The House of Hawthorne (15 page)

W
e have agreed to marry on June twenty-seventh, 1842.

Nathaniel can no longer bear that I must suffer infirmity without his care; nor can he endure our separation. He finally understands that delaying our marriage is burdening not only our lovers’ hearts, but also our creative spheres. We are meant to be one, and living apart is wounding our tender spirits because they are incomplete.

Just weeks before the date, Nathaniel finally tells his mother and sisters of our plans. His mother’s reaction, which he feared most, is sweet and indicates that she guessed, but his sisters are shocked, and Ebe is especially grieved. My letter to them following his confession is meant as the balm and assurance that their dear Nathaniel will be loved very well by his wife, but it is met with such iciness that the glaciers of the Arctic would grow if exposed to their wintry blasts. I lie in the family parlor—my
state of rest following Connie’s mesmerism having been severely disturbed—while I thrust the letter from Ebe at Nathaniel. My hand trembles and I cannot contain my emotion.

“She writes that she is much pained and will be polite to me because decorum says she must, but she offers no shred of warmth or invitation. I have never known such rudeness in my life!”

Nathaniel’s face is strained and he runs his beautiful fingers over his eyes and rests them on his cheeks.

“I will scold her,” he says. “I am very sorry you have been subjected to this. My delay in telling them was only because I sensed the inevitability of their distress. It is our . . . closeness in our house of solitude and mourning that causes them to behave in such a way. My father’s absence made them elevate me in the household. They fear that I will not be able to support them if I have a wife and family.”

“How can you defend such appalling behavior on the eve of our wedding? This is a time of bliss and congratulation. Even my sister Elizabeth has expressed her pleasure for us, and she might have married you herself!”

Oh, he flinches at this, and I am glad it cuts, shameful though it is to feel this way.

“Only a person of the most selfish nature could put such things in writing to the fiancée of her brother,” I continue. “I hope they do not come.”

His shoulders slump and he looks so wretched that I turn away so I will not allow my pity for him to quench this anger. I so often restrain my frustration for his sake that my relief at its full expression is profound. He comes to my side and reaches for
me. His hands, usually cool and clean, are hot and sweaty. His voice is so low I can barely hear him, as if it requires tremendous effort to utter the words.

“You are right. It destroys me that they have insulted you. I will go at once and reprimand them.”

“Please do.”

“I will. You must not strain yourself so. Creating that bust has brought such a dreadful return of your headaches—and now this controversy! I cannot stand for you to be ill. You must not allow yourself to be agitated, even if it means that you do nothing but take milk and bread by the fireside for the rest of your days.”

“I do not want milk and bread. I want wine and joy. I want our creative communion to begin—you at your desk and me at my easel. Our new Eden. I want it now!”

I pull my hand away, confused as to why I am still so angry with him when he will do as I wish. I have never before felt such sustained impatience with him. I turn back, expecting to see his contrite face, and I am surprised that his countenance has darkened. The blackest storm cloud has covered my sun, and I am chilled to the marrow. He stands and straightens his jacket.

“While we must suffer this airing of grievances,” he says, “I have something I must say that I have referenced repeatedly, but which you have ignored, to my great displeasure.”

Well! This is something. I cannot imagine how he feels the right to scold me at this time. I do not soften my gaze, but sit up straighter.

“I wish you would stop this mesmerism with Connie,” he says.

Nathaniel has spoken each word with such strained
deliberation that he is visibly exhausted. As much as it ails me to be in opposition to the man I will finally take as my husband, I will not bend to him.

“If I do not continue mesmerism with Connie,” I say, “you will not have a wife, because I will have died from my headaches. Tend to your sisters and leave my head to me.”

He looks as if he wants to speak more—his lips tremble and he begins to pace. After a moment, he again meets my gaze. I hear a small voice in my mind that seems not to come from me and so it must be his. It utters just one word.

Please.

His face begs
: Please mind me, naughty Sophy
. His earnestness makes him more beautiful than ever before, and his forehead softens. As much as this conflict hurts my heart, I am in no way in the wrong. I cannot smile for him.

He sighs, smooths his jacket, and reaches for his hat, which he arranges on his head.

“I will go to them now,” he says, kneeling before me to kiss my hand. He stays there and gives me a roguish grin. “But know this: Once you become my wife, you will obey me.”

With that he leaves me in my mother’s parlor. He has spoken lightly, but his words lodge in my brain.

That night, Mother comes to me in my room, where I sit up in bed next to a dying candle, touching the violet brooch Nathaniel gave to me last Christmas. I cherish these interactions because soon I will leave my family for Concord. Mr. Emerson has
secured us his late uncle’s dwelling—the Old Manse—which has lain vacant for a time following the good minister’s death. It is the house I saw on my visit to Concord all those months ago, where I imagined living with Nathaniel in such bliss. But now the prospect of sharing a home fills me with dread.

Mother places a chair at my bedside and her hand on my forehead, which burns with some fever—of illness or love, I cannot say.

“My girl, you must sleep. Your wedding has been so long in coming. You do not want it any more delayed, do you?”

Do I? I am beginning to think I might. I think for a moment that I will not voice my concerns to Mother, so she will not worry, but before I know it, the words are tumbling forth and I am crying in her arms.

“What if I was wrong to accept his proposal?” I say. “What if I break the holy artists’ vow? Perhaps I am not meant for marriage after all.”

“Perhaps you are not. I never thought you were, myself. Who will take care of you as I do?”

“Nathaniel takes just as good of care of me as you, and almost more so! He wants me to cease all artistic endeavors if they cause me the slightest pain. He does not encourage me to push past my headaches. He wants only my comfort and repose.”

“I cannot disagree with him there, Sophia.”

“I know, but Elizabeth, for example, never had any trouble pushing me. Mary too. Now that I am to be married, perhaps they will not feel it is their place to encourage me, and I will
allow my artistry to wither, and will deny my life’s vocation. Is not suffering a calling? Should I not suffer for art’s sake?”

“Hush, now,” says Mother. “You begin to sound like a Catholic martyr.”

I fall back on my pillow, frustrated by this conversation.

“I would be less worried about Nathaniel’s care of you getting in the way of your artistry,” she continues, “and more of the inevitability of children getting in the way.”

“But, Mother, I yearn for children.”

She is quiet for a long while, but finally speaks.

“Children are a great blessing and a great burden, as each of you has been to me. You are not a burden I would not want, but you must face the fact that you are not of hearty constitution, and you do not bear your burdens lightly.”

“Perhaps if I had the burdens of another to bear, I would not be so preoccupied with my own.”

“Perhaps,” she says.

I look at my mother and her careworn face. She will not talk me into or out of this marriage. She will tell me the plain truth and leave the decision to me. How I long for her to dominate me with opinions, but she simply plants a kiss on my forehead, pulls the covers up to my chin, and leaves me alone to pass another sleepless night.

“Awaken,” says Connie.

I blink my heavy eyelids, and my bedroom comes into focus.
My limbs feel weighted and my head thick, but there is no pain in me, save the ache in my heart that agonizes over my impending nuptials.

“Will you tell him I visited you today?” asks Connie with a smirk, while placing the magnets she has run over my body in a velvet drawstring bag.

“I will. I keep nothing from mine ownest.”

“He will chastise you and dislike me further. I know it is because he finds me eccentric.”

What she says is true, but I do not owe my friend the truth. Connie’s husband left her to seek employment out west during the Panic of 1837. He said he would send for her, but never has. If Connie carries any pain from the separation, she does not share it; in fact, her freedom as a married woman living alone is quite enviable. Still, I will not confirm any of my husband’s prejudices to her.

“You are fascinating, and I would not change you for the world,” I say, embracing my friend before she leaves me. “Do remember to take your payment. Father left the money on the fireplace downstairs.”

“Thank you. And when shall I dress for the wedding? What is the new date?”

“I have sent Mary to Salem to tell Nathaniel that we should wait a week more, just to make sure I am well. I want to be healthy and strong when we wed, so I may begin my life as a wife under the best possible circumstances.”

Connie looks as if she wishes to reply, and must talk herself
out of doing so, for she remains quiet. I feel a shiver in spite of the warm day.

The following week passes in a flurry of letters and preparations. Our belongings are slowly being shipped to Concord, and while my headaches persist, I feel an opening in my chest that allows room for hope. I have also allowed Dr. Wesselhoeft to treat me with the more conventional means of homeopathy, which pleases my husband. My new doctor is kind and gentle in his care, and I am beginning to feel better.

Nathaniel has sent me a letter full of terrors that plague him in the form of nightmares over my mesmerism with Connie, and the scandal that might ensue to have my name associated with such a controversial practice, but he has ended with promises for patience at my rehabilitation, faith in our love, and exclamations of his own adoration. It cheers me to sense such commitment in this latest epistle, because the postponement has depressed his spirits. In my darkest heart, I am somewhat gratified that he must struggle with impatience during this short time as I have over these long months. Now he knows exactly how his dove has felt all along.

On the ninth of July, we wed in my family’s parlor, surrounded by my parents, sisters, and Connie. The reverend James Clarke performs the service for two grown adults who are as nervous as children. Mary and Mother smile while they dab their tears. Elizabeth’s eyes are as dry as the wood in the fireplace, and her figure just as stiff.

I feel disconnected from the occasion at its start. Just as
Nathaniel enters the room, Reverend Clarke—who has been remarking on how honored he is to preside over the wedding of one of America’s few published authors—must be shocked by my husband’s beautiful and youthful appearance, because he becomes very awkward and nervous, and cannot tear his eyes from Nathaniel’s face.