The Whale

by Mark Beauregard

  “A book is not a secret message.”

  “Some books are.”

  “But I’ve not even seen Hawthorne for weeks. And who in his right mind would construe a few innocent visits and a book review in a magazine as ardent? What conclusions could you possibly draw from such scant evidence?”

  “I know what’s going on, Herman.”

  “There is nothing to know!” Herman said. He flung The Friend violently onto his desk. It bounced once, scattering papers in a great flurry, and smacked into the wainscoting near Jeanie’s feet. She looked at the book in surprise, as Herman’s manuscript pages fluttered to the floor; and then she looked at Herman with fear in her eyes. She picked the book up and set it gently on his desk, and made a great show of gathering up the scattered papers, shuffling them into a neat stack and handing them to him.

  “I did not mean to throw the book,” he said. “I would not have hit you with it. I apologize.” He realized that he was ravenously hungry, and that the emptiness in his stomach had burbled up to his mind. He tossed the manuscript pages carelessly onto his desk and sat down, feeling dazed and defeated; but he considered the Coleridge book, now crumpled somewhat at the top of its spine, and a little thrill of hope surfaced in the otherwise unpleasant stew of confusion and irritation he felt.

  Jeanie slid between Herman and his desk and half sat on the desktop, facing him; her petticoats brushed his pantlegs. She placed her hand on top of his. “I have been telling everyone that you and I are smitten with one another.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I love you, Herman. I want to protect you.”

  “By destroying my marriage and my reputation?”

  “By keeping suspicion away from you and Mr. Hawthorne. I know how you feel. I see who you are!”

  “You certainly do not. And spreading rumors about you and me will in no way protect me—quite the opposite!”

  “You cannot shake me with fatuous dismissals. Don’t you see? You don’t have to hide from me.”

  “Who thinks this? Who has heard about your supposed affair with me?”

  “I’ve told anyone who’s suggested anything inappropriate between you and Mr. Hawthorne.”

  “But who has done such a thing?” Herman groaned. “Miss Field, I have seen you even less than I have seen Hawthorne. No one will believe that you and I are lovers.”

  “Really? What will your wife think, now that you have invited me into your study?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. No man would flaunt such a dalliance in front of his wife and family.”

  “Do you not understand your own culture, Herman, or do you think you’re exempt from it?”

  Herman considered: despite his assertion to the contrary, he became aware that inviting Jeanie up alone had been an incredibly careless breach of propriety—especially in light of the rumors she was spreading—and she had now spent far too long in his study. Her ambush was complete. “Could you please say plainly what you mean and go?”

  “You cannot have an affair with Mr. Hawthorne,” Jeanie said, with sudden heat. Herman leapt up and clapped his hand over Jeanie’s mouth. She bit his finger, and he snatched it away. “You do not know the effect you have on people, Herman.” She grabbed two handfuls of Herman’s beard and pulled his lips to hers in a hard, dry kiss. Her lids parted to offer Herman a naked view of the whites of her eyes. By the time he finally managed to extricate himself from her lips, they were both breathless. Herman rubbed his smarting cheeks.

  “What if your wife had come in just now and caught us kissing? What would she have thought?”

  “Obviously—”

  “And if she saw you and Mr. Hawthorne doing the same thing? What then? You’d be ruined.”

  “I’d be ruined either way.”

  “Not in the same way.”

  “But I have not been kissing Hawthorne!”

  Herman pulled himself up straight and nearly tumbled backward over his chair. While he righted himself, Jeanie straightened her bodice and patted her hair.

  “Do you know about the Fourierist phalanx in New Lebanon, just down the road?” she asked.

  “I know that every commune based on Fourier’s ideas collapses.”

  “Brook Farm is not every Fourierist commune, and the New Lebanon community is thriving precisely because of Fourier’s ideas. We believe in openness and equality. We believe in abolition. We believe that monogamous marriage is untrue to the human heart and that individuals may share deep admiration and affection with more than one person at a time, with men or women or both.”

  Herman began to wonder how he might manage Jeanie’s departure: if he simply threw her out of his study, what might she say to Lizzie? Would he be obliged to escort her into the parlor and make polite conversation with his whole family?

  Jeanie placed her hand on Herman’s chest and said, “You do not belong in this place, Herman.”

  “My own home?”

  “And your admiration for Hawthorne will come to nothing. Hawthorne is a Puritan at heart. You need a real friend.”

  Herman touched The Friend. “I must escort you out now.” He walked to the door. “Thank you for bringing the book. Please pretend that Dudley sent it to me, if anyone asks. I will invite you and your brother to dine with us as you leave, in front of my wife. Please accept. I’ll ask the Morewoods, as well—they’ve just moved into Broad Hall—and we’ll see if Dr. Holmes and his wife are in town. You and I will smooth over this debacle by being appropriately sociable, in public, in front of all the neighbors and my family, for everyone to see. I will kiss my wife and you will shake her hand.”

  “That’s fine, Herman, but come visit me in New Lebanon, as well.” She walked over to him, put her hand on his chest again, and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Let me be your island girl in the Berkshires.”

  Herman wondered if he could buy back every copy of Typee and burn them all at once. For years, devout Christians had condemned the book for its corrupt morals, but now he saw that it was not the Christian moralists he had to defend himself against—it was the libertines. He opened his study door and escorted Jeanie into the hallway.

  They found a woman in a dowdy blue frock at the far end of the hall, holding Malcolm. The moment Herman appeared, Malcolm burst into tears.

  “Miss Jeanie Field,” Herman said. “May I present my sister Helen Melville.” Jeanie made a deep curtsy, and the two ladies exchanged how-do-you-dos. “How is Malcolm?” said Herman.

  “A little lame in his limbs still, but at least he has been eating again.”

  “Malcolm has been sick ever since we moved from New York,” Herman explained. “Babies are sensitive to everything that happens around them.”

  “Then he may never get better,” said Jeanie.

  Herman took Malcolm from Helen and propped him against his shoulder, like a little sack of flour, and his crying calmed into a dull leaking of fluids. Herman accompanied Jeanie downstairs, where they met Lizzie in the entryway, dusting a table that was already absolutely spotless. Jeanie nodded demurely to her. Augusta appeared at the parlor door, her face more worried than sour but sour nevertheless, and Maria hovered behind her. Helen followed them downstairs, so that the entire Melville clan now crowded into the hallway around Jeanie. Herman made a great show of bouncing Malcolm a few times.

  “Thank you all for letting me intrude,” said Jeanie. “You have a delightful house.”

  “We enjoy having visitors,” said Lizzie coldly. “Next time, we will expect the pleasure of meeting your brother, as well.”

  “Yes,” Herman said. “Why don’t you bring him for dinner next Thursday evening? We’ll invite some of our neighbors and make it a housewarming.”

  “Herman,” Lizzie said, “you know that we could not possibly receive guests next week. I’m sorry, Miss Field, my husband does not comprehend domestic matters. But
we will be delighted to write to your brother when we are ready to welcome company.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Melville,” Jeanie said. “My brother and I would be delighted to come, any time you would be so gracious as to invite us.” Herman opened the front door, and Jeanie stepped out onto the porch.

  “And please tell your brother how pleased I am with the book,” Herman said, looking helplessly at Jeanie.

  “I will. Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon!” the choir of Melvilles answered dismissively.

  Jeanie walked deliberately to her buggy, without looking back, climbed in, and sat down. The buggy was facing the wrong way, so she would have to drive further into the Melville farm, beyond the house to the open area near the barn, in order to turn around; she would have to pass the family twice. She looked up at them now, all the Melvilles plus their maid in a little cluster on the front porch, Herman standing farthest out, holding Malcolm up over his head with his arms outstretched. Jeanie snapped the reins and guided her mare toward the barn, made a wide semicircle, and headed back up the track. She waved at them all as she passed: they stood in precisely the same tableau the second time around, and even Malcolm seemed not to have moved a muscle.

  The sun was shining low through the trees. The evening chill caused her horse to snort and trot more briskly. Jeanie turned in her seat and looked one last time at the Melvilles and almost laughed: it seemed possible that they might never move again.

  Chapter 11

  A Lonely Thanksgiving

  Herman read The Friend in a state of agitation, scrutinizing every sentence for secret connotations, searching for the code that would unlock the meaning of Hawthorne’s silent communication; but nothing emerged. The book itself was disappointing: a collection of two years’ worth of essays that Coleridge had published and circulated himself as a weekly periodical called The Friend. In the essays, the author mused about politics, ethics, current events, ancient literature, human relationships, and virtually everything else under the sun—it was a miscellany, much like the essays that Oliver Wendell Holmes was writing for the popular magazines, sometimes erudite, often obscure—but nothing in The Friend bore any direct relation that Herman could discover to his relationship with Hawthorne. The word “friend” in the title seemed to be the primary message, but did this mean that Hawthorne consented to be on terms of polite amity, or to occasionally read a missive that Herman might send, or to resume a more normal development of the sociability they had already begun, only now in a more reserved manner? Had Hawthorne experienced a change of heart about which letters in his alphabet of sin he might assign to Herman, or was he making all of the letters silent?

  He sat down at his desk to write a thank-you note, to communicate to Hawthorne that he wished to accept the proffered friendship, whatever it might be; and yet, he knew that this letter must walk a tightrope over Niagara Falls. He must make it clear that he understood that the friendship Hawthorne now offered would be different from the one they had discussed so fervently by Lake Mahkeenac, even if he could not know exactly how it would be different.

  Yet Herman had seen Hawthorne’s love shining unmistakably in his eyes. He had heard it quiver in his voice. He thought, what else could Hawthorne’s declarations by the lake have meant but love; what else would cause such violent emotions and denunciations? To Herman’s mind, Hawthorne had all but confessed his love and he was, in a way, confessing it again by sending this book: it was clear to him that, no matter how much Hawthorne wished the situation were different, he simply could not stay away from Herman. And what of Jeanie’s report—that Hawthorne had confessed his beguilement to James and Eliza Fields? The ennobling feeling of loving Hawthorne swept Herman away again: it made life seem grander than he had ever imagined it could be, and he felt certain that Hawthorne felt the same way.

  He took pen in hand. His note could not be filled with tragic yearning, nor could it be cold and distant: it had to be merely but genuinely friendly and leave further possibilities open, without naming them. Herman was entering a labyrinth filled with emotional Minotaurs sent by Hawthorne to destroy him, and yet, there, in the center of that maze, Hawthorne himself awaited.

  He stood up and paced his study. How he hated the contorted logic that he now applied to their love, as if the human heart were a courtroom. How he hated the tortured carefulness that Hawthorne forced upon him.

  November 12, 1850

  Arrowhead, Pittsfield

  My dear Hawthorne,

  I have just dined on a savory dish that I believe you will find delicious, and I am writing to commend it to you. I am calling it Hope. Oh! my friend, hearken to me! For it is the most delectable chowder one may imagine—made of small juicy titbits of Wishes, scarcely bigger than hazelnuts, mixed with pounded Disappointments, and salted with Setbacks cut up into little flakes! The whole is enriched with Faith, and plentifully seasoned with Conviction. When your appetite is sharpened by persistent Failure and frosty Despair, a warm bowl of Hope is just the thing to set your mind and spirit right. And where does one find such surpassingly excellent chowder? Most inns won’t serve it, to be sure, and most country houses would ban its aroma from their kitchens—it smells too distinctly of Ambition and Pride, for who but the arrogant would hope for any dish other than the one that God Himself has set down before him? What is this Hope for something else, and what right do we have to it? But you may sometimes detect its savory steam in the most downhearted boarding-houses, in Negro churches, in the stewpots of South American shanties, where the beggars pause their weeping and gnashing just long enough for a spoonful!

  And where did I taste this invigorating chowder? I found it in a volume of Coleridge: no! not in the words of the book nor even creased between its pages, but wafting heartily from between the lines. While plying my spiritual spoon in this great bowl of Hope, I thought to myself: I wonder now if this chowder has had an effect on my head? Hope can make chowder-heads of us all! So I mixed in a dash of Skepticism and stirred it all with the bones of a fish called Uncertainty, and garnished it with Acceptance, and drank the bowl right down and had another besides, and my head never felt less chowdery. For Hope, when simmered in Reality, is just the stew that keeps Death away from your doorstep. I would send you back Coleridge’s recipe, which you so kindly sent to me, but better to cook a pot for you and serve it up at my table, where we can season it each to our own tastes and enjoy it together.

  What say you, Hawthorne? You sent me the recipe, now come taste the chowder! Come have a bowl of Hope with me, and we’ll break the bread of Friendship and crumble it into the broth. Dine with me, and soon, and we shall talk of Coleridge and the cure for blight and the Whigs and many airy things!

  Your

  Melville

  Herman put down his pen and read the letter. It was ridiculous. Hope. Chowder. He had been reduced to clowning about the most important thing in his life—as usual. He folded the note into an envelope, sealed it, and addressed it. He could do no better: he would have to rely on Hawthorne’s compassion. He left his study, descended the stairs, walked outside, and strode purposefully down the road toward the Pittsfield Post Office. He felt like harpooning himself.

  • • •

  “We have been invited to Boston for Thanksgiving,” Lizzie announced the next evening at dinner. Lizzie had invited her Boston family members to the Berkshires, but her father had declined and insisted on his own traditional Thanksgiving in Boston instead. The Shaws, like most New England families, made Thanksgiving the high point of their year and celebrated it lavishly, with half a week of feasting and dancing and roasting chestnuts on hearth fires. Lizzie had written letters almost begging her family to come, so that her heavily mortgaged house might feel more like a home; but their polite refusals showed that they had failed to grasp the urgency of her requests.

  “Who has been invited, exactly?” Maria asked.

  Lizzie’s face hardened.
“I thought that Herman and Malcolm and I could go, as we do every year. Your sister’s family are in Albany for the holiday, are they not? You could go there or to New York.”

  Maria took an accusatory bite of roast beef and spoke with her mouth full. “I was hoping we might have all the New York Melvilles here.”

  “At Arrowhead?” Lizzie looked around the tiny dining room, which also served as the kitchen. It was the only room with a fireplace large enough to cook in and a dining area big enough to seat the six current residents. “But we don’t even have a stove. How would you prepare a Thanksgiving meal?”

  “We’ve celebrated Thanksgiving in this family far longer than we’ve had stoves, Lizzie.”

  “But where would you dine? There’s barely room for us now.”

  Herman was sitting quietly at the head of the table, staring into the fire, his mind far out to sea. His days had become an exhausting blur of fictional whales, farming chores, and a constant, needling longing for Hawthorne, made worse by Hawthorne’s continuing refusal to answer his letter. Every day, Herman woke in the morning before dawn to chop wood and carry fresh water into the house; then he spent a few long, affectionate moments cutting pumpkins for his cow and watching her eat. He slopped the pigs, scattered seeds for the chickens, and gave his horse oats; and then he climbed the stairs to his study with a cup of tea and sat scribbling madly about the open seas for six or eight hours in a row, trying to keep the different versions of his story straight in his head. He was writing his whaling adventure at Hawthorne now, channeling all of his frustrations and affections, which he could express to no one in real life, into the operatic desires of his fishy allegory. The adventure story he had written as a first draft seemed paltry to him now, a mincing piece of beggary; in revision, he was letting The Whale become the wildest storm of desperation he could imagine, a grand allegory that he hoped would out-Hawthorne Hawthorne, a revelation of masculine beauty that Hawthorne could not help but recognize as an act of love. But he was also having trouble keeping the revision anchored to the details of the story in his first draft—characters slipped in and out of scenes from the original to the revision without much rhyme or reason; a whole coterie of swarthy devils had appeared in Ahab’s cabin during rewriting, and Herman could not seem to get rid of them. He was attempting now an encyclopedic poetry of whale fat, but the more he attempted to describe the reality of whaling, in all its utterly concrete specificity, the more easily his tale wriggled out of his grasp, and it seemed to swim farther and farther from the story he had originally written. In short, it was becoming a frightful mess, but he was loath to start over from scratch—not with his publisher still waiting impatiently for the finished manuscript, and not with his debts mounting at an accelerating rate.