The House of Hawthorne (33 page)

“What bad dream?”

“The white lady.”

It is as if all sun contracts from our summer garden. My child has inherited the beggar girl, and while I do not know what it
means, I recall the dread I felt and continue to feel whenever she appears to me. Whether she is an apparition or a manifestation of some deep fear, it matters not. She is as real as the fear she inspires. I pull Rose to me and try to warm her with my embrace.

“Do you know that I used to see a white lady, or a girl mostly, in my dreams?” I say.

Rose pulls away and looks fascinated that her mother could ever see a thing that would frighten her.

“It is true,” I say. “And I have always feared her. But do you know what has recently occurred to me?” So new is this thought that it comes to me as I utter the words aloud. “She is a reminder to me to enjoy all that is beautiful in my life. I need not be scared of her. I should feel very sorry for her, because she does not know the joy of life as I do. I must never become like her, but must persist in seeing the good things around me.”

Rose’s face relaxes a little, but she is still somber.

The cat has grown bored, and jumps down from the bench before slipping away into the foliage.

“Come,” I say. “Let us follow her. We will have an adventure today, and see only what is good.”

Nathaniel joins us in our jaunt to the Pizzi and Uffizi galleries, where I continue to teach him to see with my artist’s eyes. He is naturally drawn to the visual arts, and after staring at the work of the masters for only a short time, he can be seen placing his hand over his heart.

Standing before the most perfect canvases, I feel as if my
innere
and that of the original painter are one, and that all time has fallen away around us so we may share the moment and the deeper meaning. This happens for me only with the very best work—art inspired by lofty and holy persons aware of their partnership with elements and spheres not of this earth. Raphael’s
Madonna della seggiola
is one such work. In it, the Virgin clasps the Christ child to her in the sweetest maternal embrace, but underlining the tender scene is a shadow in the look of the mother and the child, and a desperation in the way she clasps Him. It is as if she understands she will lose Him someday in the most terrible way, so she must cling to Him while He fits in her arms. Simply looking at the painting, a mother wishes to clutch her children to her and never let go, yet a measure of comfort lies in knowing there is a mother who endured trials long ago and may walk with us in our own.

The children have gone ahead with Ada, so my impulse to touch those I love is fulfilled in Nathaniel. I take his arm and feel the heat of his body. We stand for many minutes before starting away, but not before either of us has taken parting glances at the Virgin.

“Do you ever get the feeling that if the corruption were removed from the Catholic Church, it might be a perfect religion?” he asks.

“My dear, there would be no way to separate the corruption from the Church; therefore I do not know. Why do you say such a thing?”

“The art, to start. Gazing upon the likes of this Madonna, one understands more about the gospel than one could from an hour-long sermon given by one of our ministers.”

“I am sure some priest somewhere has gone on for too long as well,” I say.

“It is a certainty, but let us also take confession. If a stiff puritan like me could pour out his deepest guilt and sins to a priest and find a measure of peace and even atonement on earth, it might make a lighter man of me.”

“Your words are shocking,” I say.

Nathaniel has not attended a church service in many years, and I fear that spending so much time viewing Catholic cathedrals and Catholic-inspired art has made a convert of him.

“You need not fear my subscription to the faith,” he says. “I only recognize that there are merits in some of the practices I witness.”

“I can agree with you in terms of the art, but I am not in line with your feelings on the other elements of the faith. Or rather, the priests would continue to repel me even if I agreed on the positives. Men who do not interact with women have nothing to soften them, and their ignorance leads to misunderstanding.”

We exit the gallery onto a piazza, where a group of young priests passes. I fumble and drop my fan, and one of them leans down to pick it up, and places it in my hand. He smiles kindly and proceeds to join his brethren.

My children run ahead of them, aiming to scare a group of pigeons into the air. The young priests join Julian and Rose in chasing the birds into flight while Una watches with interest. She is a vision as pure as the art from the gallery, wearing a face of pleasure and serenity like the Virgin; her flushed skin and red hair color her like a painting by Raphael. Nathaniel stops beside
me, and we stare at our beautiful creation smiling up at the sky with the birds rising around her.

In the middle of the night, a violent wind, like the crashing of an ocean wave, assaults the villa. It persists for an hour, lashing and howling like an angry spirit, and I wonder that Rose or the other children do not awaken and join me in my bed. I half wish to run to theirs, and am so restless I light my candelabra and creep to each of their chambers to see that they are all right.

Rose is curled into a ball with her bottom sticking in the air and her hair wild and sweaty around her cherubic face. I pull off her quilt and allow only a light sheet to cover her body. It is a miracle she is not awake, the wind rattles her windows so. When I check on Julian, I smile to see that he holds his sword in one hand and his leg hangs off the side of the bed. He looks as if he has just come in from a medieval war, and will return to the battlefield the moment he awakes. I think I will lift his leg onto the bed, but decide against it, for fear that he might start and jab me with the wooden weapon. In Una’s room, I see that she has pulled the curtains closed to keep out any shred of light, so the only thing visible is the grotesque human skull she found in the tower and brought to her room. It sits leering at me from her writing desk, a Shakespearean prop of magnetic and frightening association, and tomorrow I will insist she return it to its original resting place. If there is a ghost in the villa, I am sure it does not appreciate the removal of its head from its rightful room. I pause outside of Nathaniel’s chamber, but decide against going in to
sleep with him. He seemed much fatigued this afternoon and evening from our long walk in the summer heat, and I hope he is getting a satisfying rest.

I go back to my room alone, and listen to the tempest. When I do sleep, I dream dreadful nightmares of evil spirits rattling the panes, trying to get into our home and wreak havoc with my dear, unsuspecting family.

E
lizabeth Browning’s friend Miss Blagden is a spiritualist who holds regular séances at her villa. I am enthralled by Elizabeth’s belief in the spirit world, and have engaged her in endless discussions about it, while Robert and Nathaniel rolled their eyes and attempted to explain away the unexplainable. Sadly, the Brownings cannot be here today because they have decided to summer in France. Elizabeth would have enjoyed Miss Blagden’s sessions with us and would have offered explanations to make her pronouncements coherent and plausible. Without Elizabeth, we are left a bit bewildered.

Nathaniel watches alone, outside the circle, standing with crossed arms and a frown, as Ada holds a pen and, at Miss Blagden’s instructions, attempts to act as a medium for the spirit who has joined us. The last thing I see before the curtains are drawn are Una’s large and watchful eyes gazing in at us from the
courtyard. She wished to stay and observe, but I told her the séance might scare her. She reminded me that she slept next to a skull before I forced her to remove it and fears nothing, but I still banished her to watch over the younger children while we dabble in the supernatural.

As we adults sit in the heat and the half dark, hoping for the touch of our loved ones from beyond the grave, one of the ladies shrieks, “Something grabbed my skirts!”

Suddenly all of those seated at the table experience the terrible thrill of a
thing
disturbing our persons. I jump in my seat and brush the feeling away, wondering whether it is the power of persuasion tingling my legs, or an actual ghost.

“It is the spirit of a child,” says Miss Blagden. “The hands are small.”

Several of the ladies, who must think it could be one of their little lost babes, turn and dab their eyes with kerchiefs, while I shudder at the thought. Before long, icy chills tickle the tendrils on the back of my neck. I turn and look over my shoulder, but there is no one there. Oh, how glad I am that Una and the other children are frolicking in the garden, for they would be frightened if I had let them stay! My eyes catch Nathaniel’s where he stands in a veil of shadows. I wish I could see what he is thinking, though I suspect I know. He surely thinks this is all nonsense.

Ada’s hands flit across the paper, and Miss Blagden uses the light of a candle to read the words aloud.

Sophichen.

I gasp, as does Nathaniel. This is the way my mother used to
refer to me many years ago. Ada could not know. I begin to tremble, and tears well in my eyes.

Next Ada writes,
“Infeliz de mí.”

My
Cuba Journal
! To see with the eyes given me—the eyes of hope.

Nathaniel looks perplexed, as though he remembers the words but cannot place where he has seen them. By the savior, my joy has turned to fear. What will be written? Is this Fernando? Has he died? Or is the spirit in our midst Mother? As if in answer to my thoughts, Ada begins to scribble with more speed, and I am certain it is Mother.

“Write it. Lift the veil.”

“Write what?” I say. I have been writing in journals about our travels, but am I to publish them as I did the
Cuba Journal
, or am I to write something else?

I know how Nathaniel disapproves of women exposing their inmost souls on the page, so he would surely insist the opposite. There is whispered chatter all around me, but I ignore it. I am thirsty for my mother’s counsel.

“Please,” I say, addressing Ada’s pen without care for how silly I must appear. “What do you mean?”

I am desperate to know more, but the pen remains still.

I think of my loved ones—my father, brothers, Louisa. I begin to cry.

“Are you all together?” I say. “Mother, are you with Father? George? Please!”

Some of the women weep with me, and Miss Blagden rubs my back. I hear the door close, and see that Nathaniel has gone. He
will probably scold me later for allowing something he sees as a farce to distress me so. My soul feels rent in two; I wish to follow him, but I must have more interaction with Mother. My head begins to throb and my dress sticks to my back from the heat. I am parched for water, but I utter my questions without ceasing. I must have more! But the pen is still and Ada is exhausted. There are murmurings of disappointment among us, especially because I am the only soul who received communication.

“There, now, Sophia,” Miss Blagden says, patting my hand. “We will try again another time.”

I nod, but my heart screams,
No! We are running out of time.
We are already planning our return to Rome in the fall, and I feel the desperation of the journey’s end beginning to weigh upon me. If I could, I would live forever in Italy, in eternal communion with the masters of art and in the very presence of history. My entire life has been leading to this place in time—it is as if I inhabit the sketches and paintings I created all of those years ago, and I cannot bear the thought of leaving them.

I flinch from the light when the curtains are opened, and I am disoriented and weak. My husband has left me, so I have no arm to hold. I feel my way out of the room, leaning on the backs of chairs and moldings, until I am finally outside in the garden. The air fills my lungs with freshness, and I begin to feel better, but I will not be restored until I have conversed with Nathaniel and received his loving assurances.

I hurry forward, taking the turns along the garden paths, wondering where he and the children have gone so fast. The sounds of a rushing fountain and faraway convent bell cover my calls to
Nathaniel, and I do not want to further project my voice, because it might frighten them. After a few more turns, I am relieved to finally behold the objects of my search. I think I will let them know I am here, but the pretty scene they make stops me on the cobbled stone. Una has her arm through Nathaniel’s and the two study a fountain where a forlorn marble nymph leaks water into a basin through a cracked urn. The mosses have kindly adorned her form so that a father and his daughter may look upon her together without blushing. Julian and Rose chase butterflies on a nearby knoll.

I cannot enjoy the scene entirely, however, for my family is separate from me—almost farther away than my deceased family. They look like figures on a canvas, hung on a wall, part of a world I cannot inhabit.

This is our last week in Florence, and we make one final visit to the Uffizi.

I stand before Dolci’s
Magdalene
for a long time until Nathaniel comes to me and touches my shoulder.

“Shall we go on ahead without you?” he asks.

I do not answer for a moment. The woman’s look of supplication is captured as perfectly as that on the Magdalene I cleaned all those years ago.

“Seeing her like this,” I say, “it is as if not a day has passed since I beheld the stained painting in Cuba.”

“Italy has a way of doing that,” he says. “The past crowds out the present.”

“Is that why this summer has felt like a dream? I thought it
was just the morning mists on the Val d’Arno. The exquisite happiness. The days suspended in time.”

He reaches up to smooth the hair on my forehead, and I am touched by his tender gesture.

“You speak poetry that would please even the Brownings,” he says. “There is a piece of me that wishes to remain here, except for a restlessness that has begun. I tire of naps and séances, and I feel a building of words and a rising of story that cannot be fully accessed here in this garden of earthly delights. All I can manage are fragments I shall use for further creation.”

He kisses my hand, but the place he has touched feels colder instead of warmer. I know that when the weather cools, so does my love, for that is when he writes. I manage a tight smile.

“Do go on,” I say through pursed lips. “I want to stay and attempt a sketch so I might have a basis for creation as you will, to occupy my Roman winter.”

He holds my gaze for a moment, but when he understands my tension and feels my bitterness, he leaves me.

I will not allow any frustrations during the coming weeks to spoil this time in heaven, so I disperse my dark thoughts and find a bench. I reach into my bag to pull out a pad and pencil, but when I press the tip to the page, it has no point. I open the bag to see whether I have a penknife, but it is not there, so I must suffer with the blank page and hope my memory supplies what I need.

We sit in the tower of the Villa Montauto for the last time, absorbing as much splendor from the rich night as we can. The
moon wanes but it still possesses some of the glory of its recent fullness, even illuminating the faraway tower where Galileo spent so many evenings. He would be riveted by what we see, for a comet has been making its lonely, blazing path through the sky for weeks. It has been growing in brightness, and behind it is a tail like a flaming feather.

“Where is it going, Mama?” asks Julian.

“On its way to crash into fiery communion with some massive star, I hope.”

“You wish it destroyed?” asks Una.

“No, love, only to be a part of some greater glory, and not to travel alone.”

“But it has such magnificence on its own,” says Una. “If it were part of another celestial body, it would be forgotten, or at the very least unnoticed.”

“No,” says Nathaniel, pulling my hand into his. “It would be enhanced and add to a greater light.”

This is the way he repairs me without touching the wound, so I feel no sting from the pain, only the relief of the healing. I do not know whether I am the comet or if he is, but it does not matter. Our communion is what is sacred.

As we climb aboard the carriage piled high with trunks the next day, endless travelers on this earth, Nathaniel and I look back at our beloved abode. The persistent morning mist shrouds the villa, save the tower, which stands with dignity over the scene. I imagine our Hawthorne ghosts on the summit as we were last night, and emotion rises in me at the thought that our summer in Florence is receding and we will never have it again. Our children
grow older and time marches forward, so we must engrave these days in our memories, or write them on pages with inadequate words, or sketch them on paper that will never capture the full flavor of the first living of them.

But I remind myself that this year has been richer and fuller than any before it, and since the day I first saw my love, the years have grown in blessings in ways I could not have imagined. I will look with hope toward a future that continues to beckon, and I will blaze forward, burning these moments on my heart so that I may live them eternally.