. I still feel as if there is so much to see, and the quality of the art around us intimidates me from touching a brush to the canvas.”

“It is a gift,” he says, “so there are no restrictions or instructions on its use. It is merely a suggestion if you need a new way to pass your hours that might bring you more pleasure than ways of old.”

I relish the sparkle in his eye while he says this, and once the children have scattered to the garden with their nurse, I whisper to him that I do not think it possible to experience any more pleasure than I do now.

At the end of a slender avenue lined in hedges, roses, and fig trees, I find my Rose on a secluded bench. A cat sits near her and allows her to pat its back, while it keeps its eyes squinted shut. The entire scene would be charming except for the dark look on my little one’s face. She glances at me as I approach, and then returns her eyes to the cat. I sit next to her and pat her back the way she strokes the feline.

“I think I will pick this rose from the garden today,” I say, giving her a ticklish pinch on her side, but she barely flinches. “What is it, Rosebud? How can you be sad in paradise?”

She sighs, but seems reluctant to talk.

“Are you sad that we move around so much?” I ask.

She shakes her head in the negative.

“Has Julian been pulling your braids or leaving ghastly spiders in your rooms?”

She shakes her head no, but a smile begins to lift her pink lips.

“Did Ada make you study your arithmetic all day instead of allowing you to frolic in the gardens?”

She shakes her head no again, and then turns to me and locks me in an embrace that knocks the air from me. I feel her forehead, but it is not feverish. She is as cold as stone, and I move her away so I might look at her more clearly. My little one has been growing at an alarming rate, and it occurs to me that she might feel left out, since her older siblings are so very independent and are encouraging my independence through art. Perhaps she senses that her childhood recedes every day, as we do, and is fearful of its passing.

Even if Rose feels this way, I realize that it is a conversation above what she is capable of enacting, so I simply say, “Can I do anything to comfort you?”

She looks aside and then back at me, and with great effort she finally speaks.

“I have the bad dream a lot.”