The House of Hawthorne (14 page)

N
athaniel has left his appointment at the custom house and now resides at George Ripley’s utopian community, Brook Farm, in Roxbury, Massachusetts.

Nathaniel’s April arrival there was inauspicious. A late snowstorm and a severe head cold left him in Margaret Fuller’s care. Margaret frequently visits the community, though she is not an official member, and her presence gives Nathaniel much peace, and me much turmoil. Her admiration of and proximity to him test my forbearance.

I travel by stagecoach from Boston to Roxbury, all the while wishing I could ride one of the horses pulling it instead of suffering from the odors of my fellow passengers. One never knows whom one must share a ride with in public transport, and I am unfortunate to be seated between a snoring old woman and a young, portly man with garlic on his breath. I lean over him as
much as propriety will allow to take in gulps of fresh air outside the window. Believing I wish to get a better view of the surrounding countryside, the man is gentleman enough to offer me his window seat, which I accept with many thanks.

Eager as I am to see Nathaniel, there is a piece of me that is as anxious to observe his interactions with Margaret, and to look on what will become our marriage home once the community is thriving. Nathaniel thinks that will be soon, and believes the manual farm labor and bucolic scenery will prepare him well for our union and his writing. I certainly hope so, because he has invested two five-hundred-dollar shares in Brook Farm, and that is nearly the extent of our earthly funds. I have recently sold a portrait for a decent sum—a bas-relief of Mr. Emerson’s now deceased and beloved brother, Charles. More than the money, Emerson’s admiration of my likeness of a man so well loved has filled my soul with confidence and gratitude for this artistic gift God has bestowed upon me. It has also given me new hope that my art might contribute to a household income on a regular basis.

The sun evaporates the morning mists from the gentle hills, and just ahead I see what must be the silhouette of Brook Farm. I can imagine myself nestled here with my love in pastoral society, painting and working in the community that seems so remote yet is in such close proximity to our dear families. I now understand it is God, not Nathaniel, who has made us wait these long months, and for good reason. He has been creating our perfect home.

As I draw closer to Brook Farm, my heart further lifts. This old dairy farm, located along the banks of the Charles River on two hundred acres, will be a model for a new America—one
founded on the ideals of abolition, equal education for all, and women’s rights. These transcendentalist Unitarians will show the country how we can all serve one another in perfect harmony with man and nature, and I am filled with pride that my husband is at the genesis of such a society.

I nearly jump out of the coach when I behold a figure in the mist watching the road. I would recognize Nathaniel anywhere. He cannot help his eager hand from waving, and I reach my arm out the window and return his greeting until I am near enough to descend from the coach and leap into his arms. He swings me around, and our laughter and salutations echo off the verdant hills. When he places me on the ground, I catch sight of Margaret, who emerges from a door. She raises her hand in welcome and nods, but the shadow from the threshold mutes her expression.

Soon a group has joined us, and after we retrieve my bags, Nathaniel leads me into “the Hive,” as they call it, the old farmhouse that serves as a gathering space. I smell warm sausage and the sweet aroma of bread and cream, and I am enfolded into the community. As our breakfast progresses, I am impressed by the youth and vitality of those around me. Most of the residents are young and unmarried, and share equitably in the chores.

“If someone does not like working with the hoe, she may milk cows,” says George Ripley.

“And if one does not enjoy ironing, he may slop pig stalls,” says his wife, Sophia.

I watch Nathaniel, and feel a heaviness settle in my heart. He has barely spoken throughout this meal, though he wears a pleasant smile. Try as I might, I cannot imagine my Apollo slopping
or ironing. He was made to write—not to engage in physical toil. How can he be happy here?

“And what if one wishes to lie on a bale of hay and contemplate the sunrise?” I ask. “What is his place at the farm?”

There is a titter of laughter. Nathaniel stares at his breakfast, but I see a small smile on his lips.

“We all must have time for leisure,” says Ripley, “but not until the chores are done.”

“Mrs. Ripley has been kind enough to attach book holders to ironing boards so one might read while working,” says Margaret. “I have to confess that my page count often exceeds the number of pressed garments.”

We share another laugh, and continue our meal until the clearing of the dishes.

Nathaniel rolls up his sleeves and begins to wash plates, handing them to me for drying, and I to Margaret for shelving. Mr. Ripley collects the napkins and table coverings for washing, and Mrs. Ripley wipes down the benches. Others sweep the floor, collect leftovers for the pig, and disperse for farm chores.

“You work together as gracefully as the notes of a symphony,” I say. “How natural you all are at utopian living.”

“You might not say so if you join us at the barn,” says Mr. Ripley. “Many of us have spent more time in offices and classrooms than in cow stalls, but we are learning.”

“And we are taking copious notes,” says Margaret. “I need my freedom to come and go, so I have not joined on paper, but I share what we learn with other societies and in salons in Boston. I am hopeful that more people will soon join.”

“Like me, someday,” I say.

Nathaniel looks at me for a moment, but then returns to his task. I imagine that he enjoys washing dishes because he may turn his back on people and not have to participate in the conversation. There is a tension about him, and I am eager to leave our chores to further probe my love. When we finish, Nathaniel takes me by the hand and leads me out of the building, nodding at those we encounter. They nod back at him, but I am sad to see that no real warmth, only politeness, is exchanged. As we pass the barns and manure piles, Nathaniel shudders.

“Come quickly,” he says. “It is a relief to spend my day with you instead of shoveling those disgusting hills of dung. And I thought the custom house made for dirty work.”

“At least one may breathe in the fresh country air,” I say.

“Not when pounds of manure are under your nostrils.”

We start along the Charles River. I sense some relaxation in Nathaniel’s sphere the farther we get from the barns, but his furrowed brow betrays his inner turmoil. I know better than to bring up my worries to this man who does not like to acknowledge darkness, so I simply give him the news from Boston and Salem, which he receives with interest. Our hike takes us to the edge of a forest where Nathaniel says venerable Indians are known to frolic. He finds an arrowhead, which he lifts, brushes off, and presents to me.

“Maybe it is a sign of good luck,” he says.

I pull him close, and he wraps his arm around me.

“Of course it is,” I say. “Our union is blessed, and surely will be soon.”

“All in good time,” he says.

I try not to stiffen at his maddening patience, but he has felt my body change, and does not ask why. I pull away and calm my emotions until I am able to say with a lift in my voice, “I long to see the little abode where we will finally reside together. Where Margaret nursed you back to good health, bless her. Take me to it.”

His eyes narrow and he seems about to chastise me when none other than Margaret herself emerges from the woods like a nymph. How she has reached the forest behind us from where she was working earlier, I do not know, and I am chilled at her sudden presence. I have conjured the very woman I do not wish to see. She ignores Nathaniel, however, and comes to me, slipping her arm through mine. I feel her warmth at my side, and I am surprised by both the comfort it affords and by the contrast to Nathaniel’s cool torso. I dare to look at Margaret, and see her plain face arranged so kindly that I soften toward her.

“I am glad you are here,” she says. “Nathaniel did not seem a whole person until he had you at his side.”

I am surprised by her speech, and unable to find my voice.

“Mr. Ripley has many ideals that will be enacted well here, but I know that not all men and women are made for such living.”

She glances over her shoulder at Nathaniel, who now trails us with his hands in his pockets. He cannot take his eyes off the grassy path. We walk along in silence, though not peace, and I am confused to distraction. Is Margaret trying to show me that she has no wish to take Nathaniel? To assure me that no trust has been breached? To excuse Nathaniel from yet another place where he does not seem to belong? Margaret saves me from my internal
musings by stopping and taking both of my hands in hers. I turn and see that Nathaniel lags farther behind, and still does not look at us.

“I nursed him for you, my friend,” she says.

I turn back to her, and when I am convinced of her sincerity, my relief is so great that I feel I will cry. She pulls me into an embrace, and when we release our grasp, Nathaniel is upon us. Margaret turns me toward a tidy row of cottages.

“Nathaniel is strong and ready for his companion,” says Margaret. “He speaks of nothing but his dear dove to anyone who will listen. I am happy to listen, because I too am enchanted by you, his sweet artist, and long to see a successful union of heart and mind.”

My emotion is great, but I am finally able to speak. “Thank you, Margaret. You have expressed so beautifully what I often think about the true meaning of marriage.”

She transfers my arm to Nathaniel’s, and we walk to one of the dwellings, where he opens the door. The brightness outside makes it difficult for me to see the room at first. Out of the shadows first emerge my husband’s bed and a small desk and chair, where a stack of writing paper and a pencil rest. I can imagine him penning his letters of love and longing to me alone in this room, and I am filled with pity for my solitary husband. There are two tiny windows that do not allow in much light, and a fireplace where I see the remains of burned papers that I know must be stories he started but considered unworthy of being completed. I am moved at the thought of him destroying his work, of doing labor he hates in order to support me. We step in, and once I behold my
paintings on the wall over the fireplace, I can no longer stop my tears. He does care for me. He wants me with him always. He does not love this Margaret and she is no threat. In fact, she has gone, shutting the door, leaving us alone together.

When my eyes meet Nathaniel’s, I see that his too have a shine, and I fall into his arms, where I am met with a fierce passion I do not anticipate. He kisses me until I cannot breathe.

“How can you doubt me?” he says. “Do I not tell you of my love often enough? Do I not express with every stroke of my pencil how I long for you?”

“You do,” I cry. “It is my fault. Being apart from you breeds a doubt that permeates my soul. I loathe our separation.”

“I do, too,” he says, burying his face in my neck and covering it with kisses that light a fire in me.

Before I know what is happening, we are moving to the bed, and he lies on top of me, continuing to steal my breath with his weight and passion. I answer his kisses as never before, and I am aware of a swelling that ignites something in me that longs for satisfaction. I place my hands in his soft hair and feel him lifting my dress. His motion has become frantic, and I am suddenly overwhelmed by the power of our passion.

“Stop,” I say, softly at first and then with more force. “Nathaniel! We must stop.”

He becomes still, though I can feel our hearts pounding in unison, as if they wish to escape from our chests. He trembles in my arms and I roll him to his side and bury my face in his plain woolen vest, which holds the scent of the wind in the meadow.

“I do not want to stop,” I say. “And soon we will not be able
to, so we must marry. As quickly as possible. Then we may rightfully share this room, and quench this longing.”

He is quiet, and the throbbing in our hearts and bodies subsides. The room has become clearer now that my eyes have adjusted to the light, and I am struck by how small and plain it is, and how close it is to the people wandering just outside the door—people who could peek in at any moment and find us in bed together.

When Nathaniel speaks, his voice is ragged and tired, and I am again sunk.

“I fear we will never share this room,” he says. I look at him and it seems to take a great deal of courage for him to utter what follows.

“I wish to leave the farm.”

A
ten-year-old girl—blind, deaf, and dumb—sits before me, illuminated by the light pouring in from the tall windows here at the Perkins School for the Blind in Boston. She is at once human and spirit, a quiet angel with a presence of calm and innocence. I long to wrap her in protective arms, so vulnerable is she. Her name is Laura Bridgman, and a teacher sits with her, finger spelling on her arm when the girl becomes agitated. A bout of scarlet fever when Laura was only two years old left her in this insensate state, but her intelligence and capacity for learning are legendary. As are her tantrums, I am told.

Samuel Howe, the director, has commissioned me to make a bust—my first fully three-dimensional clay creation—that will be copied in schools for the blind across the country. I feel I am answering a calling in this work. At once I will immortalize Laura and advance my own future, and I hope to replace some of
the money we lost at Brook Farm. Like Nathaniel, I had thought our investment was a good one, but we were both wrong. It did not take long for him to see that Mr. Ripley was a man of high ideals and little action, and that communal living was unsuitable for Nathaniel, as it was for many. I did not argue with Nathaniel when he decided to leave, and even supported him in his decision, though it set us further back financially.

Nathaniel does now seem to take more seriously the idea that my art might supplement our income. It seems that this progression—from flat pencil sketches, to oil paintings, to bas-relief, and now this bust—is developing my artistic talents at a fascinating rate. My bas-relief of Emerson’s deceased brother brought me the notoriety to receive this commission of a sculpture, if only my pulsing head will cooperate.

I stop and press my wrists to my temples, careful not to get plaster in my hair. I will call on Connie for mesmerism later this day, though I must not tell Nathaniel. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and will myself to continue, but the teacher at Laura’s side speaks, again halting me.

“You immortalize her well, Miss Peabody,” she says.

“Thank you. Do you think she understands what we are doing?”

“Let us see. May I have her touch you and the plaster?”

“It is still wet.”

“I will make sure she is gentle.”

I nod my approval, and the teacher spells on Laura’s arm. The girl becomes animated, and in seconds she is at my side. I am uneasy about the thought of her exploring my body, but realize
she will learn something from it, and attempt to relax myself so she does not sense my wariness.

Laura’s thin fingers kiss my skin like butterfly wings, and I soon enter a state not unlike mesmerism. She first explores my hair, tugging and pulling so gently I am reminded of Josepha’s fingers in my ringlets, and then moving down my face and touching my eyes, and then her own, which she keeps covered with a cloth. She stays there awhile, so I keep my eyes closed, becoming sleepy under the pressure of her fingers. When she moves on, she does not seem to be interested in my nose or my plain mouth, but when she reaches my shoulders she spends time pressing them and kneading them before allowing her hands to travel down my arms, which I now use to reach out to my creation. She follows the curve down to my fingertips, and starts when she reaches my wet hands and the plaster cast. I stiffen, fearing that she will ruin my progress today, when her teacher begins a rapid spelling on the girl’s arm.

Laura holds her face down and to the side, as if trying to understand, and a few minutes of spelling pass before she lifts her head and smiles. She places one hand gently on the plaster cast, and the other on her own face, and seems transfixed. Tears wet her blindfold, though she smiles. I feel tears spring to my own eyes, and thank God for allowing me to share in this moment. These small, human discoveries are the essence of earthly joy, and I cannot wait to tell Nathaniel of it.

After a minute or two, Laura pulls away, and her teacher leads her to a towel to wipe the plaster from her fingers while I
repair the slight disturbance she has made between the eyes of the bust. While I sit to admire my work, Laura begins to moan and cry. Her teacher raises her hand when I start to stand.

“It will be all right,” she says. “Sometimes she has fits of emotion. I can only imagine that her condition overwhelms her.”

“I understand,” I say, filled with pity for this creature so separated from the joys of the world. I would wither if I could not behold a sunset, or smell a gardenia, or hear the birds sing, or listen to a piano sonata. I am ashamed to find that I am unable to stop my own tears, and I am soon in the full clutches of a plaguesome headache. I reach for a towel to wipe my hands; it is clear that we are done for today.

Suddenly Laura rushes at me and clings to me, her little head resting on my bosom, against my pounding heart. I wrap my arms around her and place my head on hers, moved by the very clear feelings of gratitude and melancholy pulsing from this child. I attempt to convey my feelings back to her, and the physical warmth of our embrace seems to stimulate a cataract of images in my mind.

In rapid succession—almost as if I am dreaming—I feel the embraces of the Morrell children; Don Fernando’s lips on my hand; the oil on my fingers from cleaning the Magdalene portrait in Cuba; George’s clammy form at my side in his deathbed; and Nathaniel! The moment our eyes first met each other’s, his mouth on my neck in his apartment, his
self
swollen toward me at Brook Farm.

These impressions of physical stimulation outside of art bring on a headache like those I get when I create. Will all forms of
acute sensory stimulation result in infirmity, or do I become ill because the sensations are incomplete, unrealized, and unfulfilled?

I pull away, blind from the pressure in my head that has surpassed any pain I have ever felt. I hear the teacher’s voice call for help, and then it is as if a black veil falls over the room.