The House of Hawthorne (31 page)

T
hough life is abundant and thriving around us, I am forever glancing sideways, trying to catch the darkness before it catches me. Why must happiness’s twin, despair, forever lurk nearby? Why can we not throw ourselves with abandon into the arms of joy without ever watching over our shoulders?

I know it is partly because of the hollow grief we feel over being exiled from our home country. The political turbulence there reaches us across an ocean, rocking our foundation like an earthquake. I curse the devil who ever started slavery as much as I curse my sisters for their epistolary diatribes. One cannot escape, even though thousands of miles separate us.

When Nathaniel and I are able to pull the veil over our sadness, there is great joy to be found. The children are in excellent health, Nathaniel and I are like new lovers, and my artistic self is inspired daily while he works at a novel he calls
The Marble
Faun
. A source of greatest pleasure to us is a colony of American and English artists we have met in the elegant rooms atop the Palazzo Barberini of sculptor William Story and his wife, Emelyn.

Though it is our first Sunday salon with the Storys, we feel as if we have known them for ages. Emelyn extends her cool hands, drawing us into the magnificent apartment where one can view enchanting palms through arched windows. The gold damask wallpaper, creamy marble fireplaces, heavy green drapes, and frescoed ceilings are like elegant theater sets, housing a cast of fine writers, painters, and musicians. Some we know from Boston, others from our travels in England and France, and all are at ease in this fine place where our ideas and philosophies are free to mingle. Each conversation feeds the artistic soul like a banquet, but no others in our acquaintance set us more at ease than the poets Robert and Elizabeth Browning.

Elizabeth rarely comes out in society, as she is an invalid with weak lungs and a morphine dependence, but her doting younger husband remarks that the Roman air has given her new vitality, and he is pleased to have his talented wife at his side. Elizabeth has more fame from her poetry than anyone else here, but her warmth is abundant, and the way she elevates even the humblest of us shows her generous spirit.

Once the men have retired to the balcony overlooking the Fontana del Tritone to smoke, and we women have had our tea poured by servants who seem to emerge from the frescoes and then become absorbed back into them, Elizabeth addresses me.

“Emelyn tells me of your great talent in art. She said you are
known in the New World, and that your paintings hang where they might be viewed.”

“That is very kind,” I say, “though my work must be dusty indeed, for it has been many years since I have created anything worthy of public display.”

“You will no doubt be inspired in Italy, where the heart of art beats in the world.”

“I am pleased that I have been able to complete many sketches while traveling the halls of galleries and palaces, and without a single headache.”

“Do you suffer?” asks Elizabeth. I know there is nothing an invalid likes to hear of more than the health woes of others, which might somehow illuminate or at least justify her own.

“I do,” I say. “Much of my youth was spent nursing the hurt in my skull following artistic creation. I was on morphine for years.”

“So you know how I feel,” she says. “Dependent, foggy, unsettled.”

“Oh, yes,” I say. “If I could wish away your infirmities, I would drop every last penny I have into the fountains of Rome with your name on my lips.”

“Thank you,” says Elizabeth.

“Someone once said a similar thing in these very rooms,” says Emelyn, staring off at some memory. “It was Margaret Fuller, just after she married Giovanni Ossoli, and she worried for her son’s health during a smallpox outbreak. She said she would drop every penny she owned into the fountains to keep him from illness or any suffering a day in his life.”

I shudder, thinking of the night I imagined Margaret’s ghost at the fountain. I was aware that Margaret had known the Storys—everyone who visits Rome knows the Storys—but I was not aware of the degree of their acquaintance. As much as it hurts, I want to hear more about Margaret and the little family she had and lost, especially while my husband is engaged with the men, safely out of hearing. I reach for Emeyln’s arm and gently implore her.

“Nathaniel will be disturbed, for we have a complicated history with Margaret—one of deep friendship and betrayal. But now that she is gone, and in such a tragic way, I feel only pity for her. Tell me what you know about her.”

Emelyn places her hand on mine. She glances at the men, and back at me and Elizabeth. “I will tell you this, with confidence: Margaret was a changed woman in Italy. I had known her in Boston, and thought her arrogant and off-putting. But here she nursed soldiers wounded in political uprisings, spared no sacrifice to assist others, and bloomed in the glow of love from her soldier Giovanni and their son, Angelo. She was a testament to the graces of perfect love in an imperfect world, and though she met a terrible end, her life was not a tragedy. She was greatly adored and admired, and can any of us hope for more?”

With Emelyn’s last, sweet utterance, the men return to the parlor, and Elizabeth and I hide our faces to wipe our tears with embroidered napkins.

Tonight in private, I think I will tell Nathaniel of Margaret, but by the time we are home and I work up the courage, he is sleeping soundly. I decide not to interrupt his slumber, and instead lie awake, thinking of Emelyn’s words, allowing them to
wash the stain from my memories of Margaret, and to permeate my being with their sacred truth.

Elizabeth Browning tells us that summer is best passed in the countryside, and suggests that we visit Florence to secure a villa. She resides there for her health, and welcomes our family to her beloved Casa Guidi to entertain us with her spirit stories, and to recommend nearby properties we might inhabit. Una is taken with the frail and lovely woman, Rose becomes awed in her presence, and Julian is fascinated by their little son, Pen, though he is more a plaything than a playmate. The child must be ten years old, but is as airy and slight as a butterfly.

While we search for a country house, we take temporary rooms at the Casa del Bello on the Via Fornace in Florence. Nathaniel is in as fine spirits as I have ever seen him, partly because the surroundings are like living history, but mostly because of how inexpensive it is to live here. We have abundant space, a private study for Nathaniel where he has recaptured his muse, servants to relieve us of drudgery, and as much red wine as we wish. The children are in ecstasy over the private garden, and run and spin like little dervishes, with the exception of Una, who is becoming a graceful and watchful young lady. At fourteen, she quivers on the verge of womanhood with that mixture of reserve and recklessness that so characterizes the age. Sometimes she will turn cartwheels with her smaller siblings, but more often she wishes to sit with and listen to the adults discussing all manner of art, politics, and religion. While I am fascinated and pleased to
see our girl blooming into a woman, I often see Nathaniel gazing at her as if he does not know what to make of her.

It is an evening in June, and we sit on the balcony of the Casa Guidi with the Brownings, watching the fireflies like tiny star drops that have fallen in the emerald grasses. The night inches over the sky, bringing the quarter moon to its glorious splendor in the deepening color. Ada has taken Julian and Rose to bed at our apartment, but we have allowed Una to stay with us. Nathaniel is relaxed and quiet, because he has had a good day of note taking in preparation for earnest work on his novel, and I have enjoyed the pleasure of sketching all afternoon. It came to me earlier today, as our Rosebud chased tiny purple butterflies in their zigzag patterns over the grass, that she was lovelier than any cherubic statue, and therefore worthy of being committed to paper and, hopefully one day, to paint. I enjoyed tracing her cheek, which retains some of the roundness of babyhood.

“Did you know Sophia is a master of the highest order?” Nathaniel says, his tongue loosened from wine.

“I have heard of Sophia’s talent, but do elaborate,” says Elizabeth in her serene voice. She looks out from behind rows of dark ringlets, and fingers the branch of pink roses I have brought to her from our terrace. “I want to know more, and it is good for Una to understand her mother in terms of art.”

I feel such warmth toward Elizabeth. It is painful to observe signs of the illness that wastes her body, but she bears her condition with grace, her contentment shining forth from her blue eyes. It is an honor that she admits us so freely, when she is so often taxed by social interaction.

“I should not be elevated among the likes of you,” I say, staring down at the folds of my pink muslin skirts.

“Sophia is humble,” says Nathaniel, “but her talent is abundant. It is a shame she has not had the opportunity to pursue it these years since the children were born.”

Una’s eyes grow wide at this utterance, and I hope she does not take offense. Nothing has brought me more pleasure than to nurture our children.

“Art is a state of being,” I say. “Just because my paintbrushes are dry does not mean I am not creating.”

“But have you sacrificed a portion of yourself at the altar of family?” asks Elizabeth.

At first I do not answer her question, which sounds like one Margaret Fuller once asked of me, because I must ponder its origin. Margaret would have asked the question with scorn, but Elizabeth asks out of curiosity, inserting no judgment.

“I suppose we must agree on the meaning of sacrifice,” I say. “And whether it has a positive or a negative connotation.”

“What is your connotation?” asks Una.

Now they all look at me, and I wish we could talk of the seasons or the night or the music drifting to us on the breezes from the church across the square. I am entranced by its hypnotic quality, and it is as if I am mesmerized. I do not wish to explore these murky waters. I must be growing more like Nathaniel.

“Sacrifice seems to me to be a state of the highest and holiest order,” I say, no doubt influenced by our very Catholic surroundings.

Nathaniel stares at me in the moonlight. He glows like a celestial body, silent and looming.

“But perhaps the universe has sacrificed by taking you from your painting,” says Elizabeth.

It pains me to acknowledge it, but I do sometimes imagine what my life would have been if I had never entered the parlor that day to meet Nathaniel. Such thoughts come on the difficult nights, when Nathaniel is cross, the children needy, and the blank sketch pad seems to accuse me of neglect from across the room. Would I be a world-famous painter by now if I had not chosen domesticity? Would I want such a thing, when the pressure and act of creation often brought me such physical misery? I do sometimes mourn the death of my single artist’s existence, but almost never.

“I have provided the universe with light through my children,” I say. “Their good effect will extend farther than any hanging canvas I might have produced.”

“And you still might produce,” says Robert. “It is never too late.”

Elizabeth begins a coughing fit. She apologizes and holds up her hand when Robert stands to help her, but she cannot get her lungs to stop their spasms.

“I beg your pardon,” says Elizabeth, “but I must go to bed.”

“We will see ourselves out,” I say. “Good night.”

We all stand and Robert leads Elizabeth away, while their servant escorts us to the front door. The terrible sound of Elizabeth’s cough follows us outside, and even down the street, for we can hear it from their open window. Nathaniel pulls me close to
his side and looks up to the Brownings’ room before gazing at me with a troubled expression. Una takes his other arm, and we make the short walk home. Just before we arrive at the Casa del Bello, Una speaks to me.

“You should paint again.”

“Perhaps I will,” I say, reaching for her hand. It is warm and pulses with youthful energy. “Maybe you will paint with me. We can paint oil landscapes in the lands that inspired me before I saw them with my own eyes.”