The House of Hawthorne (26 page)

“Forgive me,” he says. “I am unwound from politics. Franklin Pierce needs me to write his biography, to establish himself firmly as a Democrat. He believes we cannot have war at any cost. Slavery will gradually disappear, family by family. Blacks will be freed a generation at a time and become employed, like our Mrs. Peters. Laws can be made prohibiting any new transactions involving human property, while allowing the old owners to finish what they have started, though they be damned. If we shed blood for this cause, there will be a curse on future generations. The races will never reconcile. Pierce will keep our nation from a war that would only bring about the swifter resolution of something that
would otherwise work itself out eventually. But I am reluctant to write about such matters in a biography.”

“Such a book will lose you more than one friend,” says Herman.

My stomach quakes at the thought of such a loss for a man who has so few intimates. I watched how the troubles in Salem before his removal from the custom house pained and aged him.

“But what about
The House of the Seven Gables
?” I ask. “You must finish it before you move on to another work, especially one so controversial.”

“
Gables
is complete,” he says. “I will commence reading it aloud to you tomorrow night, and it will be published in the spring. My writing Franklin’s biography is not a project set in stone. We just started discussing the idea.”

“But does Franklin not understand that you are a fiction writer?” I say.

Nathaniel meets my gaze.

“What could be more fictional than biography?”

Just after
The House of the Seven Gables
enters the world in the spring of 1851, so does our little Rose. Cheered as we are by the new babe, sales of the novel, about the generational stain of sin, lag, so Nathaniel writes a storybook of myths for children,
A Wonder Book for Boys and Girls
, and it meets with surprising success.

While I sit feeding my tiny Rose, I spend my days watching Nathaniel through the windows at play with our children. No
task is beneath him, and he approaches every act with such tender attention. He lies in the glowing sun while Una and Julian cover him with grass. As soon as they finish, he jumps up, pretending to be a monster, scaring them into thrilling shrieks and chasing them around the yard. Then they visit the henhouse and the nearby barns. Once the sun becomes too hot, they make for the lake and forest with baskets for collecting flowers and other natural treasures. They deliver them to me fresh every day, and our tiny home is grandly decorated from the abundance of flora. Una must be careful in the sun, but Julian is so brown, Nathaniel jokes that he could belong to Mrs. Peters. She does not acknowledge the joke as amusing, but I can tell it charms her, because of how the corners of her lips lift when she turns away.

Herman continues to visit often—very often. While Nathaniel loves his friend, Herman’s incessant intensity, his probing matters of publishing and politics, God and life’s meaning, and his inclination to melancholy burden Nathaniel. Herman writes his whale book but is plagued with insecurity about it. I have read his earlier work and assure him of his talent, but I am well acquainted with the doubts that dwell so near the hand that is impelled to create.

My artistic power is a snuffed candle. It is impossible for me to conceive of lifting my paintbrushes for anything but color time with the children. I have tried to keep my hand active through sketches for Una and Julian, or to send to Mary’s three children—yes, she now has three—but there is no heat in my ventures. I suppose I am glad not to be plagued with the delicacy of brain
from such activity, but sometimes, especially at night, I miss it like an old love, and wonder whether we will ever meet again.

Mother wrote to me in her last letter on the subject, offering much comfort. The woman who was so adamant that I never marry or compromise my artistic gifts seems to have come around to another way of thought entirely, for she believes that in a partnership like mine with Nathaniel, one must support the other instead of both being consumed. She reinforces my belief in Nathaniel’s genius and the necessity that his work be shared with the world. I must keep our home and spirits up if he is to be productive, and it is a worthy sacrifice to make for posterity. It is strange to see such words from my mother’s pen, so altered are her views. Despite her advice, I hope my own artistry does not dry up completely.

My loves are now returning from a sojourn, but I see that Nathaniel’s face is flushed, and the children are hot and exhausted. Rose has been inconsolable today, and I know her cries reach them outside when Nathaniel lifts his head and wrinkles his brow. He will not be able to write due to the heat and the noise, and as they enter with their complaints and requests for nourishment, the walls of our little house press closer.

I do not know the exact moment we feel compelled to leave Lenox, but we seem to arrive at the idea simultaneously. Perhaps it is when I knock my knee on the hobbyhorse and almost fall with Rose, or after gasping through an entire summer without the
relief of sea breezes, or when Herman sends a letter that embarrasses Nathaniel.

I recline in our bed, giving Rose a good feeding before tucking her in for the night, as Nathaniel washes his face and hands. It is as hot as a Cuban kitchen house, which suits us far more than the misery of winter on the mountain, but we must open a window to allow the wind to bring us oxygen. I hear the leaves outside shiver, and delight in the sound.

“If the signature on that letter was not that of a man, one would think I had a mistress,” says Nathaniel.

“Please do not say such things.”

“I do not mean to be vulgar, but I cannot help but recoil at such a display of emotion.”

“You know Herman regards you with the greatest affection. He dedicated his book to you. He never hides his feelings. Why are you now so aggrieved?”

“It was my letter praising
Moby-Dick
. That I would write to him of enjoying it so affected him that he went on to proclaim that our hearts beat under the same ribs, and our souls are in direct communion.”

“Oh, my!” I say. “But you feel grateful when a fellow writer praises you, especially one more advanced and well regarded than yourself. Surely you understand Herman’s rush of feeling. He has been so long at his novel, and so worried about its reception.”

“I know, but he goes too far.”

Nathaniel has removed his shirt and I cannot help but feel a fire at seeing my husband, still in such fine physical bearing, so near to me. I give him an impish look and he shakes his head.

“No, dove. Please. Though our babes are fine and perfect, Rose is the last. Let us at least get her out of booties before we even think of such a thing.”

He blows out the candle on the night table and removes his pants in the dark before crawling into bed. He does not cuddle into me as usual, but pulls over to the far edge. The noise he makes awakens Rose, who fusses but is too full to drink more. I cannot get her to stop, so I am forced to climb out of bed.

Nathaniel turns over. “Do you want me to walk her?”

“No,” I snap, and leave behind a chilly wind in my exit.

Autumn 1851

T
hough we have lived in Lenox for only eighteen months, our parting is emotional.

Herman must sense that his constant attention is part of the reason we are leaving. His heat and his need became too intense, and I would have cautioned him if he could have heard me, but he is not one to take advice from women. The night before we go, he visits us to bid farewell. He cries and embraces Nathaniel, but mercifully does not stay long. Once he has gone, Nathaniel releases his breath as if he has been holding it for many months.

As we load the baggage wagon the next day, Mrs. Peters comes to me in a rare display of affection, and pulls me into her bosom. When she draws back, I wipe my eyes.

“You have squeezed out my tears like a clothes wringer,” I say.

Nathaniel also embraces her. “Thank you for your care of us,” he says. “We will not forget you.”

She nods her head and takes leave of us.

As we pull away, we cannot help but look back over our shoulders. As tightly as we were all packed in the house, as burdened as we felt by winters and young writers, it was our home, and where we brought a babe into the world. Every time we settle in a place, I think of Mr. Emerson’s words the first night he dined with us as newlyweds, when he toasted our house of Hawthorne. Wherever we go, I wonder whether we have finally found the place where we will lay our foundation. I suppose I will have to keep wondering.

“Oh, Mama, the cats!” says Julian.

Five felines that have prowled our gardens and barns, and enjoyed our leftovers and petting, line the fence post. One of them runs her black paw over her face.

“She’s crying,” says Una.

“No,” I say, moved that the children are so affected. “She is waving to us, wishing us well. Wave back!”

Their dear little hands rise and we watch the cats until they are out of sight, and we may turn to the future. Before we decide where to settle next, we will stay at my sister Mary’s house in West Newton, which is empty since the Manns have gone to live in Washington now that Horace has been reelected to Congress. We will be just streets away from where Mother and Father now reside, and Nathaniel is glad to be closer to Boston and the possibility of another salaried job. He believes Franklin has a good chance of winning the presidency in the upcoming election, and might secure him a government position. No matter how successful his writing, it never brings in enough to keep us out of
debt. Nathaniel is convinced that he will not have to abandon writing, fortunately, even with steady employment, now that he has a firm grasp of crafting novels. He even has an idea for a new romance based on his time living at Brook Farm.

At the train station, the children are thrilled when the mighty locomotive pulls in with much noise and bursts of steam. I plug my ears until the whistle stops, imagining that my young self would have fainted at the thought of traveling in such a loud conveyance. Once we embark upon the short ride to West Newton, it occurs to me how near Brook Farm we will reside.

“It will be advantageous for you to visit the old farm and recall impressions for the novel,” I say.

“I think so too,” he replies. “Though I have many unfavorable associations with it, since we had to sue Mr. Ripley for our investment.”

“How helpful it would have been if he had actually had the means to repay it.”

“Indeed.”

We stare at the cloudy November landscape, and I cannot help but recall the day I visited Brook Farm. How long ago that was, though it seems as if not much time has passed. To think that Margaret no longer breathes the air of this earth is painful. I hope she rests in an Elysian dwelling, somewhere beyond the common cares, with her husband and son. Will she figure into Nathaniel’s new work, since she was so frequent a visitor to Brook Farm?

“I am pleased to hear you are pursuing a new work of fiction,” I say. “Political writing is dangerous and pins one down like an
insect on a board. I was never comfortable with the idea of you writing Franklin’s biography.”

“I do agree, to an extent,” says Nathaniel. “But you must know that the biography will still likely be written.”

“But how will you do so while remaining politically ambiguous? Franklin will not be popular among our liberal Northern friends, and you may be perceived as proslavery.”

“It is a danger, but Franklin is a dear friend, and I align with him in light of my ardent wish to stay away from war. But it is no matter. I will write an introduction to the biography excusing myself and disclaiming all political assumption. I will make it clear that it is a work meant to honor a great friend, not to put forward a cause.”

“You must prepare yourself for a backlash either way,” I say.

“Yes,” he replies. “But writing it will mean Franklin owes me a favor, and that could lead to employment.”

I wish to probe Nathaniel further to ascertain whether his wish for steady employment is a sacrifice for our family or a real hope of his own. I cannot think that my seraph, meant to illuminate humanity through his writing, is fit for public office. But I cannot continue our conversation, for we have arrived.

We pass the winter unsettled and ill at ease in our surroundings. Nathaniel becomes consumed with his new novel, leaving me to the children. I educate them at home, but we must take a break from our studies when Mother becomes ill, and I have to stay
with her. There are times I fear she will die, but after an extended affliction, her health begins to return.

At the end of a particularly exhausting day spent caring for Mother, fretting that I will bring her illness into my house, and returning on snow-covered roads to our chilly home, I am pleased to see a letter from Mr. Emerson. It seems the old Alcott place, Hillside, is for sale, and the price to buy it is not outrageous. I cannot help but become wild with excitement. I pace all afternoon until Nathaniel descends from his study, pale and exhausted, and I thrust the letter into his hand.

“Concord! A return to Eden!” I say.

His eyes scan the letter, but his face is not as animated as I had hoped.

“We have never been able to purchase a home in our lives,” he says. “And purchase means settled. As much as I long for grassy meadows and rivers for our children, I do not know if I am capable of rooting myself in a single village.”

My heart falls. I am desperate for rooting. Since the birth of our children, we have been on the road like gypsies, moving every time we make just enough friends to miss them. He senses my disappointment.

“Dove,” he says, “let us visit the house and see if it is fit to live in, but let us consider renting instead of purchasing.”

“I will consider it, but I ask that you consider purchasing instead of renting. I am tired, Nathaniel.”

It seems as if the whole of our vagabond existence, the exhaustion from nursing Mother, and the pressure of our inadequate finances falls upon me at once, and I burst into a sudden fit of
weeping. Nathaniel takes me in his arms and escorts me up the stairs past our worried children. They gather around me in the bed, a party of faces I adore, asking Mama how they can help her. Their gentle coos and whispers are the last thing I hear before falling into a nightmare-ridden sleep.

While I am ill, Nathaniel is a gentle and inexhaustible nurse. He stays in the room as much as possible, forever scribbling—what, I do not know. He reads Shakespeare to me and the children in the evenings, and works with Father on keeping Mary’s house and landscaping in order for their return. After a week, he comes to me with the celestial smile that pulls me out of my misery, and the news to accompany it.

“My publisher writes that the most recent issuance of
Twice-Told Tales
has been a success. Thousands of copies have sold. They will advance us whatever we need to purchase Hillside!”

“But you said you do not wish to be settled,” I say.

“Perhaps not for an entire lifetime,” he replies, “but if we can purchase a house, we will always have a home to return to, no matter where we travel.”

I embrace Nathaniel, trembling with love for him and for all he does to bring about my elation. I am certain no wife has ever been happier.

Una enters the room, followed by Julian.

“Is Mama all right?” asks Una with a wrinkled brow.

Though my face is bathed in tears, I show her my smile to calm her heart.

“Papa has found us a home, and one you will love.”

“Will it have trees?” says Julian.

“And neighbors?” says Una.

“And cats?” says Julian.

“And a studio, and a study, and a garden, and a guest room!” I say.

The children run to the bed and wrap their arms around our necks, and we are in a loving huddle until Una realizes little Rose is lying in her cradle away from us.

“Rose!” says Una, launching herself out from under the blankets and over to the baby, who is roused from her sleep. Una scoops up her sister and carries her to the bed before climbing back in with us. Una leans into Rose, who reaches for Una’s face and smiles like an angel, though she was just awoken.

“Here is the rose flower on our little shrub,” says Una. “Our Hawthorne bush, where we will always be like branches together.”