Thoreau in Love (29 page)

The youth asked Henry if he’d like to go with him up to the meadow. “We could sit, enjoy the day.” Henry was tempted, but then the youth gave him worse butterflies when he said, “And if we get the urge, there’s lots of private places I know.”

The Harper Brothers seemed not nearly so scary as the youth’s daunting offer. “I wish I could,” said Henry. “But I’ve got work to do.”

“Okay,” said the youth. “It was nice
talking
to you.” As Henry cut off from one herd into another, he watched the cows head across Ann toward the grand edifice of the Astor House hotel, mooing and pissing and shitting as if in a barnyard! Astonishing.

A deafening whistle blown by a constable with leather lungs stopped Henry and the horse carts, even the cows. In the pause the constable—the only one Henry had seen in all his time in Manhattan—escorted a very pregnant young woman across Pearl Street.

Finally Henry came to Franklin Square, which he thought had been named for the eminent Philadelphian but in fact was named for the merchant whose edifice dominated the small square. There’s Cliff Street, and there’s 331 Pearl. Henry summoned his courage, set his teeth and entered the offices of Harper & Brothers.

A busy bookkeeper sat at a high desk situated between two doors. Henry approached the man and said, “Good morning, sir.”

Without looking up, the bookkeeper said, “A good day to you.”

“I’m Henry Thoreau, here to see Mr. Fletcher Harper, with an introduction from Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson.”

The man barely lifted his eyes from his accounts. “
Whom
may I say is calling?”

Henry repeated what he’d just said. The man didn’t move. “May I see the letter?”

“It’s for Mr. Harper.”

“That’s fine, young man,” said the bookkeeper, though he was barely older than Henry, at least in years, for his spirit seemed to have been knocked from him at birth. “But nothing goes to Mr. Harper without going through Mr. Demarest.”

“And who is Mr. Demarest?”

“You’re talking to Mr. Demarest,” he said, and, without looking up, held out his long, pale hand. Realizing he wouldn’t get past Mr. Demarest, Henry handed over Waldo’s letter. Before even opening it, Mr. Demarest, still without looking up, said, “And what is it you’re here for?”

Henry didn’t want this knave to know his business, that he wanted to get into the publishing world, so he said, “I have a submission for Mr. Harper.”

“Do you now?” said Demarest, condescension exuding every pore.

Without raising an eye Demarest again held out his pale hand, and when Henry didn’t respond, he said, “Come, give it here. I told you, everything goes through Mr. Demarest.”

Henry handed over “A Winter Walk,” which Demarest unfolded and began to read. Quickly through the first page and momentarily to the second he went, snidely smiling and snorting, then he noisily skipped the middle pages and went right to the last, with no attempt to conceal his misdeed. When he’d finished his abbreviated reading, he held out Henry’s story and letter from Emerson and said through tight lips, “No, no, I’m sorry. This will not do.”

Henry was aghast. Immobile.

“Please, please,” said Demarest. “Take it from me. This is not what we’re looking for.”

Henry couldn’t believe this clerk had the temerity to turn him down, and to disregard Emerson’s letter. “Do you know who Waldo Emerson is?”

“Mister, uh. . . .”

“Thoreau.”

“Thoreau. This company makes fifty thousand dollars a year. Do you think we need to risk that on an unknown—”

“An unknown Ralph Waldo Emerson says is—”

At that moment a boy with fire-red hair burst through the front door with a packet. “I got it, I got it. Straight from
Britannia
. We rowed out and met her at Bedloe’s. Before any of the others knew, we had it!” He proudly held up his packet. A new life injected into Mr. Demarest; he leaped up, grabbed the packet, saying, “Good work, Jack,” and ran like a chicken through the doorway to the back, calling, “Mr. Harper, Mr. Harper.” The red-haired Jack stood proud as a peacock, polishing his breast with his knuckles. After a few uncomfortable minutes of silence, Henry asked, “What is it you got at Bedloe’s?”

“That’s the latest from Britain. Got a Dickens
and
a Carlyle. They’ll be in our number afore any of them others even know we got ’em. Oh, and won’t them boys be pissed. Sittin’ on the dock, waitin’ on
Britannia
to get past the harbor master.”

The door from the back flew open. Two men preceded Mr. Demarest, “Well done, Jack Boland,” said the first, giving Jack what looked like a quarter-eagle gold coin. “We’re setting it into type as we speak.”

“And no one’s even read it,” said Henry.

Jack said, “Thank you, Mr. Harper.”

The man with the thin lips, high forehead and oh so large nose, was Mr. Fletcher Harper; the other, behind him, with whiskers, dark eyes and the same nose, was Joseph Harper.

“Mr. Harper,” said Henry. “Mr. Waldo Emerson gave me this to give you.” He held out the letter. Not at all interested, Fletcher Harper said, “Yes, we know. Mr. Demarest told us.”

“He did? Well, how could he? He’s only been gone. . . .”

“He’s very efficient. He told us you submitted a story as well.”

An older man, obviously another Harper brother, entered from the rear. Henry went on: “Not really submitted, sir, since he alone read it, and only cursorily.”

“We rely on Mr. Demarest,” said the man who’d just entered. He introduced himself. “James Harper. And you are. . . ?”

“Thoreau, sir. Henry Thoreau.”

“Please, Mr. Thoreau, feel free to submit something else.”

Henry burst. “Is this what it is to be a New York publisher? The latest from England comes in and you put it into type without even reading it, and yet an American writes a story Waldo Emerson praises to the hilt, and you let your accounts man decide it’s not good enough for you?”

“Mr. Thoreau, please,” James Harper said, attempting to calm Henry. Fletcher and Joseph Harper exchanged glances and escaped to the back.

“You think you know it all, but you don’t even see what’s going on outside your front door.”

Mr. Demarest tried to nudge Henry out, saying, “Mr. Thoreau, this is a place of business,” but James Harper stopped him. “Tell us, Mr. Thoreau, what is going on outside our door?”

“America,” said Henry, and though he felt a fool for making such an obnoxious statement, he plowed on. “In case you haven’t heard, we’re no longer the queen’s colony. We’ve something of our own, and it’s growing out there. And in here.” Henry beat his breast. “And it’s not the commerce, it’s not the business of America, not the railroads, not the steamboat lines: it’s the spirit of the individual. Of each and every one of us. . . . You think I’m a nuisance, a weed to be pulled from your precious dirt, your ersatz English garden. But what I am’s indigenous. Rake and hoe, dig all you want. My roots are deep. I’ll creep in the cracks of your fortified walls, suck the life from your drooping maids. Thrive I shall!” James Harper and Demarest were dumbfounded. Henry continued.

“You put into type any English pulp you can get your thieving hands on, not because it’s good but because it’s from England. And free. Dickens and Carlyle are gods to you. Me, I’m nothing, because I’m an American. Emerson’s nothing because he’s American. But you have no idea what America is. Look outside. Look!” Henry pulled open the door; light poured in.

“This is America!” said Henry, sweeping his arm to the open door, where, cows and goats filled Franklin Square. Red-haired Jack Boland snickered. Demarest tittered, then James Harper burst into laughter, carrying the others with him. Had Henry not been so angry he would have laughed too.

“Go ahead, laugh. This is something you’re proud of? Cows and goats on your fancy squares? Pigs rooting for garbage on your side streets? Flies, stagnant water, clouds of mosquitoes! And you call this a city?

“Cesspool’s more like it! Everywhere you step, excrement, garbage, offal! And you call this a city? Horse carts charging, beggars, thieves picking your pockets, publishers stealing stories. There isn’t even a police force. And you call this a city? My God, your beloved London has had a police force for years. In London they at least publish Londoners; you’re plagiarist publishers! Stealing thieves! And you call this a business?

“What am I even doing here? I don’t bow to the crown. I fight hard for my independence. Every day I fight the likes of you. And I’m not going to stop.” With that he exited the Harper & Brothers building, shaking like a birch leaf.

The streets were a blur, but somehow he reached Vanderbilt’s ferry slip. The next ferry wasn’t due to leave for nearly an hour. He sat there, head down, muttering to himself. “I don’t need these people. I don’t need this city. I need no one but myself. What good would it do me to be published by the high and mighty Harpers? Bah.”

Unable to sit still, Henry walked west to Castle Garden, then back past the ferry slip and up South Street, where he saw a young man he thought might be Ben. His heart raced and his mouth dried. Finally the young man turned: not Ben. And why would it be Ben? Ben was on
Dahlia
.

“What are you looking at?”

“Pardon me. I thought you were someone else.”

“Pansy!” said the young man, and spat with disdain.

Worried for his safety, Henry hastily returned to the dock and sank into melancholy. He excoriated himself for hanging his hopes on this trip to Manhattan. “Who am I but a failed man’s son? My father sits in his room making pencils, and I sit in my room writing stories that are of less use than my father’s pencils. Emerson’s father was renowned. Both his sons are successful. A successful man breeds successful sons.”

A young man selling ink offered Henry a bottle, which he bought just before stepping on the gangway. Onboard the ferry, his mood improved as he watched once again with amazement as the small paddlewheel dug into the water and the stout ferry departed its dock and plied the waters. “Maybe I should work on a steamboat.” Happily, as Manhattan receded, he said, “I guess I’ve got my mother’s plain-speaking truthfulness in me too, to talk that way to the likes of the Harpers. Hah! Emerson would be scandalized.” His momentary cheer faded. I should be ashamed. I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I? Speaking that way to the Harpers? Not so much from my mother as my ill-bred father. We’re all just our father’s sons. “The apple doesn’t fall far from that old tree.” And with that, Henry sank further.

Back at the “Smuggery,” as he now called it, Henry said he wasn’t hungry and preferred to go to his room. As he walked through the hall to the stairs, Susan said, “I know you think it’s foolish, but going to church has helped me.” Henry shook his head and continued on his way. Safe in his attic aerie, he read at his desk until there was no more light. Cool night air. Owls hooting in the distance. Occasional dog barks and concerted howls.

“Enough of that hubbub for me. This is my world.”

He removed the glass chimney from his lamp, lit the wick, replaced the chimney and adjusted the flame. He uncorked the bottle of ink he’d bought, congratulating himself for getting it at such a good price, then dipped his pen, put pen to paper and scratched. Nothing appeared. He picked up the ink bottle, tilted it. “Water!” The bottle was used, with dried ink coloring the insides. “Duped by my street-vending Vanderbilt. And I thought he was a true common man. Good judge of character you are, Henry.” He twisted the bottle in his hand. “I should have looked closer.” He recorked the bottle. The dried ink went as high as the cork; there was no way he could have known without opening it. “Which he told me to do: Go ahead, open it. The ruse of a great liar: I dare you to distrust me.

“I can hear mother now. ‘You did what? You bought what?’ I am as stupidly naïve as my father.” Henry leaned back and laughed at himself. “At least this ink doesn’t need blotting.”

15

Henry continued his routine, teaching the boys and Mary, who vaulted ahead of her charges. As the days grew longer and warmer, he recorded more of his “underthoughts,” as he called them, and explored the reaches of his island home. Susan retreated more into becoming a church mouse to the whims of her husband. She and William were circling the wagons, ready to repulse any attack on their way of life.

Finally a letter arrived from Stearns; Henry took it and the
Tribune
upstairs and sat in his desk chair. Stearns wrote that he’d received Henry’s first letter at least a week before but couldn’t bring himself to answer. “It pleased me to read what I had thought is correct. But the news is bittersweet because I have been in love with you since we first met and have pinned my hopes on your falling in love with me. Lucky Ben.

“Realizing you would never feel for me the way you feel for Ben sent me into a great despair, which I have just now recovered from enough to get out of my bed.”

Henry leaned forward so his forehead touched the desktop. Then he looked up and out the window. “How could I hurt my dearest friend, and not even realize what I was doing? Or did I realize?” Henry put Stearns’s letter down. “Yes, I knew you were hurt. But I had no idea how badly.”

Stearns went on, “I am now over you and glad we can be great friends, even as we are separated by such a land as France and so great a sea.” Though he put on a show of being cheerful for Henry, melancholy showed in his every word—even when he said how mad he was “for the young soldiers in Leipzig, the horse soldiers being my favorites. One of them spent a week with me, which I thought would turn into forever, but then he was called off with his regiment.” In closing, he warned Henry not to dwell on Ben, that it would only hurt him. “Enjoy the time you had together. Be thankful for it.”

Henry sat back in his chair and stretched his legs. “Oh, Stearns, the life you lead.” He hid the letter in the back of his drawer, then checked the Shipping News: no word of
Dahlia
. On the same page was an ad for the
Ladies Home Companion
, which was looking for “energetic” young men to sell magazine subscriptions door to door.