The House of Hawthorne (29 page)

I am sick of these stories, and relieved when we are again in the parlor taking digestives. I realize my hosts are trying to make a memorable experience for us, but I have never been so eager to return to my children, who are being minded by the nursemaid. The hour of our departure arrives, and we board the carriage,
waving to and thanking our hosts. Once we turn off their drive I shudder.

“I am so happy we are not spending the night in that house of horrors.”

“That was fascinating,” says Nathaniel.

“But disturbing,” I say. “Did you get the feeling that the misses Barber wanted to be written about?”

“Most definitely.”

“They are very elegant, but a bit frightening.”

“Yes,” says Nathaniel. “Is it any wonder they have not found husbands?”

I laugh and snuggle against my love, and do not separate from him even as we retire to our bed for the night.

W
e pass a year in a succession of dinner parties, house tours, and visits throughout England and Wales. Nathaniel is so busy he has no time for writing, but he does not fret, because his
Tanglewood Tales
, which he had written earlier, and the reissue of
Mosses from an Old Manse
keep his literary fame steady to growing. My husband thrives on ale and beef, and thinks himself suited to England, though he continues to complain about dirty Liverpool and the personal financial burdens he must bear for the consulate. Support for shipwrecked sailors, half-mad vagabonds, and seamen’s funerals must be paid for out of his own pocket while he awaits reimbursement, which does not come, and the American papers are unafraid of finding fault with him because of his ties to President Pierce, who is considered an ineffectual leader.

Nathaniel is loyal to Franklin more as a friend than as a
political ally, and for that reason he refuses to turn his back on him. Nathaniel trusts Franklin implicitly, even when he signs bills that stir up the antislavery cause. The reality is, Franklin has no heart for the presidency since his son died in a gruesome railway accident just before he took office. The tragedy of the Pierces’ losing all three of their sons weighs heavy on us. I cannot imagine their sorrow. By all accounts the man has become a shadow, haunting Washington with about as much weight as an ancient ghost that people have ceased to fear, doing anything he can to keep his wife from succumbing to her grief.

My sisters assault us with abolitionist pamphlets and papers until I must insist they stop sending them. Una began to read one such paper and launched into a myriad of questions about a subject I have no wish to discuss with her. The innocence of my girl must be preserved at all costs, and teaching her about an abominable system with abominable supporters and refuters will do nothing but erode Una’s soul by exposing her to the evil in the world.

Our second winter in England has brought a return of my bronchitis. My cough is nearly the only thing I will remember from my time here, because it permeates every minute of the day. The children’s education suffers because their invalid mother cannot teach them. We have taken to sending Una out for lessons in French and dancing, among other subjects, and Julian frequently accompanies his father to Liverpool for life education. At least little Rose is too young to need studies, though I feel sorrow for her that I do not possess the energy I had for her siblings. In truth, our time in England is not satisfying the urge we thought
it would, and my worsening health due to the damp weather is a heavy burden for us all. Nathaniel often wishes to resign his post, especially after a consular bill passes decreasing his income. It seems we are never going to be wealthy. At least the income from Nathaniel’s books allows us some measure of comfort.

As we welcome in the New Year of 1855, we receive word from Elizabeth that Father has died. My husband breaks the news to me in my sickbed, and stays with me all through the night as I weep because I could not attend him or Mother in their final hours.

“We are orphans,” I say. “Is there anything sadder than an orphan?”

“But think of your words of comfort in death: Our loved ones may be together in heaven, never again to know another day of sickness or sadness or suffering.”

I do not answer him. This blow has made it harder for me to have faith in those words, though I have uttered them countless times, because we have no guides on this earth now. It feels very blustery to stand on the hill as the oldest generation.

“Shall we go, dove?” Nathaniel asks. “Why do we stay? Allow me to resign. Let us return to America and allow our roots to dig deep into the soil, for better or worse. I was a fool to drag you here.”

“You did no such thing. I wanted to come, and I am certain that it is not right to return to America now. It would cost a fortune, and our country is a hotbed of anger and civil fighting. We cannot protect the children from it if we return, and if we go we will have to choose a side.”

Nathaniel holds my hand and looks to the window, where the black, foggy night obscures his view. I follow his gaze for a moment and quake at the thought of being out there in that frigid dampness. The mists of England are so deep and penetrating they must be the very feeling of bodily death. I have regular dreams of dying here, and dread the nightmares as if they are prophecy.

I turn back to my husband, my sun. He is so stately and handsome, and grows more so each year. There is not a finer-looking man in all of Christendom, and his beauty of character and nobility outshines even his face. He is a living work of art—a sculpture whom God has breathed to life. This thought of sculpture makes my fingers twitch, and I think of how satisfying it would be to make a bust of Nathaniel—to run my hands over his face and then shape cold clay into its form. I feel a surge like lightning through my body, but a coughing fit soon chases away the artistic impulse.

“One thing is certain,” he says. “I will never allow you to pass another winter in England. We will find a place for you to reside on the continent where you may recover. I cannot bear when you are ill.”

These fantasies of my love in marble or clay consume my inmost thoughts, and linger like a pleasant dream. The spring and summer allow for a return of my physical health, though my spirits continue to be depressed and unsettled. As we face the autumn, we decide that we cannot risk my health again.

Nathaniel’s friend and former publisher John O’Sullivan now
resides with his wife, Susan, in Lisbon, as the U.S. minister to Portugal. At his invitation, and after much agonizing debate, we determine that I will go with Una and Rose to stay with them, and Nathaniel will keep Julian with him in Liverpool. We have not endured a separation like this since our courting days, and that was torture.

After we again pack our belongings and book our passage, Nathaniel escorts us to Southampton to sail for Lisbon on the steamer
Madrid
. He cannot speak from emotion, and I cannot shake my growing frustration. I know I consented to this arrangement, but I am unreasonable right now because of poor health and my dislike of our never-ending gypsy lifestyle.

There are many tearful good-byes among the children, but Nathaniel and I cannot look at each other. To do so would mean a total collapse and the full wrenching realization of having to return to writing sterile letters instead of folding into the warmth of each other in bed each night, and greeting the day together each morning.

As the steamer bellows into the harbor, I feel as if I could scream with it. I have a premonition that this will be our last meeting, and either one or the other of us will not survive our separation. It is a feeling I have had for weeks, ever since Una told me about her dream in which her father died. Our nursemaid takes the girls on board, Julian is occupied with kicking rocks, and Nathaniel is in conversation with the captain, beseeching him to care for us. After the men shake hands and part, Nathaniel returns to me, and I meet my love’s eyes. We reach for each other at the same moment, and I cannot stop my tears.

“This is not natural,” I say. “We are never supposed to be apart.”

I know my husband will not speak, because he never can under such circumstances. I pull back and clasp his arms as hard as I can.

“Promise me. Promise me we will meet again on this earth.”

He presses his lips together so he will not cry.

The steamer bellows again, and I hear Una call to me.

“Promise,” I say. “You must, or I will not leave. I would rather die here with you than apart.”

I am aware that Julian is staring up at us.

Nathaniel swallows and utters, “I promise. We will not leave this earth unless we are in the company of the other.”

Autumn 1855

TO NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, LIVERPOOL

Lisbon, November 1855

My Dearest Husband,

How can I reconcile the healing in my lungs with the withering of my heart?

If not for the girls, I would curl up in bed, blind to the vivid colors of the royal palaces, deaf to the regal music, dumb to the raptures that try to leap from my lips at the vivid newness of life in this foreign place.

How could I not draw you to me as my equator? How could we have thought the tropics of our love would not carry me through this illness?

I have tried three times to start this letter while withholding my depression of spirits, but I must express myself, for our
separation feels very final. How can it not when we have not suffered a separation like this for thirteen years?

Please rest in the knowledge that John and Susan’s tender care of us is sweet balm. Since we cannot orbit you, our sun, we orbit John, and he glows with the status we afford him. He stretches out on the floor to play marbles with Rose. He asks Una about her lessons and thoughts on all subjects. And with me, he sits in a chair near the fire, patting my hand while I pour out my soul’s grief over your absence. I sense that his old guilt over his late and missed payments to you, which partly led to our eviction from the manse, lie at the root of this attentiveness, but because we are in comfort and my lungs improve by the minute, I do not care what motivates him.

John’s mother lives with them and is a lovely grandmother figure for the girls, though her health is poor. In our evenings by the fireside, I cannot help but think of our mothers and fathers, and how our children are at a great loss for not having them. Just last night, Mother was so strongly about the atmosphere that I could not help but cry. John gave me his handkerchief to dab my eyes.

But enough of this darkness. Now that it is released, all of my correspondence will be full of light and love and reports of our improving health. I will paint pictures for you with words, and will report on what we eat and wear, and remark on all the fine kings and queens with whom we share our evenings.

Please give my love to Julian, and tell him his mama misses him so much her eyes could pop out. (He will like such vulgarity.)

Thine Ownest,

Sophy

TO SOPHIA HAWTHORNE, LISBON

Liverpool, November 1855

Dearest Wife,

I have never felt relief such as that upon beholding the letter from your hand, and was borne back to our courtship days, when your letters were all I had to light my way. “A splendor among shadows,” as Shelley said.

Please, dearest, I beseech you to allow yourself to glow. Imagine my distress upon reading your words that your
innere
light is so dim and flickering. I cannot endure the winter in wretched Liverpool without your light. Let it shine. I am glad you released your sufferings to the winds, and it is my strongest hope that they will scatter and allow you to bloom without their burden. I could see the glimmer of it as your letter progressed, and ended in such cheekiness. (Julian laughed so hard he fell over backward in his chair. Imagine his own mother using words she often chastises him for using!)

In truth, I cannot feel fully pleased that O’Sullivan’s handkerchief and warm hand are your ballast, because it should come from me, but I am glad that you have some comfort in this world. I imagine his old guilt gives him great energy for caring for my family, as it should. We know that O’Sullivan has never had a head for business, though he desperately wishes he had.

Rest assured that your absence in Julian’s life has inspired many women to help in his care. He receives escorts to church, dinner
invitations, and even dancing lessons. The boy has more occupation at female hands than he cares for, and in that I am happy. His only complaint is about the miserable coldness of the place, but the complaints only come when he sits still, which you well know is only for about six to seven minutes out of any given day.

There is no rest for me without you. The bed is cold and empty, and the pillow is no rival to your heavenly bosom, where I am frantic to lay my head. I have placed my forehead on this paper for you to press to your breast.

I have also added a note that I have kissed for little Rosebud. Tell her not to drop it, but if she does, she may seek its replacement on her mother’s fair lips.

I must stop thinking of you, or go mad.

Give my best love to Una, and thanks to O’Sullivan.

Thine Ownest . . .

TO NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, LIVERPOOL

Lisbon, December 1855

My Sweet Angel,

I once told Elizabeth that you were an angel God gave to me to light my way on the earth. She no doubt thought it was nonsense, but you are, and you must be told until you believe it.

You will be much delighted to hear that I have not coughed in two weeks. My lungs thank me for this stay, though my heart
scolds me for any improvement in my health at the expense of time with you.

Do you care to hear about the sparkling place settings at the palace, the ostentatious clothing of the royals, the succulent feasts that are fattening us like shiny hens? I am still the plain dove among parrots, but I am happy to be so simply me in this place, because I am never made to feel outside of anything.

John escorts Sue and me to dinner on each arm, and involves us in the conversations as best he can. He has picked up Portuguese with admirable ease, and I know some phrases. When I cannot communicate perfectly well, I am able to use Spanish or French, depending upon my dinner companions, to enjoy an ease of fraternity.

Rose has been quite the spirited one. One moment she pets the embassy dog with gentleness, and the next she has swiped the holy hat of the visiting monsignor, and I must chase her up the staircase to retrieve it—a most embarrassing trial! Mercifully, the people are kind and pleasant, and even following Rose’s naughtiest moments, John or Sue or the clergy themselves are all reassurance and delight.

One shadow has befallen this house. John received word that his beloved brother died, and we have entered into mourning on his behalf. Do not worry that the girls must be a witness to such sadness in life, for at four years old, Rose is only occupied with what is in her immediate sphere, and Una, at eleven, is nearly like a woman. I fear you will not recognize her when you next see her, for she has crossed over, and maintains the dignified manners and seriousness of a lady. I am sure her letters have given you a clue.

I confess that I begin to have stabs of longing for home, and by that I mean the simplicity of Concord and the Wayside. I am glad that my brother Nat occupies it with his family so the walls do not grow cold, but I long to reestablish our Hawthorne bush there and allow it to take root. I know this is months—nay, years—off, but it is a beacon in the quiet and sad times of the heart. Those little moments of melancholy sneak up on me like a cat on silent paws, but retreat just as quickly, leaving me wondering where they came from in the first place.

I took your kisses and head rests from your last letter with eagerness. Just seeing your handwriting nearly brings me to . . . Well, I will not write it, but you understand my meaning.

Pat Julian’s head for me. Embrace your deepest self, imagining my arms and hands.

Thinest,

Naughtiest,

Sophy

TO SOPHIA HAWTHORNE, LISBON

Liverpool, December 1855

Naughty Sophy!

I have not seen such writing since I lived in Salem and we had not but kissed! Imagine my shock and pleasure.

I hope the handkerchief you used to blot your passionate brow did not bear the O monogram.

I am distressed that my girls are a party to O’Sullivan’s grief, and it makes me regret more than ever that I sent you away. What could I have been thinking?

Oh, yes, I wanted you to live!

Well, I will continue to gnash my teeth and mourn your absence, but your frequent letters will help the wounds. Please send them more often—even once a day. Spare me no detail of your life. I want to know every morsel eaten, every conversation spoken, every breath breathed.

Spare no expense if you wish to adorn yourself or make the girls’ wardrobes suitable for royal society. You deserve such costumes, and will bloom in them. Our finances are in good order, as long as we stay on the continent, which we must continue to do. I do know that Pierce will not likely receive the nomination for the next election, and at that time I will resign the consulate, and we will travel the continent together thoroughly, before returning to our mother land.

Your sister Elizabeth returned the abolitionist pamphlet I had once returned to her. She hopes it will influence me, and wishes for Una to be schooled in the circle of hell that is slavery. I have explained to Elizabeth the inappropriateness of exposing unsullied young girls to treachery in the world, and would think that—in spite of having no children—having educated them for years, she would understand how detrimental that would be to Una’s development.

It saddens me that you refer to Una as a young woman, because she is still just a girl to me. An imp. A little Pearl. But she is not.

I really cannot think of anything at all but your lips, your hair, the low sweetness of your voice. You are a welcome ghost, haunting and tormenting me at all hours of the day and night. I run my hands through my hair, trying to conjure the feeling of your fingers in it. I inhale the scent of the dresses you left, but all trace of Sophy is gone. The winds of the waterways assault me, chilling my bones to the marrow, relentless in their reminder that there is no warmth for me while you are gone. The thought of you smiling over your sewing at O’Sullivan’s fireside, sharing laughs with those who are not me, is torture, especially when Una writes that O’Sullivan is second only to me in your heart.

When this separation is over, we must never allow it again. How could I have done this? I am frantic, dove.

Please take the tenderest care of yourself and the girls. I have horrid visions of men delivering black telegrams with news of death and permanent separation. The visions make it so I can barely work.

Send me a letter as soon as you receive this. Rub it on you. Include a lock of hair. Give me anything of yourself that can fit in an envelope.

And burn this correspondence, as I have done with your letters.

Thine Own-Ownest