Christmas Bells (14 page)

To other friends, equally cherished but too far distant to visit, he did feel obliged to write, though the act of stringing words together had become painfully arduous.

Cambridge. September 28, 1861.

Mr. George William Curtis

New York City

My Dear Curtis,

Have patience with me if I have not answered your affectionate and touching letter. Even now I cannot answer it; I can only thank you for it. I am too utterly wretched and overwhelmed,—to the eyes of others, outwardly, calm; but inwardly bleeding to death.

I can say no more. God bless you, and protect your household!

H. W. L.

He owed his dear friend better than that, but he could do no more.

His sister Anne remained with the family throughout September, easing their homecoming with her tender, affectionate ways, her quiet conversation, her deft management of the household. But Henry had always known that other responsibilities beckoned her home, and when the time came for her to depart, he managed to restrain himself from begging her to stay. “You've done me tremendous good,” he said as he saw her off at the train station. “I don't know how I shall ever thank you sufficiently.”

“I know how,” she promptly replied. “Write to me, and frequently, to let me know how you're getting on. Even if it's only a few lines about the weather and Charley's latest mischief and how tall the children are growing—or how long your dreadful beard has gotten—do write.” She kissed him on the cheek, making a playful show of avoiding his whiskers. “Or better yet, shave it off and consider all debts fully paid.”

“I will write,” he promised, but said nothing of the beard.

•   •   •

Henry had not followed politics since the day of the fire, but soon after Anne's departure, on October 1, the state Republican convention opened in Worcester, about forty miles west of Cambridge. He could not help feeling a rekindled spark of interest, for his dear and loyal friend Charles Sumner had been invited to address the delegates, and Henry knew he intended to speak on the controversial subject of emancipation. The following day, his dormant curiosity creakily reawakening, Henry delved into the papers and was soon engrossed in reports of his friend's success—or shameful demonstration of his utter loss of reason, as the Southern sympathizers in the press would have it. Delegates and spectators had filled the great hall, every one of them devoted to the Union, but divided in their opinion regarding a radical antislavery platform, some in favor, others firmly opposed. As he read Sumner's speech, Henry found himself shaking his head in admiration for his friend's audacity, his unwillingness to pander to the opposing factions in the audience. Declaring slavery to be the sole cause of the war and the fundamental strength of the rebellion, Sumner had insisted that slavery should be struck down with every power at the government's disposal—including martial law.

Many of Sumner's remarks had met with vigorous applause, often so sustained and thunderous that he had been obliged to pause and wait for it to subside. Even so, afterward, as the convention proceedings continued, it became apparent that many of the delegates disagreed that the slaves should be declared free. Others, though they agreed that slavery must end, argued that the time was not right for emancipation. Unfortunately for the abolitionist cause—and for the countless thousands of souls languishing in bondage—the opposition to Sumner's proposal was enough to compel the state Republican Party not to add a call for emancipation to the party platform.

Henry knew his friend was sorely disappointed, but not
undaunted. In the aftermath of the convention, Sumner's speech was so well regarded—except in the most conservative circles—that he was invited to address other, more sympathetic audiences elsewhere.

Less than a fortnight later, he delivered a more elaborate and extended version of the speech, newly titled “The Rebellion: Its Origin and Mainspring,” at the Tremont Temple in Boston, and Henry relinquished his mournful solitude for the evening in order to attend. He was escorted to place of honor in a box seat apart from the throng, for which he was thankful, and he listened, thoroughly absorbed and admiring, as Sumner boldly identified the institution of slavery as the source of the conflict between North and South, and the sole support of the rebellion. “It is slavery that marshals these hosts and breathes into their embattled ranks its own barbarous fire,” he declared. “It is slavery that stamps its character alike upon officers and men. It is slavery that inspires all, from general to trumpeter. It is slavery that speaks in the word of command, and sounds in the morning drum-beat. It is slavery that digs trenches and builds hostile forts. It is slavery that pitches its wicked tents and stations its sentries over against the national capital. It is slavery that sharpens the bayonet and runs the bullet; that points the cannon and scatters the shell—blazing, bursting unto death. Wherever this rebellion shows itself, whatever form it takes, whatever thing it does, whatever it meditates, it is moved by slavery; nay, the rebellion is slavery itself—incarnate, living, acting, raging, robbing, murdering, according to the essential law of its being.”

With the advance of the Union armies, Sumner insisted, emancipation had become a military necessity, not only because the Confederates benefited from slave labor but also because the Union must align itself with the forces of moral good. Emancipation would do more to weaken the rebellion than any other
weapon in its vast arsenal. “To the enemy such a blow will be a terror,” he said, his voice ringing with certainty. “To good men it will be an encouragement, and to foreign nations watching this contest it will be an earnest of something beyond a mere carnival of battle.”

Henry was greatly pleased by the enthusiastic, vigorous applause that followed Sumner's speech, and afterward, as they dined together, he congratulated his friend. “I intend to renew the discussion of emancipation in the Senate,” Sumner told him, every line of his face marked with determination. “If the president will not act, we will force his hand.”

“You make a convincing case,” Henry replied. “I don't see how Mr. Lincoln could fail to be persuaded.”

“I'm certain the president abhors slavery, but I'll make no excuses for his inaction, which only prolongs the war and will lead to greater loss of life.” Then Sumner's expression softened. “But never think, my dear Longfellow, that in my preoccupation with our great national struggle, I forget for a moment your own deeply personal one.”

“Nor have I,” said Henry, his throat constricting, “in the midst of my own tragedy, forgotten our nation's.”

•   •   •

October trudged on, full of autumnal beauty and aching loneliness and dreadful news about the war. Whenever Henry walked into town, he invariably encountered a friend with a son or nephew in the army, and even as they voiced pride in their young men's service, every word and grimace betrayed their apprehension. Once Henry listened sympathetically as a physician of his acquaintance spoke at length about his son, a lieutenant with the Massachusetts Twentieth, from whom the family had not heard since before his battalion engaged the rebels in a battle on the
Potomac. Suddenly the doctor, much embarrassed for his protracted narrative, said, “My good Mr. Longfellow, I fear I have detained you overlong.”

“Not at all,” Henry assured him, quite truthfully, for in listening to the anxious father's troubles he had almost, for a moment, forgotten his own. Three days later he learned that the physician's son had been wounded in the battle but was expected to recover, so some good news tempered the bad.

He tried, time and again, to compose poetry, but his thoughts were too full of his beloved Fanny to attempt to write about anyone or anything else, yet he dared not attempt to write of his lost beloved out of fear that his poor words would fail to do her justice. How could they but fail? She had been everything to him, his world, his all, and the thoughts that haunted his heart and brain he could not record.

In early November, James Fields wrote to request a poem for the January edition of the
Atlantic Monthly
. Henry resolved to discipline himself, to wrest control of his poetic gifts from the iron grasp of despair, and to produce something worthy, not only to gratify his friend but to prove to himself that he could. But his determination weakened by the hour, and within days of receiving the letter he wrote back to decline. “I am sorry to say No, instead of Yes; but so it must be,” he wrote in haste, the sooner to finish the unhappy task. “I can neither write nor think; and have nothing fit to send you, but my love—which you cannot put into the Magazine.”

Sometimes he feared that he would never write again, except apologetic letters to friends.

Massachusetts celebrated Thanksgiving on November 21, but the Longfellows made no feast of it that year. Tom Appleton joined the family for a quiet supper, and afterward, Henry took a long, solitary walk in the twilight.

December came, mild enough at first to allow him more
solitary walks, sometimes through a grove of pines, gray clouds overhead, a carpet of russet pine needles underfoot. On rare occasion a friend would accompany him, uplifting and sustaining him with generous sympathy. More often he walked alone, the thin morning sunshine and light flurries heralding winter.

As Christmas approached, Henry realized he must mark the occasion with more care than he had given Thanksgiving or he would never endure the day. Fanny had always loved the Christmas season—the contrast of green holly and red berries, the hint of snow in the air, the crackling warmth of the Yule log on the hearth, the music, the games, the revelry, the gathering of friends and family, the sacred joy of the Nativity, the wonder and awe in the children's eyes. Whenever the merriment of the season reminded him—starkly, painfully—of his grief and longing and loneliness, he reminded himself that even a family as bereft as their own ought to mark Christmas with joy and thanksgiving. Was it not because of his Savior, whose birth they celebrated that holy day, that he was redeemed, and would be reunited with his dearest Fanny in the world to come?

And so he kept Christmas determinedly, in honor of his beloved wife. He purchased gifts for the children, marking the cards from their mother as well as himself. He instructed the cook to prepare a special feast for the family, he made contributions to benefit the less fortunate, and he remembered the servants generously. With his daughters' help, he packed a box full of presents to send to Portland for the aunts and cousins in his old hometown. On Christmas Eve, he had a beautifully decorated tree in the parlor for the children, and it met with such success that the following day, Edith and Annie made a tree of their own to present to their dolls in the nursery, using the top of the family tree and the candle ends. “It is, on the whole, rather prettier than the original,” Henry mused aloud when they invited him to come and see.

The children delighted in their numerous presents, especially the sugarplums their aunt Anne sent from Portland with her love. Later, after a quieter but no less delicious feast than in years past, Henry called the children to join him by the fireside for their traditional story. Even Charley, restless as he was, listened, rapt, as Henry read aloud Charles Dickens's
A Christmas Carol
, a longtime family favorite. It brought Henry bittersweet comfort to think that benevolent spirits could visit the Earth at Christmastime.

“How inexpressibly sad are all holidays!” he wrote in his journal later that night. The children had gone to bed hours before, but memories of Christmases past had kept him long awake. “But the dear little girls had their Christmas-tree last night; and an unseen presence blessed the scene.”

As he waited for the ink to dry upon the page, in his imagination he lived again his last Christmas with Fanny, saw vividly her loving smile, felt her touch upon his arm, heard her gentle, merry laugh close to his ear, felt her soft, tender lips brush his cheek.

A log crashed on the hearth, startling him from his reverie. He watched, grief seizing him anew, as it blazed before falling back into embers.

“Happy Christmas, darling,” he murmured. He closed his journal and retired to his bed, relieved to have made it through the day, not daring to wonder what the lonely New Year would bring.

The Mother's Tale

Her heart aching, Laurie sat motionless in the pew, transfixed by the choir's impossibly lovely song, staring straight ahead so she would not weep.

I heard the bells on Christmas Day

Their old, familiar carols play,

And wild and sweet

The words repeat

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

The children's voices, sweet and pure, filled the church with enthralling, angelic harmony. The children weren't angels, of course, but very much human—willful, mischievous, friendly, often kind, occasionally cruel, serious or cheerful, thoughtful or careless—with all the endearing and exasperating habits that made them unique, that made their parents marvel and wonder and adore. Laurie's own children were certainly not angels—Charlotte with her moods and perfectionism, Alex who lived
utterly in the present and gave no thought to consequences—and yet they were perfect, absolutely perfect, exactly as they were.

Laurie was grateful that the children had inherited Jason's perfect pitch and wonderful voice. She too had an excellent ear, enough to admire and appreciate their gifts, enough to lament her own mediocre instrument. Christmas, more than any other time of year, gave her abundant opportunity to enjoy their gifts, for she truly believed that the most profoundly glorious music ever composed had been created to celebrate that holy season. And at Christmas, children were encouraged as at no other time of year to raise their voices in harmonious song, to proclaim the good news of the savior's birth, to reflect upon the wondrous mystery, to encourage their listeners to rejoice with family and friends near and far.

She could not ruin Christmas for them. She could not let it become a season they would dread for the rest of their lives, a time of grief and mourning in a world that already provided too much of both.

“Oh, my,” a merry voice chirped. “Are you preparing to do battle?”

Startled, Laurie glanced away from the choir and discovered Sister Winifred standing in the aisle nearby, studying her over the rims of her glasses with her head tilted to one side, giving her the air of a plump, inquisitive little bird. “I'm sorry, Sister. Preparing to do what?”

“To do battle—with the forces of darkness, perhaps.” The elderly nun's arms were filled with hymnals, so she indicated Laurie's lap with a nod.

Laurie glanced down and discovered that her hands were balled into fists, tangled in her scarf as if she meant to wring the life out of it. Flustered, she immediately released the scarf and attempted to smooth out the evidence of her distress.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Sister Winifred inquired.

“Yes, Sister, I just . . . have a lot on my mind. It's a crazy time of year.”

“It's a season of miracles,” the nun replied, nodding agreement.

That wasn't quite what Laurie had meant. “Yes, that too.”

Sister Winifred beamed as if Laurie had recited the Apostles' Creed in perfect Latin, and resumed tidying up the pews, humming along with the choir, occasionally making brief, quiet remarks to no one in particular, in a tone that was both friendly and respectful. She was just thinking aloud, Laurie told herself uncertainly. Surely Sister Winifred wasn't really carrying on a conversation with an invisible friend. Laurie did not want to believe that the warm, cheerful nun was declining, just as she wanted to deny the evidence that Charlotte was transforming into a sullen, withdrawn teenager ahead of schedule, or that Alex was a budding pyromaniac, or that Jason—

Jason. For a moment she had to hold her breath so she did not cry out in anguish. It was torment, not knowing. She could almost wish to be told the worst, just to know, just to get this nightmare of waiting and not knowing over with—but no, she didn't. She didn't want to hasten terrible news even to relieve her worry. As long as she didn't know for certain that her husband was dead, she could hope that he lived.

She took a deep breath, clasped her hands together, and listened as the children sang.

And in despair I bowed my head;

“There is no peace on earth,” I said;

“For hate is strong,

And mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”

“There is no peace on Earth,” Laurie whispered, her lips barely moving. That was why Jason had gone overseas, far from
his family, from his home. And until she knew all hope was lost, until an officer showed up at her door with his terse, irrevocable announcement that she was a widow, she would protect the children from worry. They would not know he was missing—lost, captured, or killed. They would not spend that sacred holiday crushed by grief. She would let them enjoy one last, happy Christmas as innocent children before she revealed that their father was gone, their family forever shattered.

To lose him at all would be devastating, but it would be especially heartbreaking to lose him at Christmas—not only because it was a season of peace, love, joy, and wonder but because Laurie and Jason had always considered Christmas their holiday, as essential to the story of their lives together as their wedding day.

•   •   •

It was in Advent that they had first met years before, as freshmen at the University of Notre Dame. Laurie's family had moved often while she was young, as her father was transferred from one naval base to another, but for the previous eight years he had been stationed in San Diego. There Laurie had become thoroughly, happily Californian, but when it came time to apply to college, she had refused to limit herself to schools in temperate regions.

When the first winter storm of her freshman year struck the Notre Dame campus, Laurie happily threw on her new blue-and-gold winter gear and raced outside for a snowball fight with her roommates, and soon she and the other residents of Breen-Phillips Hall paired up with the women from the dorm next door in a spirited battle against the residents of the two men's dorms on the opposite side of North Quad.

But by mid-December, winter had lost its allure, and so had letters from home. Her younger sister wrote cheerily of dressing in sandals and short skirts for bike rides along the beach, and
from San Diego State University, her boyfriend described seminars held outside in the shade of palm trees and weekend surf parties.

Late December brought a weeklong ordeal of final exams, fueled by stress, determination, and far too much caffeine and junk food. Up until her Spanish final on the very last slot on the schedule late Friday afternoon, Laurie practically lived in the library, abandoning sleep, exercise, and leisurely meals at North Dining Hall with her friends for fast food gobbled down at the LaFortune Student Center.

When she submitted her Spanish final, she felt proud of herself, confident that she had done well, and relieved, exhausted, and happy. Only when she was nearly finished packing her suitcase for her flight home the next morning did she realize that she had completely neglected her Christmas shopping. She had no desire to spend her first days in the sunshine and warmth of San Diego battling the crowds at the mall, so she threw on her coat and boots and hurried to the campus bookstore to search for gifts before it closed for winter break.

She found a few perfect things for her family and was heading for the checkout line when a guy approached her carrying a hanger in each hand. “Excuse me,” he said. His black pea coat was unbuttoned, offering a glimpse of a burgundy sweater. “Can I ask you a quick question?”

He was tall, at least six feet, with dark green eyes, curly reddish-brown hair, and a build that suggested he ought to be in the Irish Guard. “Sure,” she replied, thinking that she wouldn't mind a lengthy question if he were the one asking.

“I'm trying to pick out a gift for my little sister, and she's about your size. I don't want to insult her by getting something too big, but I want to make sure it's not too small and won't fit.”

Laurie smiled. “Because that would insult her too.”

“Exactly.”

Lowering her voice confidentially, Laurie said, “I wear a size medium.”

“That's what I was going to get. Do you have time for a second question?”

“Absolutely.”

“Which would be a better Christmas present, this”—he presented one hanger, which held a sweatshirt with an embroidered university seal—“or this?” He held out the other, bearing a green cable-knit turtleneck sweater with the interlocking ND logo on the collar.

“It depends. If she's a student at USC, she'll hate them both.”

He grinned. “She's a senior in high school, and she wants to go here next year.”

“Then either one should be fine. Does she usually dress casual or more preppy?”

“Sometimes one, sometimes the other.”

Laurie studied the two garments. “I'd prefer the turtleneck, but that's just me.” She paused, considering. “Do you want me to try them on so you can get a better idea of how they look?”

“Would you really do that? Do you have time?”

“Sure. I'm done with finals and my flight home doesn't leave until tomorrow.”

“Same with me. My roommate finished this morning and he's long gone, but I just took my last exam an hour ago.”

“My roommates finished yesterday.”

“I wish I'd been that lucky.” He raised his eyebrows, hopeful. “You really don't mind?”

“Not at all.” Laurie took the hangers, disappeared into the dressing room, and emerged wearing first the sweatshirt, and then the turtleneck.

“I prefer the sweater on you,” he said, appreciatively, “but I think I'd want my little sister to wear the sweatshirt.”

Laurie laughed. “Of course you would. But the gift is supposed to be about her, not you.”

“Yeah, I guess you're right.” He held up first one, and then the other. “I think I should go with the sweater.”

“I think you've made the right choice.”

“Me too. Thanks for your help.” He replaced the sweatshirt on its proper display rack and turned back to her, smiling. “Hey, after you're finished shopping, do you want to go get a cup of coffee or something?”

She almost said yes, but then she thought of her boyfriend back home. “I can't.”

“That's fine,” he said, poorly concealing his disappointment. “You probably have to pack.”

“Yes, that's it,” she said quickly. “I'm sorry. Really.”

“It's okay.” Turning to go, he added, “Thanks again for your help. Have a great winter break.”

“You too,” she said. “Merry Christmas.”

He smiled at her over his shoulder. “Merry Christmas.”

As soon as she joined the line at the cashier, Laurie began to regret turning him down. So she had a boyfriend. So what? They still could have gone for coffee, just two fellow students relaxing after finals and killing time until they left for home. She craned her neck and searched the nearby aisles, but although his height should have made him easy to find, she saw no sign of him.

Upon her return to campus after winter break, newly single—she and her boyfriend had parted amicably over the holidays—Laurie hoped to run into “the cute bookstore guy,” as she called him when describing the encounter to her roommates, but January passed, and then February, and their paths never crossed. By March she had stopped hoping to catch a glimpse of him while walking across campus or studying at the Hesburgh Library or jogging around the lakes. Soon after spring break she began
dating Matthew, a sophomore pre-med student who lived in Keenan Hall, and her encounter with the cute bookstore guy faded into myth.

One evening after supper in mid-December of her sophomore year, she was in her dorm loading her backpack for a long night of studying at the library when she heard men's voices—hushed questions, muffled laughter—in the hall outside her room. A moment later, a pure, rich tenor sang the opening measures of “The Holly and the Ivy.” As two other tenors, a baritone, and a bass joined in, Laurie and her roommate Mary exchanged quizzical glances, then darted to the door, threw it open, and peered out into the hall. At the far end of the hallway, five young men in formal evening dress—the apparel of the Notre Dame Glee Club, the renowned men's choir—were serenading a young woman, who stood framed in her doorway, enjoying the attention as much as the music. Up and down the hallway other doors opened and curious women looked out, and when the song finished, they all broke into applause.

One of the baritones handed the young woman a flower, and as the singers bowed first to her and then to all their other admirers, Laurie gasped in astonishment. One of the singers, barely recognizable in white tie and severely close-cropped hair, was the cute bookstore guy.

Laurie clutched Mary's arm. “That's him.”

Mary studied the singers as they approached on their way to the stairwell. “Who?”

“Him. The guy from the bookstore.”

“Impossible. You invented him.”

Laurie gave her a little shove. “I did
not
.”