The House of Hawthorne (17 page)

A
waking from the dream of our honeymoon is a gradual process, brought about by a rainy season, a stream of visitors, and a lack of money. Our perfect obsession with each other, however, delays our full acceptance of reality.

We have an Irish girl to cook named Mary, who also helps us with household tasks. I insist to Nathaniel that we can manage without a servant, but he wants only my comfort, and perhaps a better hand at preparing meals. Three pints of milk are delivered daily, and meat from the butcher three times a week. Though I find the well water fine, Nathaniel insists that it tastes like the slime on the Concord River.

One August morning, I awaken to the gentle nudging of the wind and the shush of rain outside our open windows. I adore our stormy, saturated Eden, though Nathaniel complains about being kept indoors.

“Looks like another day we shall have to occupy ourselves without leaving the house,” I say, when he opens his eyes. “Whatever will we do?”

He grins and stretches, then pulls me closer to him and tickles me until I cannot get my breath. Once I have calmed, Nathaniel slides my chemise slowly up my legs and makes lazy love to me while the thunder grumbles. When we finish, we lie with the sheets off, sweating and satiated, staring outside at the glistening leaves.

“Did you take me to an Amazonian rain forest for our honeymoon, and not tell me?” he says.

“Indeed I did. And like the savages, you must remove your clothing and walk around in all your glory, as is the custom.”

“Very well,” he says, standing up and pacing about the room, delighting me with his fine form.

“Will you keep to custom this evening when our friends come to dine?” I say.

He stops. “Friends, tonight?”

“Do you not remember? I had the butcher deliver an extra cut of beef. Margaret Fuller; her sister Ellen Channing and Ellen’s husband, Ellery; Mr. Emerson. I do not think we can expect his wife, poor thing.”

I do not need to remind my husband that the Emersons’ eldest son died of scarlet fever several months ago. By all accounts, if they did not have their other two children, they would have both perished of grief. As it is, Lidian is a walking ghost.

Nathaniel collapses on the bed, as if he is greatly fatigued.

“Must we always have visitors?” he says. “I suppose I should
have known a Peabody would be used to a full parlor, but I thought the noise and chatter vexed you as much as they do me.”

“Oh, hush, silly. We have had visitors only three times a week, and never for dinner. It will be lovely to celebrate our monthly-versary with friends.”

“It would be lovely to celebrate our monthly-versary doing exactly what we just did several more times throughout the day and night.”

“As delicious as that sounds, being forced to wait until our guests leave will make the coupling all the sweeter.”

I kiss him on the nose, and pull on my robe.

“Would you like me to draw you a bath?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “I am going to walk outside in the rain to Walden Pond, and see if I can persuade Henry Thoreau to join me for a swim.”

“On your way, please implore the rain to rest so our friends might not get too muddy. And tell Henry to come to dinner, too, when you see him. The more, the merrier!”

I do not know whether Nathaniel asked the rain to cease, but I certainly did a thousand times today, and just an hour before our guests are set to arrive, the clouds part and give us the most elegant evening light.

On Nathaniel’s wet adventures out of doors, I had him collect as many flowers as two baskets would hold, and the result has made a perfect garden of our home. Scarlet cardinal flowers, yellow daisies, pink asters, and white lilies bloom from every table and
mantel, and the silver tapers we received as a wedding gift glisten in the front room, where we dine at a lace cloth–covered table. Henry did swim with Nathaniel and returned with him to pick green beans and tomatoes for our feast, but declined the dinner invitation. Henry suffers even more in society than Nathaniel does.

“I told Henry that I would rather join him around a fire under the stars,” says Nathaniel. “But he said my wife needs her companion.”

“Henry is very sweet,” I say. “Though I do not think it good for him to be alone so often.”

“Dove, not everyone is meant to be at home in society. Henry is quite happy among the trees and chipmunks.”

I light the last taper and stand back to admire its glow. When I look up, my husband is gazing at me, and seems about to say something, but the emotion evident in his eyes has stolen his speech. I give him my most tender smile, and we move toward each other until a knock at the door breaks the spell.

Mr. Emerson arrives with Ellery and Ellen Channing, and Margaret, and we embrace one another and chatter our welcomes and praises. Ellen wants to see every little candlestick and wall hanging, and leads me away to discuss my trousseau, while Margaret joins the men in the front parlor under the great stuffed owl that was here when we arrived, which we have named Longfellow. The owl is an imposing and strange creature whose eyes seem to follow us from one corner of the room to the other, but Nathaniel loves it, so I tolerate it.

After a short time, Mary asks me to call our guests to dine, and presents a steaming and tender beef, a flavorful gravy,
rosemary potatoes, and roasted vegetables. Nathaniel opens two bottles of wine and pours, while I blush under praises of our fine menu, table, and hospitality.

“A toast,” says Emerson, once Nathaniel sits. “To the house of Hawthorne, a place warmed by love and the true and perfect union of artists. May your lives together always retain this honeymoon aura.”

“Hear, hear,” the others say.

I glance at Nathaniel sitting stiffly at my side, and clink my glass on his. Emerson’s words feel like a blessing, but Nathaniel seems ill at ease. I hope the wine helps him to relax a bit. I think Emerson intimidates him, ridiculous though that is, and I want Nathaniel to enjoy himself.

“Thank you,” I say. “And cheers to all of you who have welcomed us so kindly to Concord. I cannot imagine being more at home anywhere on earth.”

We drink again, and the food is served.

Ellery begins talking about poetry with Margaret. I see that Emerson is quiet and somber in his black mourning suit, and feel tenderness toward him for being brave enough to venture into society when life at home must be so difficult. I lean toward him and place my hand on his arm.

“Please give my best to Lidian, and tell her that if there is ever anything I can do—if she needs help with the babies or anything at all, just ask.”

“You are very kind,” he says, wiping the corners of his lips with a napkin. “While I suffer, her pain seems to have roots far deeper and more intrusive than mine. It is a dark time.”

“It saddens me to know how you both hurt. I have watched my mother mourn her lost children. The only comfort I have seen for her lies with those of us who remain. It is good you have the girls.”

When I look up, I see that Margaret is watching Nathaniel like our stuffed owl. She is uncharacteristically quiet, appearing to appraise and evaluate all she sees. Nathaniel does not seem to notice. He has scarcely looked up from his green beans. After some time passes, Margaret finally speaks to me. “Have you been painting or sculpting since your nuptials?”

I feel a rush of heat that I may attribute to either the wine or to my discomfort at being the object of her scrutiny. I hear judgment in her question. She is a skeptic, and does not believe marriage can support two artists. I have not created much since we wed, but I certainly cannot explain to her that my husband’s body and soul consume me at this time. But perhaps I can suggest it.

“Aside from some sketches of my husband, no,” I say. “I have had no time for art, with all of the honeymooning that must be seen to.”

My company laughs, except for Margaret. I glance at Nathaniel, who hides his grin behind a napkin. He wipes it away with the crumbs.

“Take care you do not neglect your gifts,” Margaret says. “Might I remind you of your intention of making a union of holy artists?”

“Margaret, please,” says Ellen. “Sophy is a perfect little bride. Allow her a summer without industry. She will have her life left for creation.”

“Pray you do not wait too long,” says Emerson. “We must stay at our crafts with discipline in order to reach perfection. Hawthorne, what of you? Do you write every day?”

Nathaniel stares at his wine goblet while he answers. “No. I am a perfect husband and a perfect idler, but a rather imperfect man of letters.”

“All in good time,” I say, blotting my forehead. “I would prefer to eat beans from the garden, and read books by other men, and take endless walks with my husband over doing any work in this house of love and leisure. I am quite sure the earth would rather her children take part in her bounty now and create later, once she has frozen over and entered her sleeping season. That is when Nathaniel and I work best.”

“What a perfect ideal,” says Ellen.

After a short silence, Ellery speaks. “Ellen tells me you have a house ghost.”

I wish Nathaniel to take part in our conversation, so I place my hand on his thigh.

“Tell them about our run-in with our ghost just a few nights ago,” I say.

He takes a large drink of wine and faces Ellery. “Sophia was in the parlor, and heard me thumping about in my study after she thought I had gone to bed. When she went in the room, it was empty. I was asleep in our bedroom.”

A gasp goes up from the diners, and I am happy that Nathaniel has affected our guests so. He seems to gain confidence from their reaction and continues.

“Another night we heard the distinct sound of crumpling
paper in my study, and went in together only to find nothing. Nothing at all.”

“We ran shrieking down the stairs like children,” I say. “We could not sleep all night!”

“A charming vision,” says Margaret, wearing a tight smile.

Does she find our stories stupid and nonsensical, I wonder, or is she jealous? I do not have time to ponder this question for long, because Mary has entered with dessert.

“Blancmange!” I say. “The only dish I contributed to our feast tonight. I hope it is half as tasty as your spread, Mary.”

Our girl curtsies and blushes, and vanishes as if she were the ghost.

After we have eaten our fill, Emerson takes polite leave of us. I watch him walk away, a dark silhouette in the night. Is he a comfort to his wife, or is he ever the orator? Does he pluck lilies from the pond to slide behind her ear or gaze at her with love across the just-lit candlesticks of their home before the guests arrive? Do they weep together in the night, cradled in a sphere of shared mourning? These are the things I think about now that I am married.

I hear that our company has elected to walk out of doors, under the starry sky. The cloudy veil has been removed from the heavens, and the splendor of the full moon captivates. In hushed voices we remark on the enchantment of the illuminated paths that border the river, the leaves glowing silver, and the splashes and cracking twigs that give us a little fright. On our way back to the manse, a cat yowls long and slow.

“Are witches walking tonight?” asks Margaret, raising the hair on my arms.

“Only us,” I say, drawing Ellen and Margaret closer to my sides. We share a laugh that we turn into a cackle, and I glance over my shoulder to see Nathaniel’s reaction, but his face is hidden in the shadows.

“Perhaps we had best walk fast, with a
Ha
-thorne at our heels,” says Margaret. “Lest we end up hanging from the gallows at his judgment.”

I laugh to be polite, but I fear she will upset Nathaniel with such comments. He makes no reply, which means either he is hurt or he did not hear Margaret.

“This is a night for spirits and poets,” says Ellery. “The moon inspires both.”

I slide from Ellen’s and Margaret’s sides, and slow to match my steps with my husband’s, drawing my arm through his. I feel his heat through his clothing, which is always so precise and correct in public, and shiver at the thought that I know him intimately. What a strange and glorious thing it is to have physical knowledge of one such as he—who appears so quiet in company, but who has endless spheres of passion and knowledge to offer. I cannot help but feel frantic at times that he does not allow others access to his depths.