The Whale (5 page)

Herman woke early and slipped out of bed, while Lizzie snored into her pillow. They had written a letter to Lizzie's father immediately, requesting a loan against her inheritance in order to buy a house in the Berkshires, spelling out the reasons why this idea made sense; but the letter had lain on the bedside table for three days now, waiting to be posted. Lizzie was still too overwhelmed by the enormity of the idea to act on it, and Herman felt absolutely mad every time he saw Judge Shaw's name on the envelope.
Dollars
, he thought. Every time he saw Robert, he thought
dollars
. Every time he saw his hopeless manuscript on Robert's desk, he thought
dollars
. The only thought he had now that didn't immediately spiral into money was
Hawthorne
.

He splashed water on his face from a basin near the window. He was looking out at the surprisingly clear blue skies overhead when his eye wandered to the little mirror on his bedside table and, in the reflection, he saw a strange envelope lying on the floor near the bedroom door. He tiptoed over and picked it up. It was addressed to him, in handwriting he did not recognize. He opened it and unfolded a sheet of ivory-hued stationery. The penmanship seemed hasty, the letters thin and spidery in some places and blotchy and dark in others.

August 21, 1850

Lenox

My dear Melville,

A peddler passed this way late this afternoon, selling from his cart wreathes of laurel, diamonds, golden crowns and various magical appurtenances, quite reasonably priced, but I sent him away disappointed, saying that I would trade all of his shiny baubles for a few volumes of prose, which would be worth far more in the end. Unfortunately, he had no items of prose and no similar salesman freighted with novels has yet appeared in Lenox, so I have asked Duyckinck to send me some volumes from New York and asked him further to send them by way of Pittsfield, in the hope that you might bring them on a visit to me, should it not prove too much an inconvenience. I must also compound the impertinence by requesting, moreover, if you would not mind, that you pick up a package that is awaiting us at the apothecary's in Pittsfield, under my name. It will cost about $1.50, which I will repay when you come.

Incidentally, I wanted to tell you something, a coincidence which I neglected to mention at the more appropriate time when we met on Monument Mountain, but which I find too curious not to relate; namely, that my father was a mariner—but wait! I have not said all—and that he died of a fever in Surinam! Perhaps this coincidence is not noteworthy to you, since you, no doubt, are acquainted with many more mariners than I, and succumbing to fevers in tropical climes must be counted a hazard of the profession. But I overheard your talk of fevers on our hike up the mountain, and how your father and brother both died of fevers, which put me
naturally in mind of mine own father's death, and I thought this detail about him must interest you. I wonder how many of our authors these days have had fathers who died of fevers? It does not seem the most direct path to literary success, but who can decode the secret designs of providence?

My son Julian has just advised me that the elm leaves outside will not turn golden without our supervision, so I must attend to Mother Nature and bid you farewell until your visit to Lenox.

Nath. Hawthorne

P.S. Duyckinck has said that he would be sending the books right away, and the sooner I have them in my hands, the better. You have my thanks in advance.

Herman walked back to the window with the letter and tried to comprehend its meanings, so rich did it seem with intimations of fate and noble contemplations and intimacy, and even its simplest thoughts seemed knotty with charming complications. His palms sweated with delight. He reread it several times while Lizzie groaned and turned in bed, twisting the covers and pillow around her to form a cave of darkness against the morning. Should I hide it? he thought. Was anything here suggestive or secret? Was the intimacy all in his mind? Hawthorne's father had died of a fever. Well, what of it? Hawthorne had confirmed what Duyckinck had said, that he had asked Duyckinck to send some books by Melville. What of that? Was it so unusual? No, on the surface nothing here suggested untoward intimacy, and yet Herman hid the letter between the pages of his copy of
Mosses from an Old Manse
and set it on the dresser behind a clock.

He recited the contents of the letter over in his head, having already memorized not only the words but also the texture of the
paper and the elegant curves of the lines across the page, the heavy blots in the middle of f's and the tails of g's. Why had Hawthorne begun the letter with talk of laurels and crowns and magic? Was it a covert token of the gallantry he felt toward Herman, as Herman felt toward him? What medicine awaited Hawthorne at the apothecary's? Was Hawthorne ill? Did he have some chronic condition, and was this his way of confiding it to Herman? But the fever, the fever! Yes, Hawthorne knew what it meant to lose a father to fever, and perhaps even to madness. Why had he fixed his attention on this talk of fathers, fever or no? Did Hawthorne himself suffer some malady that made him fear for his sanity, and did he foresee a death in fever and madness? Was the blackness Herman had perceived in
Mosses from an Old Manse
a result of some secret that Hawthorne was now trying to confess in this letter? But no, it was all too much!

Herman removed the letter from between the pages of Hawthorne's book and read it again. He knew that he was becoming carried away, interpreting secret messages where nothing but commonplace statements existed. The fevers were simply biographical coincidences, and Hawthorne was thinking less of mad fathers and more of the fact that both Herman and Hawthorne's own father had been mariners—the letter, in fact, said nothing deeper than that, and perhaps the apothecary was holding foot powder. No, there was nothing cryptic here or even interesting, Herman thought. And to close the letter, Hawthorne must have mentioned Julian because it was simply true that Julian had interrupted him at just that moment with a childish remark about the trees. Nothing could have been more banal. Yet Hawthorne had revealed that he had been eavesdropping on Herman's conversation during that hike up the mountain!

Was it all a code? Oh, what did it all mean? He turned the letter over and wished more writing would appear on the opposite side, but the statement was complete as he had read it. He returned it to
its sacred envelope, replaced it between the pages of Hawthorne's book, and slipped the book once again behind the dresser clock, which ticked infernally.

Herman resumed washing his face. Malcolm stirred. Lizzie sat up in bed and stretched and yawned.

 • • • 

Herman and Lizzie descended the stairs, Lizzie bouncing Malcolm against her chest. When they reached the dining room, they found a package waiting for Herman on the table, and his heart leapt yet again. The dominoes of fate tumbled so quickly once the first had fallen. The package was addressed to the “Literary Lion of Lenox,” in care of “Admiral Herman Melville” at Broad Hall, and it was rather larger than Herman had expected, a hefty cube wrapped in brown paper and twine. The twine crisscrossed the bundle in helter-skelter patterns, as if a mad spider had spent all its silk in a fit of drunken pique, and knots abounded, five times more knots than were required—butterfly knots, bowline loops, figure eights, constrictors, sheepshanks, square knots, and half hitches. The absurd configurations were Duyckinck's joke, a way of poking fun at Herman's ceaseless aggrandizements of the “ways of the sailor,” and Herman fingered the loops and cinches appreciatively, all neatly and expertly tied: he admired nothing more than an elaborate and carefully executed joke. He hefted the package by the twine and it held together splendidly, even while the individual books shifted and strained against their paper wrapping.

On the table beneath the package, Herman discovered two copies of the latest
Literary World
; he set Hawthorne's books aside and flipped to his own review of
Mosses
, which he scanned for typographical errors. It was remarkably clean, considering how quickly Duyckinck had rushed it to press, and the rest of the issue was similarly of the moment—he must have assembled it on the train, Herman thought, and stayed up all that night setting it. His heart swelled with pride.

Lizzie went into the kitchen and fanned the fire in the stove. “Would you like oats or eggs, Herman?”

“I believe I'll head out to Lenox,” Herman said. “I promised to deliver these books as soon as they came.”

“Without breakfast?”

“I'll have a crust of bread and then saddle Lollie. Robert won't mind. I'll post our letter to your father on the way.”

“I have been thinking about that letter,” Lizzie said. “I don't think we ought to send it.”

“But surely the next thing to do is ask your father for an advance,” said Herman, panicking. “How else could we even begin to look for a house, without knowing the means available to purchase one?”

“I agree. But I think the letter is dishonest.”

“Dishonest?” Herman cried.

“Maybe not dishonest, precisely. When we wrote it, I thought the idea of taking on more debt was utterly foolish, and I feel that the version we've written reflects my prejudice against the idea. I wrote it just to please you. But it is the wrong approach, because we have told him only the benefits of such a move to us and Malcolm. I believe we ought rather to explain how it might help our whole family—both of our families.”

“Oh.” Herman was perplexed, and pleased. “You sound more favorably disposed.”

“Let me make you a cup of tea.”

Herman set Duyckinck's magazine back on the table. The Sirens were singing celestial odes of Hawthorne in Herman's ears, piercingly beautiful songs beckoning him to Lenox; but he saw the possibility of crashing against the rocks, as well, and he recognized that it would be better to lash himself to the mast for the duration of a breakfast than destroy himself through foolish haste. Destroying oneself, he thought ruefully, should always be done at a deliberate pace.

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Herman. “Forgive me—how foolish. Tea!” With superhuman effort, he sat down at the table and resigned himself to breakfast and an hour's delay, a most melancholy hour set against the projected joy of seeing Hawthorne's face again—but as anguished as he felt at this suspension of pleasure, he knew that the hour before him would ultimately provide richer happiness than he had ever known before, if Lizzie had decided to supplicate her father earnestly for help.

“I believe your next book could be successful—there is no reason it should not be—but we must think about something of lasting benefit that our entire family could count on, in proposing such a new expense, in the event that people do not buy your book in great quantities.”

The idea offended Herman's vanity, but he saw the wisdom in it: what might Judge Shaw receive in this bargain, if Herman bankrupted himself as Robert had? “Well, if we bought a farm—”

“Yes, I know,” Lizzie said. “You could plant us each a row of corn.”

“What did you have in mind, then?”

“What if we offered our home as a place for my father to retire? When he's ready, he and my stepmother might come to live with us, and we could care for them in the same way we care for your mother now. Might we not find a home spacious enough for my parents to have a room of their own, just as you said each of the other family members might have?”

“Yes,” he cried, with triumphant relief. How crazily his emotions whirled and pounded. “Let it be so!”

“And I could offer to bring our best heirlooms, our antiques, to the Berkshires, to furnish our home—we would have them for our practical use now, and my father could still enjoy them on visits and then when he retires.”

“Indeed,” Herman cried again. “Very sensible!” He pounded the table.

Lizzie said, “I thought that, after breakfast, we could rewrite the letter together, and I know my father would think much more favorably of it than the letter we wrote before.”

“Wonderful, thank you, Lizzie.” He stood up and kissed her cheek. “But you should not worry yourself about the prospects of my next book. It will be such a success that we'll build a whole wing on our new house for your parents.”

Lizzie poured them each a cup of tea and gave him plates to set on the table. He sat down again and placed his hand on Hawthorne's package. The morning air blistered Herman's skin with happiness.

“Eggs or oats, then?”

“Eggs.”

Herman's mother would soon be down, and when they told her that they were thinking of buying a house here, a predictable battle of wills would begin between Lizzie and Maria, especially when Maria learned that Judge Shaw might tip the balance of power in their household toward Lizzie—but none of that mattered now. Lizzie fried eggs and made oats for Malcolm and tried out different phrases that they might use in their letter; and Herman waxed poetic about the beauty of the Berkshires, thinking of botanicals in the woods roundabout that might especially please the judge. He ate quickly and then fed Malcolm while Lizzie wrote a new letter to her father, and in no time at all, he was out in the barn saddling Robert's horse.

 • • • 

At the Pittsfield Post Office, Herman pressed the letter to Judge Shaw between his hands in a gesture of prayer and then handed it reverentially to the clerk. Once it was out of his hands, he felt giddy and light. He stopped at the apothecary's and collected the small box that awaited Hawthorne there—an extraordinarily heavy white box that fit in the palm of Herman's hand—and then set off at a canter for Lenox. An occasional cool breeze relieved the oppressive
swelter of summer; but the bluebottles and mosquitoes that pestered Robert's horse found Herman, as well, and he swatted and smacked his own skin, balancing Hawthorne's package precariously in front of him, a loop of its crazy twine lassoed around the saddle horn. He tried to absorb all the details of the landscape between Broad Hall and Lenox afresh, using a sailor's trick that he had learned from a Tahitian harpooner: instead of looking—actively directing his gaze to various points around him—he simply opened his eyes and saw, allowing the natural functioning of his orbs to convey images to his mind. In this manner, concentrating on removing all judgment from his impressions, he prevented himself from becoming anxious about his journey to Hawthorne and instead made a passive, moment-by-moment record of the sights and sounds of the day. This trick had always proved especially useful when, after many weeks on the high seas, out of sight of land, a ship's captain would announce that they were bound for a port yet many days away, and to check the painful impatience of anticipation, it became necessary to live entirely in the moment. Herman now blanked his mind and trotted along as if he had many leagues yet to travel.