The Whale

by Mark Beauregard

  “It was nothing,” she said.

  Mathews gallantly kissed Lizzie’s hand. “On the contrary, were it not for your excellent penmanship and, even more importantly, your almost occult ability to descry your husband’s meanings, Herman would have no career at all.” He then invited the whole Melville family to dine at his home when they returned to New York.

  They waved goodbye and were off to the train station.

  Chapter 4

  A House in the Berkshires

  Lizzie walked into Broad Hall’s well-appointed kitchen and deposited the docile Malcolm in a Shaker high chair. Herman came in behind her and opened the potbellied stove, poking broken embers in the fuel box with the end of a fresh log. When the cinders glowed hellish, he tossed the log onto the grate, sending a little spray of ash and char out into the kitchen. He waited till flames licked up around the new wood and then clanked the stove door closed.

  “Lizzie,” said Herman, “I want to speak to you about something important.”

  “You don’t really think that Hawthorne’s book is as good as Shakespeare?” she asked. “Like you said in your review?”

  “It doesn’t matter what you say in a review. They’re like advertisements.”

  “So you don’t think Hawthorne is the American Shakespeare?” Herman waved the question away. “Well, did Mr. Duyckinck at least pay you for it?”

  “Duyckinck will pay me by having Hawthorne review my next book.”

  “I see. You and the American Shakespeare will write advertisements for each other’s work in Literary World. How does that pay anyone but Mr. Duyckinck? I would also remind you that the fair copy did not write itself.”

  “You and I will both be paid through the sales of my next book, which the good reviews in Literary World will generate. You know as well as I do how books are sold.”

  “I’m growing more familiar with how they’re not sold.”

  She poured water from a clay jug into a pan, for Malcolm’s evening porridge. The stove hissed as droplets kissed the hot steel.

  Herman went into the dining room and brought back two chairs, which he set next to Malcolm’s high chair. “I’ve been thinking about something much more important than reviews.” He sat down and invited Lizzie to do the same. When they were all seated together as a family, he leaned forward, almost in a crouch at the edge of his chair. He took Lizzie’s hand and stared deeply into her eyes. “I have been thinking about how much you dislike Manhattan, my dear.” She had often praised her family’s home in Boston over the rougher, dirtier New York. “And I’ve been thinking that the city is no good for Malcolm. So I think we should buy a house in the Berkshires.”

  Lizzie stiffened. “But how could we afford it? On what income?”

  Malcolm burbled and spit.

  “If you’re willing to borrow from your father against your inheritance, as you’ve said you might, then whatever house we buy will be yours.”

  “I’ve said I would borrow small sums in emergencies, to keep food on the table.” Lizzie stood up and turned toward the stove. She touched her forehead and then her breastbone and spread her fingers out over her heart. “I had never thought of using it to buy a house!” She scooped dry oats and barley into the water on the stove. Malcolm stuck his left middle finger far up his right nostril. “And we are already deeply in debt to my father.” Lizzie’s father, Lemuel Shaw, the chief justice of the Massachusetts Supreme Court, had been subsidizing Herman’s income with loans ever since his writing career had faltered.

  “Those are personal loans he has made to me,” said Herman. “I’m talking about the inheritance that will rightly be yours one day, no matter what.”

  “But how would we pay for the daily expenses of our own house, Herman? With Mr. Duyckinck’s reviews? You’re not writing Typee anymore.”

  “My next book will make Typee look like a suffragist pamphlet. You’ll see! With Duyckinck’s help, it will sell.”

  Lizzie stirred Malcolm’s porridge vigorously, even though it had not yet begun to boil. Water and oats splashed out onto the stove.

  “You can choose which house we buy,” Herman continued. “You can do with it whatever you like, decorate it however you want. It will be your house. Not mine. Not my mother’s. You’ll make the down payment on it with your inheritance, and it will be your house—no one else’s but yours—and I’ll pay our expenses and upkeep with my writing. You can run the household as you see fit. And my mother will be our guest in your home.”

  Lizzie stopped stirring the thin gruel and sat back down. Herman’s mother, Maria, was constantly nagging her to do things differently around their apartment in Manhattan, which they shared with Herman’s sisters Augusta and Helen, his younger brother Allan, and Allan’s wife and daughter.

  “My home?” She looked longingly out the window, where the leaves of a maple tree fluttered in the pale evening sunshine. “But it just isn’t possible, Herman. You barely earn enough now to pay half the expenses in the apartment we share with your brother. And there would be so many mouths to feed!” Since Herman’s father and older brother had both died, Herman had become the eldest Melville and hence the head of their family; as such, he was obliged to keep his mother and his unmarried sisters under his roof. If they split up the household in Manhattan, Maria, Helen, and Augusta would almost certainly follow him to the Berkshires. “And I’ll remind you that your mother is not exactly thrifty. She’s downtown right now getting to know every shop in Pittsfield, and you never say a word to dissuade her. What would happen if you moved her to a house in the country and she felt restored to her ‘proper station,’ as she would put it?”

  “A whole house here would cost less to maintain than half of that apartment in Manhattan. Look at how Holmes and Dudley Field and Hawthorne live out here, in such natural splendor and at such small expense, and their reputations grow and grow. And what better place for Malcolm to grow up? I could do it. We could do it.”

  “But if you’re tired of Manhattan, it would be more prudent to move to Boston, near my own family.”

  “Boston is not the Berkshires,” Herman said. “Let’s make some inquiries about properties. If only to learn what the cost might be.”

  “Oh, Herman.” Lizzie burst into tears. “I know you’re frustrated with your book, but the solution is not to make the rest of your life harder.”

  Herman took her hand. “But this will make our lives easier! And Duyckinck and the Harper brothers will make my next book a great success. You’ll see!”

  The oats that had splattered onto the stove top began to burn; the acrid smell filled the kitchen. Malcolm bawled and flapped his arms.

  Herman looked into Lizzie’s eyes and tried to hide his shame about what he was really feeling: all he could think about was walking down the road to Hawthorne’s house, imagining that, if he owned a home here, he could make that walk every single day.

  How would Hawthorne feel when he learned that Herman was moving to the Berkshires? They had only just met. At the very least, he told himself, he would create the circumstances to find out how much admiration Hawthorne truly felt for him. Whatever happened in the end—however well or poorly his next book sold—Lizzie and Malcolm would still have a nice home in the Berkshires, and Judge Shaw could, in reality, afford to pay for everything. It was all fine, he told himself as he looked into his wife’s eyes: it was for Lizzie’s good, too, and Malcolm’s.

  Lizzie petted the back of her husband’s head. “Do you remember why I married you, Herman? It’s because you think differently from everyone else I’ve ever met. You have different dreams. But that doesn’t mean all of your dreams are good.”

  “Everyone could have a private room,” Herman persisted. “My mother and Augusta and Helen and even Malcolm. We could invite all of your relatives to come for the holidays. Your father will love having a Berkshire home in the family. We’ll have a barn with a co
w and a horse. We’ll plant corn.”

  “Corn? What are you even saying, Herman?”

  “We will write to your father about the inheritance. We’ll inquire about houses. What harm can it do to propose an idea?”

  Lizzie fiddled with the whalebone cameo at her neck. Herman had bought the brooch for her the previous fall, when he had gone to London to find an English publisher for White-Jacket: its silhouette depicted the three graces with their arms entwined.

  “You are always so fanciful, Herman,” Lizzie said sadly. Her tone brought tears to Herman’s eyes—he could remember a time when she had said the same thing with admiration.

  “But this will be your dream.” With this lie, Herman could no longer contain himself. He slid down to his knees in front of Lizzie and wept like a child.

  Herman’s cousin Robert walked in and took off his hat. “What’s burning?” He heard the weeping before his eyes had adjusted to the dimness of the kitchen, and he nearly tripped over the sobbing Melvilles in his haste to reach the stove.

  “What goes on here?” Robert asked. He found a towel and used it to grab the hot pan. “What’s wrong?”

  Lizzie eased herself out of Herman’s embrace and stood up. “Nothing.” She snuffled. “Nothing is wrong.” She smiled at Robert, who held out the ruined porridge as evidence that something was, indeed, wrong. “We have just been talking about the future.”

  “The future?”

  Herman wiped tears from his eyes and stood up, as well. “Robert, we are moving to the Berkshires.”

  Robert went white. “When did you decide this?”

  “Just now.”

  “Just now?”

  “This very moment, as you were walking in. We will buy a farm somewhere near yours.”

  “Well, it’s far from certain,” said Lizzie. “It’s just an idea that Herman has.”

  “But how can you afford it?” Robert said. “Aren’t your creditors even now baying at your door in Manhattan? Isn’t that why you’ve been staying here all month at my expense?”

  “We just love it so much here,” Herman said. “Haven’t you always loved the Berkshires yourself?”

  “Yes,” Robert fumed. “I have always loved the Berkshires myself. But you cannot purchase a farm by loving it. Have you learned nothing from the examples of our own fathers?” Herman’s and Robert’s grandfathers had been prosperous businessmen and heroes of the Revolution, but that was where the success of the Melville family had ended. Herman’s father had died raving mad with a fever while negotiating to avoid debtor’s prison; Robert’s father had died penniless on the western frontier, after a lifetime of hapless misadventures.

  “What has happened, Robert?” said Lizzie. “Has something happened?”

  “I have sold Broad Hall! The farm is bankrupt. I am moving my family back to Galena.”

  “Sold Broad Hall?” Herman asked. “Why?”

  “Is there some nuance of the word ‘bankrupt’ that escapes you, Herman?”

  “But everything seems to be going so well.”

  “Have you encountered a single guest at the inn since you arrived? Have you seen anyone working the fields?”

  “But is it already sold then? We could not, for example, buy it ourselves?”

  Robert looked at him for a moment with dumb fury before flinging the pot of burnt oatmeal at his head. Herman ducked. The pan smacked the wall and clattered across the floor, splattering gruel in its wake. Lizzie held her hands palm outward to Robert in a gesture of peace. Malcolm wailed. Robert stormed out of the kitchen and banged the front door closed behind him.

  Herman lifted Malcolm out of his chair and cradled him protectively in his arms. He kissed Lizzie’s head and led her up the stairs to their room. They shut the door behind them and sat together on the edge of their bed, holding Malcolm between them, shushing and comforting him, silently exchanging gentle caresses and doleful looks.

  Herman began formulating an apology to Robert in his mind. He had been too preoccupied to notice his cousin’s difficulties, or to notice Robert at all, really; his family always hovered just at the edge of Herman’s attention—at least until a pot came flying at his head.

  He thought about what Robert had said, about the example of their fathers—Herman remembered his own father’s death well, because he had been with him through the delirium of his last night. Is that what I’m doing now, Herman thought, running from bad to worse like my father? But no, not all debt was the same: his father’s debt had been a problem—Herman’s debt would be a solution.

  Half an hour passed before it seemed safe to return to the kitchen for dinner. When they did, they discovered that the oatmeal had been cleaned from the walls and floor, and the pot was once again hanging from the rack above the stove, spotless. On the table, in Robert’s handwriting, they found an itemized bill for every day they had stayed at Broad Hall and every meal they had eaten.

  Chapter 5

  Hawthorne’s Package

  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!