The House of Hawthorne (9 page)

Elizabeth is bitter, and I understand why. It is as if she no longer exists for him. Still, it is not appropriate for her to speak for me.

“I must disagree,” I say, not looking at her. “While I try always to be polite and find commonalities while in society, as an artist I often reserve in half my mind a place of retreat from my surroundings. It is there where my soul takes notes for future expression, which I think of as my
innere
—the German word for ‘inner.’”

Mr. Hawthorne closes his eyes and nods.

“What a perfect word for it,” he says, half to himself, before lighting his face with a smile.

Oh, I have never seen such a transformation on a face! It occurs to me that I could live my whole life trying to illuminate this dark face.

But no! What am I thinking? I am seized by fear and remorse. I am murdering my sister. Though Elizabeth has invited me countless times, she could not have wanted this. She would never have thought that I, the virgin artist, and he, the reclusive writer, would have so immediate and strong a response to each other.

“I apologize, but I have overexerted myself,” I say, standing with haste. “Elizabeth has been asking me to meet you for so long, I just had to, but now I must go.”

I look back at my sister, who seems to have softened in my agitation. She even makes a move to help me, saint that she is. I wave her off.

“No, no, Elizabeth, you stay with your guest. I hope to see you again, Mr. Hawthorne; good day.”

I hurry up the stairs and past George’s door, though he calls to me. When I am again in the safety of my room, I close the door and stumble over to my hammock, where I cannot control my tears. My sphere has never been so disturbed by another’s as it is now, and I know that Hawthorne must feel the same way.

What can Elizabeth think, having witnessed such an exchange? Will she ever again invite me to sit with them? I know that, try as I will to fight it, I crave another drink at this well.

I
n the ensuing days, I paint with a fever that has not possessed me in many moons.

Elizabeth comes often to my door and watches without entering, or commenting on my exertion. I cannot face her, and what would I say if I could?
Yes, Elizabeth, fate drew me down the stairs to meet the man to whom my soul may converse without language
?
Destiny spoke through your lips to bring him to me in an artistic partnership of the loftiest proportions
?

No, I will not face her. I will only paint. I must indulge the impulse while it resides within me. I will deal with the consequences later.

Watercolor after watercolor comes into bloom on my easel, and the paintings plant themselves around the circumference of my room, covering old copied canvases. Butterflies emerge from chrysalises; exotic Cuban plants open; birds take flight. The only
interruptions I allow are George’s requests for company. I carry my paintings to his room, curl up with him in his bed, and tell him stories about Cuba that inspired my art.

“Don Fernando used to collect butterflies for me,” I say, attempting to distract myself and the household from the disturbance Mr. Hawthorne has introduced.

“Did you love him?” George asks.

“I love something in everyone.”

“I do not mean his humanity, Sophy. I mean, did you love
him
?”

The dying want the truth of the heart. I cannot fool George; nor—I realize—should I. I tell him all the things I keep locked inside that I would not dare mention to others, though I do hold back my feelings about Nathaniel Hawthorne. Hearing that I have loved before seems to bring George some residual joy, since he knows he will never love again.

“Have you ever loved anyone?” I ask.

A smile settles on his dry lips and tears slide from his eyes, which look far away from this room to another time and place. I wipe his face with my fingers and hold his hand in silence.

Oh, how short life is! How fleeting. Why would we ever deny love, even if it has only minutes to bring us peace and pleasure? Who are we to turn away from the very offering of the angels? Perhaps we are put here on earth to be glimpses of heaven to one another, partners to lead one another home.

A touch of watercolor from my fingertips is on George’s hollow cheek, and I stare at it, wishing with all my soul that I could paint him to new life.

The interactions of the misses Peabody and that of Mr. Nathaniel Hawthorne increase in person and in writing.

If he cannot be here in form, he sends separate letters to Elizabeth and to me. At first we read the epistles aloud to each other. We make a show of praising the other in her absence or presence. We have never flattered each other so much in all our lives. But it is not long before we plot and scheme to intercept the mail before the other sees it. How we pout when Hawthorne’s even, deliberate script is not addressed to she who first finds it! How we torture each other with his words, and even wave off the other sister, pretending she would not get this or that bit meant only for the reader.

And when he comes to our home!

One night, after Father has retired early with his books, and we women sit around the fireside darning stockings, writing letters, and reading, a timid knock interrupts us. Nathaniel and his sisters, Elizabeth (called Ebe) and Louisa, come in like a trio of ghosts and settle on the settee, staring out from large dark eyes like barn owls. How altered he is in their company! How reserved! They strike me as so odd that I have to turn my head away and pretend a coughing fit to stifle my giggles. Mary is able to cover for my lack of decorum by speaking first.

“Elizabeth tells me she first thought Ebe had penned
Twice-Told Tales
.”

“It is true,” says Elizabeth. “We women must often publish anonymously, as
Twice-Told Tales
was, and the stories have such a
delicate and sensitive understanding of humanity that when I heard a Hawthorne penned them, I assumed it was Ebe or Louisa.”

“It could never be me,” says Louisa in a small voice. “Natty’s talent far surpasses anything I could attempt.”

Louisa gazes at Nathaniel with adoration, and he gives her a squeeze on the arm, which moves me, and makes me long for his hand on my arm.

“Nonsense,” says Ebe. “It is your infirmity that prevents you, not lack of talent in any subject.”

“Are you one who suffers in health?” asks Mother, looking up from her mending. She should have been a nurse, so apt she is to care for others.

“I am,” says Louisa. “I am a great nuisance to my family.”

“No,” says Nathaniel.

“You are a great gift to us,” says Ebe.

“As Sophy is to this household,” says Mother.

Ebe ignores her comment and continues. “Louisa has a gentle spirit, welcome in our house of shadow dwellers.”

“You are a family of moon people,” I say, and immediately regret speaking such nonsense in a mixed crowd. If it were only Nathaniel, Elizabeth, and me, he would encourage my nature-inspired metaphors, but I realize he will not say a thing with so many around us. It is as if each person adds a weight to his chest, preventing him from getting a word past his lips.

Ebe regards me with suspicion. Elizabeth seems satisfied that I have made a fool of myself. Louisa smiles blandly, and Mary looks on with pity. It is Mother who rescues me.

“My little Sophichen,” she says. “Life is art to her. Nature is her sister. Sophy has come to know the world through the example of the seasons, the earth, and the stars. I never properly noticed flowers until Sophy showed me how to view them.”

Nathaniel gazes at me across the room, and though he does not speak, I feel his approval pulsing forth. All shame leaves me, as I know that my message and intent have reached the only recipient whom I care to impress.

When Nathaniel and his sisters leave that night, Ebe gives a polite good-bye to the room without individually acknowledging me, Louisa surprises me with an awkward embrace in the doorway, and Nathaniel, after voicing his quiet thanks and good-nights to my sisters and mother, dares to reach for my hand and bow to me.

In the coming weeks, my relief is great when Nathaniel ventures to our parlor without his siblings, though it feels like a feat of acrobatics with Elizabeth present. I imagine myself outside these scenes looking in at the comedic chorus. We each have our own motives, and it is clear to me that
affection
has been born between Nathaniel and me, and
respect
is what exists between him and Elizabeth. Elizabeth’s stubborn will keeps Nathaniel and me from being able to talk alone, and I must pretend that is all right with me. When a nagging inner voice tells me that it is not stubborn will, but love that makes Elizabeth behave as she does, I ignore it.

On Nathaniel’s most recent visit, we are discussing the merits of various art forms, and those best suited to which sex. Nathaniel believes that painting is the purest form, and praises me for my celestial occupation, much to Elizabeth’s aggravation.

“Is not writing a sublime occupation?” I say. “I admire yours greatly.”

“No, writing is drudgery, and says too much about the author,” he says. “Expression without words, especially through painting, is so much more powerful than the limiting scribbles on the page. It allows the removal of the artist so the onlooker may contemplate without distraction. It is like music.”

“I agree to an extent,” says Elizabeth. “One cannot help but wonder about the writer when reading his or her words. They seem to reveal the soul in an especially intimate way.”

“Which is why women should protect themselves from such exposure, and stay far away from writing,” he says.

“But some of the finest writing I have recently seen has come from the pens of women,” I say. “My own sister Elizabeth is a fine writer. Would you have her pen run dry in the name of so-called propriety?”

He smiles that brilliant smile.

“I do not mean to insinuate that a woman is not as skilled as a male writer—quite the contrary. It is a woman’s special powers of observation and emotion that leave her more exposed than male writers to inspection. If my daughter or my . . . wife . . . wanted to write, I would ask her if she was ready for such public scrutiny. You yourself, Sophia, have said that the notoriety your paintings bring to you burdens your artistic soul. It is merely something to consider.”

“I am not the only writer,” says Elizabeth, with enough force in her voice to fell Goliath. “Sophy is quite the author herself.”

I glare at her. I know she is referring to the
Cuba Journal
and
I am not ready for Nathaniel to read it. A man of his reserve would faint from my effusions, and the passages on Don Fernando alone would have him running from our parlor, never to return.

“Is she?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “Only letters, which are not meant for public reading.”

“Oh, but they have been widely read,” says Elizabeth, relentless wench.

“Really,” he says, turning to me. “How have I not seen them?”

“I published them,” says Elizabeth.

“Against my will,” I say, assuming my straightest posture.

“Oh, Sophy,” continues Elizabeth. “You would not want to deny readers your insights in the name of
so-called propriety
.”

I sit on my hands so I will not strike her across the fleshy face.

Elizabeth leaves the room and is back in a moment, handing a copy of my sacred journals to the man to whom I want to unite my soul. I feel the heat in the room become nearly unbearable.

“No, Nathaniel, I do not think you should read it,” I say, standing and reaching my hands out to take the book from him, trying to keep the hysteria from my voice. If only Mother were here instead of out with Father, she would come to my rescue.

“Do not deny him,” says Elizabeth. “Let him see you as you really are.”

Nathaniel stares at the book as if it is the Holy Bible, and runs his hand over the binding. I feel shivers on my body as if he has stroked my own skin. He looks up at me with an earnest expression.

“Please,” he whispers. “Please, Sophia. Let me.”

The room becomes very quiet, and only the crack of wood in the fireplace can be heard. There is a great shift in the air, as if a fatal error has been made in a game of chess. I glance at Elizabeth and see that her smugness has disappeared, and she realizes that her plan to turn him off with my passionate, effusive writings might have been ill-conceived.

“Please,” he continues. “I promise I will not judge you harshly. I will only read as an historian. As one interested in another time and place.”

That feeling I detected the first time I came in contact with Nathaniel, that common union of unspoken intention between us, asserts itself. It empowers me, and I realize that this diffident gentleman will get to know me safely through the journal. There, my sister will not be able to sit with us, interjecting and asserting her views on every subject, attempting to dam the little streams of affection between us that long to join. Elizabeth senses that once they do connect, we will be a force she cannot control.

“You have my blessing,” I say.

The smile again gives him a celestial expression, but not one that is light; it is blazing. His intensity reminds me of the fear I first felt on meeting him at the potential of our union. I am like a mortal confronted with an angel who has told me not to be afraid.

“I must go,” he says. “I will enjoy a walk home in the shroud of night, and will light candles at my fireside so I may start reading this treasure. Miss Elizabeth, Sophia, thank you for entrusting me with this book. I will take the greatest care of it.”

The thought of his hands on my book while he sits alone in his room is almost too much for me to imagine, and it must also
be for Elizabeth. She excuses herself, claiming that she must answer correspondence, and does not acknowledge me as she leaves the room.

I hand Nathaniel his hat, and watch his clean, slender fingers tie his cloak at the neck before I bid him farewell. He brings my hand to his lips and leaves it there a moment longer than he ever has before.

I do not get a wink of sleep that night.