The House of Hawthorne (20 page)

I
may always count on the spring to bring freshness to life.

My sister Mary is set to finally wed Mr. Horace Mann, and then they shall be off to Europe. When I lament my prolonged courtship, I am reminded of my poor sister’s circumstance, and how much longer she had to endure a treading of water. A decade! Year after year of waiting for Horace to grieve the untimely death of his first wife, cultivate his career, and finally realize he would be a better man with Mary as his wife. I recall Mary’s darkest days with a chill on my skin—days when she said she thought of taking her life because it was no life. Days she spent scribbling tales of Cuban slaves who have never stopped haunting her. Maybe she will finally find some peace.

Mary writes that she is the happiest woman on earth. I cannot help but smile to myself, because she could not possibly be while I am alive and married to Nathaniel, but it gives me
pleasure to see these words, and I wish nothing but the utmost love and joy for her nuptials. How gratifying it would be to someday see such words from Elizabeth’s pen.

As for me, I endured a brief separation from Nathaniel to visit Mother, leaving my poor husband behind to much lamentation at the manse, but my stay restored and buoyed me beyond words. Nathaniel and I are secluded here, and when one’s sole company is of the celestial variety, it does a person good to mingle with other mortals.

But how I go on.

Mary’s news and my visit with Mother are nothing compared to the ecstasy of my married state. I am as ravenous for Nathaniel as he is for me, and to think that we will live our lives forever dipping into such deep and satisfying wells of pleasure is almost too much to comprehend. And now that the weather has become mild, he has left his corner desk to join me in the world.

On the freshest, dewiest day of the spring, I kiss the cook’s cheek and scoop up a basket for flower picking. I think I will start for the bridge that will take me over the river and to the fields beyond. First I make for the vegetable garden, where Nathaniel clears the weeds and leaves to prepare for our spring sowing.

Nathaniel is bent over, facing the house, to my dismay, for I do admire the other view of him. I giggle at the thought, and when I do, he stands and breaks into an open smile of pleasure. When I come closer, my mischievous love rushes to me, lifts me in his arms, and falls over sideways with me into a great pile of brush. I scold him gently, for I am happy to lie on the earth as the gentle zephyrs of the equinox prompt it to arise, with this
man who would have found such silly behavior unthinkable before we met. He brushes a tendril of hair from my eyes.

“Where are you going without me, my little wife?”

“Over hills and dales in search of new flowers.”

“May I come with you, or must I continue toiling in overgrown Eden?”

“You may come with me if you promise to do unspeakable things to me in the evergreen grove.”

He laughs low into my neck, which vibrates in my every pore. “Of course. You need not ask; it may be your assumption.”

He pulls away and lifts me to standing, taking great care to brush my dress and hair free of weeds. I do the same for him, when I notice a shadow on the bridge that assumes a girl’s form. In a few moments, I see that she is the young woman Martha Hunt, the village schoolmistress. On this day of great verdure and spring pleasantry, she is an echo of winter, a gray smudge on nature’s living painting. I want her to look at us so I may wave and greet away her dismal facade, but she keeps her gaze down. I resolve to try to visit her the next time I am in town, though I have hardly spoken to her. As quickly as she has appeared, she is gone, leaving us to wonder whether we saw an apparition.

We debate the matter only as long as it takes us to walk three paces, for we have already found a purple crocus and the shoots of a daffodil, and abandon all thought of winter in any form.

On our stroll home through the bent rays of afternoon, after we have mingled most satisfyingly with each other in the seclusion
of the pine grove, Nathaniel leads me to the Concord instead of back to the manse. The waters have swollen so that they reach into our orchards and lanes, and nearly lap over the post where the
Pond Lily
is tied. I cannot help but pull back and drop Nathaniel’s hand.

“Come, Sophia,” he says. “It is time to make our peace.”

I look at the water, an amiable reflection of the gentle sky visible on its smooth surface. Little birds dip for drinks, and the flooded trees reach up to their full height as if trying to dry off their trunks. A wind at our backs brings the smell of roasting meat from the house, making my mouth water. I look back at the manse.

“We will not be long,” he says, reaching for my hand. “Let us renew our good feelings for the Concord River.”

The breeze seems to nudge me toward the water and my husband, and I decide to obey. He helps me into the boat in silence, and situates me comfortably with my flower basket before untying us and pushing away with an oar. The moment we are away from land, I feel as if I will be sick. I grasp his arm, nearly upsetting the oar into the water. He pulls the oar into the safety of the boat and lets us drift without persuasion while he reaches for me.

“You are so cold,” he says, rubbing my hands between his strong, callused palms. I am distracted by his laborer’s hands, and turn them over to touch the hardened blisters he has earned chopping endless cords of wood and working in our garden.

“Your hands should be smooth. Author’s hands, not farmer’s hands,” I say.

“I am no farmer,” he says. “These are Adam’s hands.”

“When did this happen?” I say. “When did you inhale my optimism from me and reflect it back, while I dwell in dark places? Is this what you felt like before our marriage, my love? Was your mind a dark chamber of fear and reticence? Is this what it is to be you?”

“I am only the moon reflecting your light,” he says. “Even now. Only clouds obscure your full brilliance. Let us blow them away so you may shine forth.”

I summon the courage to peer over the side of the boat and into the river. There, as always, is my image reflected back at me. The blood that dripped on the ice that day has been absorbed, and new growth blooms on the banks. I feel my communion with the ripening world revived after the dark months. I plunge my hand into the chilly water, where the last of the ice chunks floated only a week ago, and it feels clean—cleansing. I think of the words at the end of the
Cuba Journal
: “I see with the eyes that are given me.”

At once I am reborn. The light again winks on the river. My husband is himself. I am myself. I find that I am laughing without knowing why. I splash him, and he splashes me back. We stay on the river until the shadows lengthen, and the cool evening air reminds us that winter has only recently departed.

T
hat summer I conceive again, and we are ever welcoming visitors, who both fill my days with joy and distract Nathaniel from his writing. Living with my husband, I observe that authors are forever unsettled. He longs for solitude to work, but when the words do not come, he acknowledges that interaction with people stimulates his ideas. He never minds Henry Thoreau, but is ambivalent about Emerson, who is so self-assured. He enjoys Ellery and Ellen Channing in small doses, delights in his sister Louisa—the only member of his family to bestow her warmth upon us—but is agitated by Margaret Fuller.

While Louisa is visiting, Margaret is staying with the Emersons. She comes to call when Nathaniel is out rowing with Henry, and I observe how Louisa becomes even more shy in Margaret’s direct and imposing company.

“What are you creating?” Margaret asks as she walks with
Louisa and me through Sleepy Hollow. We are making a swift outing before the building clouds become a summer storm, and we are confined indoors.

Without thinking, I smile and pat my stomach, looking at Louisa and then Margaret. Louisa draws in her breath with a smile, but Margaret does not hide her displeasure. I have a sudden worry that Nathaniel will be upset that I have shared our news.

“Do not tell Nathaniel I have hinted at what we suspect,” I say.

“I promise,” says Louisa. “But I will not stop smiling about it.”

“And you, Margaret?”

“Of course I promise,” she says. “But soon you will be able to talk and think of nothing else. And then what will happen to your art?”

“My art is here,” I say. “Our love is a garden with many plants. This little bud will only add to the rich and varied landscape.”

“How nicely put,” says Louisa.

We climb a tall hill, and at the crest I am winded but alive as never before.

“I know what will happen, Sophia,” Margaret says, surveying the slopes shaded by evergreens and deciduous trees. “It happens to all women. You will be the one who has all the duties with the child. Your husband will work to escape the squalling infant. You will resent him because you have no time to yourself.”

Louisa’s eyes are wide. I can see that she is stunned to be in company with Margaret, who speaks so freely, never censoring a single thought. I, however, feel strangely serene under Margaret’s
scrutiny. I know how unhappy she is in love, how she is forever disappointed because she falls in love with men she cannot have. She watches her friends’ marriages, imagining herself as a substitute for the wife under observation, and even sometimes intrigues the men to consider her. Ultimately they never make Margaret their choice, and she is bitter for it. But I pity her, so I will not turn on her.

“My mother fears the same fate for me,” I say. “But Mother does not have a husband like mine. I do not know if anyone has a husband like mine. What I create and do not create is the result of my impulses—not another’s. I cannot help but think it will be the same once we have our babe.”

“I hope so,” says Margaret. “For you do not want to end up the little marker at the side of the grand headstone, where future writers and readers will lay their offerings, honoring only the man published and not the woman who supported and even made his work possible.”

The wind rises, and the first rumble of thunder can be heard low in the distance. I ponder Margaret’s words as Louisa and I part from her and hurry back to the manse. By the time we arrive at the lane, the squall is in full power, and we are soaked through. After we run into the house, breathless and dripping, I have Mary heat water for a bath for Louisa. I urge her to bed early, so she will not catch cold from the elements.

I do not share Margaret’s words with Nathaniel that night, but I cannot stop pondering them in my heart.

As I stand before the easel holding my oil painting of Endymion in our downstairs studio, I breathe deeply, desperate to distract myself from the headache that has taken root between my eyes.

Months have passed. Instead of visitors, we now have letters, but they are a poor, cold substitute for the presence of the ones who pen them. Louisa has become very dear to me, and is a true comfort in her correspondence. It is gratifying to me and to Nathaniel how Louisa and I have grown in our affection, though his mother and Ebe remain reserved. Margaret writes regularly, and has become more kind and supportive of my pregnancy, though she also continues to encourage my artistic pursuits. Elizabeth and Mary can be relied upon for thick letters, and I am overjoyed when I learn that Mary, too, is expecting. But no one writes or encourages me to paint more than Mother. She says that art will distract me from the nausea that has become severe. Even more important, what I produce could become a source of income for this house, for it is no secret how we struggle.

I have set to my task with new fervor, but creating has brought back my unwelcome youthful companion: pain. Hours of concentration beget hours of suffering. I dare not share my infirmity with Nathaniel, because he will beg me to stop, which I will not do.
Endymion
is reaching a form of color and depth like nothing I have ever painted. I am convinced this is because this Endymion is Nathaniel, and I have tasted the rich, intoxicating beauty of love’s full communion. My feeling is all over the canvas, and will no doubt emanate from it, stimulating its viewers. I have not yet shown Nathaniel, or anyone.

My mind flashes to the portrait of Mary Magdalene in Cuba,
and the dreaded blurring at the edges of my sight begins. I fear I will have to stop before this headache does me in, and I have to tell my love of my artistic illness. My hands shake, but I will myself to stay until I have used the paint I have mixed. I cannot waste a thing when we have such light coffers.

I squeeze my eyes shut and then open them, and look on the browns that make up the painting. I do not want to use bright colors because of cost, in part, but largely because I want emotion to enlighten the painting.
Endymion
will be expressed on a palette like that of Mary Magdalene, reflecting the same wish for light, but from a different source. While Magdalene longs for light directly from God, in my painting the longing for light will be derived through man, for the benefit of love in all creation.

The child moves in my womb, and a pain shoots down my inner leg. I am happy to be sick and in pain for this miracle, but oh, how the body is burdened. I use the paint as quickly as I might without sacrificing the quality of the work, and finally stumble to the window to open it and let in the air. The first chilly November wind following our Indian summer fills the room and helps me to breathe. The cold gives some relief to my head, but not as much as the pressure from my knuckles.

“Sophia!” I am startled by my husband, who comes in and grasps my arms. He pulls me away from the window and closes it with haste. “You will catch your death!”

His sharp hazel eyes take in my paints, the canvas, and my hands clutching my head.

“The headaches have returned,” he says.

“No, it is simply because I am hungry.”

“Dove, you must not do anything that brings you pain.”

“But it brings me more joy than pain.”

“I will do my utmost to bring you joy. You must stop this if the headaches again plague you.”

“But does the writing not torture you at times? You love it and crave it in spite of that. You must write. I must paint.”

“Why? Why now? You have been content to happily recline in our home and receive visitors for more than a year. Why this sudden urgency to paint?”

I know it is in part because of my creative longing, and, more darkly, Margaret’s prophecy, but I am ashamed that the largest reason is because we need money. To say it would wound Nathaniel, and I cannot bear to hurt him. He is tortured by his publisher’s lack of payment, and the irrecoverable loss of our investment in Brook Farm. I understand better now why he was so reluctant to marry me—because of the pressure to support us. How I wish I were a wealthy heiress so my love could compose as many or as few words as he would in a day, and we could be free of this burden.

I turn away from Nathaniel, but he reads my thoughts; I can conceal nothing from him. He walks to stand in front of
Endymion
. I cannot help but look back at him for a reaction, and I am moved. Nathaniel’s eyes grow glassy with unshed tears. His mouth quivers and he places a hand over his heart. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and husky.

“It is beauty. The very definition.”

I feel my joy rise up like a swollen river, but just as I am about to reach for him, I see that he becomes stone.

“You will not sell this. Not for me, not for us. No one else may look upon it.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“I have never been more serious about a thing in my life. This is the most intimate, the most revealing portrait of our love that has ever been made. It would be a violation of our mutual trust to hang it in another’s parlor for the appraisal of strangers.”

“But it could help us. It could free you to—”

“No. I am sorry, but I cannot allow it. I admire you and what you try to do for us, but this is too close to my heart. To our spirit.”

I am raw. I cannot be angry with him, because he has acknowledged what I knew about the intimacy of this painting, but I resent that he has made this decision and I will not be able to persuade him otherwise.

“I will not stop painting it,” I say.

“I cannot force you to stop, but I do hope you will consider your health and the health of . . . us all before you pick up that brush again. Especially because it will be a hidden work.”

I can endure this no more. I turn to leave, but I am overtaken with such dizziness that I am forced to lean on Nathaniel’s arm while he helps me up the stairs and into bed. I curl up on my side, away from him where he lies next to me. He rubs my back, trying to make me feel better and to mend what is rent between us. I scoot farther away, and after a short time he leaves me alone. I hear him walk to his study and close the door, where he will write without pain or limitation, and where he may do what he wishes with his work.

I am bitter.

I cannot help but wonder what Margaret would say.

I am listless and feverish in the following weeks. Bouts of melancholy seize me like never before, and my mind is a maze made of hedges from which I cannot find the way. My thoughts spin in circles, and I am unable to concentrate. If my old friend Connie Parks lived nearby, I would summon her for mesmerism in spite of Nathaniel’s discomfort with the procedure.

Nathaniel tries to resurrect me. He is pained that he has caused me distress, though he is emphatic that the work not be sold. I suppose he would rather that we starve. My illness has strained him so he cannot write, and our home is a dreary place. I emerge from our room for mealtimes, then creep back upstairs, taking the place of our Old Manse ghost. Nathaniel is the other specter, haunting his study.

After our supper one December evening, I pace the upstairs hall. Nathaniel sighs with frustration in the study. I know my distraction is making him half-mad, but I cannot help myself. After some minutes, I work up the courage to resume painting, and head downstairs. As soon as I step into the studio and behold my unfinished masterpiece, Nathaniel slams the door to his secretary, and there is a great shattering on the ceiling above me that must be the bust of the goddess Ceres destroyed.