The Whale

by Mark Beauregard

  “It’s not from the wine, Doctor. Channing here has just recited a new poem, and, as you can see,” he waved his hand at the parlor, where everyone was chatting courteously in little groups, “the effect has been wildly stimulating. Have you any new rhymes today?”

  Holmes cleared his throat and said, “I prithee by the soul of her that bore thee, pour me a ruby port and I’ll adore thee.” Herman poured the doctor some port, and they clinked glasses. Channing left to try his luck with Eliza Fields.

  Holmes held his glass up above his head and gazed at the chandelier through the wine. “Have you met this G.P.R. James fellow yet? The English scribbler?”

  “He hasn’t arrived.”

  “I’ve just finished his Castle of Ehrenstein. Leaves me only a hundred books short of reading his entire list, and he has two new novels going through the presses in London as we speak. He’ll be pushing ours right off the shelves.”

  “He also has too many initials and too few names. What is this G.P.R. about?”

  “Perhaps his parents were shy of vowels when he was born. Has Hawthorne arrived?”

  At the mention of Hawthorne, Herman drank down his wine. He began to feel strangely taut instead of drunk. “Not yet. Both guests of honor are tardy.”

  “Just like Hawthorne to be late for his own farewell party. Though, if there’s one person who doesn’t need a special farewell, it’s Hawthorne.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Outside of hermits and convicts, he’s the least sociable person I ever met. Every time you see him, it’s a farewell party, since there’s no guarantee you’ll ever set eyes on the man again.”

  John and Sarah Morewood arrived, hallooing and offering up a magnum of champagne, which old Mrs. Sedgwick insisted be popped immediately. As the cork flew across the room, Dudley and Jeanie Field walked in, and Jeanie snatched it neatly out of the air. She accepted the ovation of the guests with a puckish bow; then she held the cork up in one gloved hand and passed her other hand in front of it, making it vanish. Everyone applauded again and continued applauding as she made the cork reappear from her brother’s left ear. Dudley flushed with embarrassment.

  After procuring a glass of champagne, Jeanie made her way to Herman. “Mr. Melville,” she said. “Dr. Holmes. Have you left your wives at home this evening?”

  Holmes grunted noncommittally. Herman said, “Mrs. Melville is ill.”

  “How intriguing!” Jeanie put her hand on Herman’s arm. Holmes tsk-tsked and shook his head no.

  “No, Miss Field,” said Herman. “Mrs. Melville is really ill. She is still having a difficult time after the arrival of the baby.”

  “Of course, of course, I’m so sorry to hear it.”

  Holmes looked around the room for more suitable companions.

  “Tell me,” Jeanie said, “have you decided on a name for the child yet?”

  “Stanwix.”

  Jeanie frowned. “Is that plural?”

  Maria Melville, who had been eavesdropping from a nearby sofa, stood up and joined them. “It’s a name of great honor, Miss Field,” she said. “Stanwix is the name of the fort that my father, Peter Gansevoort, saved from the British during the Revolutionary War. If not for my father, our side might have lost control of the Hudson River, to say nothing of the war itself!”

  “Fort Stanwix,” Jeanie repeated. “I don’t believe we covered that battle at my school.”

  “You may have forgotten it,” said Maria, “but you are an American because of it.”

  “I suppose it’s a courageous name, then, Mrs. Melville. Of course, it’s nothing like Hope.”

  Maria narrowed her eyes. As far as she knew, the prospect of naming Lizzie’s baby Hope had never been mentioned outside the family, so now she was certain that Herman was dallying with this impertinent young girl and telling her all their secrets. “It’s better than hope, Miss Field—it’s victory!”

  Dudley sauntered up. “What hope do we have of victory?” he asked.

  “None that I can tell,” said Herman. He excused himself with an abrupt bow and walked to the table where Mrs. Sedgwick was guarding the army of crystal champagne coupes. He toasted the dowager matron and drank a glass; and at last he did begin to feel drunk, which was one more thing he had to worry about when Hawthorne arrived.

  The front door opened, and Catharine came in again, escorting an extremely well-dressed middle-aged lady, who was smiling rather artificially. Her long yellow scarf coiled around and around her neck so many times that her head seemed to emerge directly from it, with no connection whatsoever to the rest of her body; and so many feathers festooned her hat that it seemed her head might take flight.

  Catharine struck a spoon several times against a wine glass to call for quiet. “Dear friends,” she said, “may I present our new neighbor, Mrs. Theodora James.”

  The guests clapped. Mrs. James began speaking before the applause had ceased, in a clear voice with a highborn English accent. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am honored to be in your company. I have been given a message to deliver from my husband. He says that he deeply regrets missing this opportunity to make your acquaintance, but he has, this very afternoon, begun writing a new novel, and he simply cannot be torn away from it for anything in the world; but he greatly looks forward to making your acquaintance on another day, and he knows that the writers among you will understand. Thank you.” Mrs. James took a glass of champagne and raised it; and, without awaiting return salutations, sipped and nodded at Mrs. Sedgwick. The room had gone completely silent, and everyone gawped as she bustled across the parlor. She sat down between Augusta Melville and Eliza Fields, as coolly as if she were at home. Mrs. James turned to Augusta and said, “Who is the best silversmith in this area, would you say?”

  The other guests went back to chatting in their groups; though now every one of them talked in hushed, excited voices about the extraordinary cheek of Mr. and Mrs. G.P.R. James.

  Holmes joined Herman at the champagne, and said, “This James fellow can’t stop scribbling long enough to have a glass of wine. Gives writing a bad name.”

  Melville heard Holmes’s words without comprehending their meaning, so lost was he in his own despairing thoughts. Oh, why could he not control himself the least little bit? What was this mutiny in his heart? His love for Hawthorne had become the most horrible thing he could imagine. He could not even enjoy the triumph and expectation of having his new book in print, since he feared that its only true audience might refuse to read it. In fact, his sole object this evening was to delay Hawthorne’s departure from the Berkshires long enough so that he could present him a copy of Moby Dick in person.

  He took another glass of champagne and wandered toward the hearth. Herman had the impression that someone was saying something to him, but he zeroed in on the fire, with unwavering steps, taking a place next to Ellery Channing and James Fields, who were arguing about some new Indian war that had broken out in California. Herman pretended to listen to them, and he achieved a momentary numbness, with the jabber of the entire party combining with the crackle of the fire to form a meditative hiss and babble in his ears.

  A blast of cold air swirled across the room and a welcoming chorus ended his transitory calm. He felt it even before he turned around: Hawthorne! As with Mrs. James before him, Catharine quieted the crowd by tinkling a glass and welcoming Mr. Hawthorne—who, unlike Mrs. James, seemed mortified to be the center of attention.

  “Thank you for inviting me,” he said quietly. “My wife regrets that she could not be here, but she wished that I would assure you of how much she has enjoyed the company of everyone in Lenox during our sojourn here—as I have—and how warmly she will remember our time among you—as I will.”

  This speech met with “Hear! Hear!” and raised glasses. A group gathered around Hawthorne, who stood still only with the greatest effort, judging by the panic in his eye
s. Someone handed him a glass of champagne, and he held it up almost defensively.

  Where, Herman thought, is that easy, funny, brilliant Hawthorne that I have known in private? How can two such opposed people exist in one man’s breast—the gregarious, genial man of letters, and the petrified wallflower disdainful of all company? He walked slowly toward Hawthorne. Who is this man who can display such warm, loving feelings one moment and such glacial disregard the next? What is your secret, Hawthorne? Do I know it already?

  Herman gulped down his champagne and deposited his glass on the table at his mother’s elbow, utterly ignoring something his mother was saying. He slipped around the cluster of bodies encircling Hawthorne. Dr. Holmes was delivering a benediction when Herman caught Hawthorne’s eye and held it.

  Holmes was saying, “. . . and I anticipate seeing you five times as often, after you’ve established your new home. Boston is spitting distance from West Newton, and I expect you to spit on Boston as often as I do.” He raised his glass, and the group followed, with the lone exception being Hawthorne himself, who seemed transfixed by Herman’s stare.

  Jeanie stepped into the silence after Holmes’s toast and said, “Mr. Hawthorne, I wonder if I could ask you something that has been puzzling me about your latest romance.”

  “Of course,” said the flustered Hawthorne.

  “It’s rather an idiotic question.” She fluttered her eyelashes coquettishly. “I would be embarrassed. Might I steal you for just a moment alone?”

  Hawthorne uncomprehendingly allowed Jeanie to take his arm, and she led him a few paces away to the piano. She made a little nod of her head to Herman, and then she positioned herself between Hawthorne and the rest of the party.

  Herman approached. He felt all the alcohol he had drunk come rushing into his tongue, which slithered along the insides of his teeth.

  “Hawthorne, I must sincerely apologize to you. Please—”

  “No,” Hawthorne said, with passion. “It is I who owe you the apology, Melville. It was I—” He stopped abruptly and looked at Jeanie. “What question did you mean to ask me, Miss Field?”

  “You have answered it. Thank you, Mr. Hawthorne.” Jeanie turned her back and withdrew a step.

  Hawthorne continued in a whisper, “I know I led you to believe things that were not true. Or that I wished not to admit.” Perspiration appeared on his forehead. “That is to say, I have behaved horribly, Melville. You must forgive me! I have handled everything so badly—with you, with everyone.”

  Herman could not believe what he was hearing; yet, he did not quite understand it, either. He tried to console himself and Hawthorne at the same time by saying, “It isn’t easy to know what to do.”

  “I have been the source of much torment for you, and I’m sorry.”

  “But if you feel this way, why are you moving to West Newton? What has happened?”

  Jeanie was loudly asking Charles Sedgwick about a certain kind of cheese and shuffling back toward Herman, signaling with her hand behind her back that their moment to talk privately was coming to an end. Herman moved closer to Hawthorne and whispered with great urgency.

  “Please delay your move until I can come to Lenox and give you a copy of Moby Dick. It would mean the world to me to give it to you personally.”

  “When?”

  “Bentley has shipped copies from London, and the Harpers are printing the American edition right now. I don’t know which will come first, but perhaps a week. Ten days at the latest.”

  Hawthorne considered. “All right.” This concession, combined with Hawthorne’s miraculous apology, lifted Herman’s spirits so much that he almost felt human again, and even oddly sober.

  Sarah Morewood broke into their tête-à-tête. “Mr. Hawthorne, my brother says that you have a new children’s book coming out.”

  Herman withdrew and practically floated back to the fireside. He did not notice that he stepped on his sister Helen’s foot, or that he bumped Channing’s arm, causing him to spill champagne, or that he knocked over the fireplace tools when he leaned against the mantel. He became aware of himself again only when Jeanie snapped her fingers in front of his nose and handed him yet another glass of champagne.

  “You’re welcome,” she said.

  Catharine persuaded Melville to favor them with a sea shanty. He asked Jeanie to accompany him on the piano, and they huddled near the instrument for a brief discussion of possible tunes, while the rest of the guests whispered privately among themselves and with a great deal of delight about the affair that Herman and Miss Field were so obviously having and how scandalous it was, with Melville’s baby still barely arrived in the world and Lizzie home sick. Herman’s mother thought she would die. Jeanie sat down at the piano and played quickly through the chords of a song, then nodded.

  “Sea shanties work best,” Herman announced, “as call-and-response songs.” He barely knew what he was saying. “Work songs. So we are going to put you all to work.” Everyone groaned. “Come now. We’ll never make it around the Cape of Good Hope with that sort of attitude!” He taught them the melody to “Haul Away, Joe,” and talked them through a verse and a refrain for practice, instructing them when to sing their “haul away, Joes.” He did so with such warmth and enthusiasm, and the group so enjoyed disapproving of his scandalous behavior that they actually managed a rousing chorus.

  Jeanie pounded out the chords in earnest. Melville sang as if he truly were leading a shipboard work detail.

  Louis was the king of France

  Before the revolution

  Away, haul away, we’ll haul away, Joe!

  But then he got his head chopped off

  Which spoiled his constitution

  Away, haul away, we’ll haul away, Joe!

  Once I was in Ireland

  Digging turf and pratties

  Away, haul away, we’ll haul away, Joe!

  And now I’m on a Yankee ship

  Hauling sheets and natties

  Away, haul away, we’ll haul away, Joe!

  To me, way, haul away

  We’ll heave and hang together

  Away, haul away, we’ll haul away Joe!”

  The song had dozens of standard verses, and a nearly infinite number of possibilities for someone like Herman, who could rhyme couplets off the top of his head; and he led the singing for some minutes, remembering verses haphazardly and improvising when his memory failed, until he sensed that their enthusiasm was flagging. He nodded to Jeanie, who built loudly toward a finish, which he improvised as a final farewell for Hawthorne:

  Hawthorne was a famous man

  Lived in a Berkshire village

  Away, haul away, we’ll haul away, Joe!

  With his ink and with his pen

  He plundered and he pillaged!

  Away, haul away, we’ll haul away, Joe!

  To me, way, haul away

  We’ll heave and hang together

  Away, haul away, we’ll haul away Joe!

  With the final chord, everyone cheered and held up their glasses and searched the room for the famous plundering and pillaging author. Only Herman had noticed, early on in the song—during the first flush of everyone’s pleasure—that Hawthorne had slipped quietly away, into the night.

  Chapter 21

  In Token of My Admiration for His Genius

  Ten days later, Herman sat in a cold, drafty passenger car with three other travelers on the Hudson and Berkshire Railway, clattering toward Lenox. His soul felt like a torpedoed man-of-war, blasted and timbered. As Herman had requested, the moment the first shipment of The Whale had arrived from London, Evert Duyckinck had sent a messenger boy with half a dozen copies by train from New York to Pittsfield, at no small expense. Coincidentally, on the very same day, the Harper and Brothers American edition of Moby Dick had come out, and Herman had commandeered presentation cop
ies of the Harper’s version, as well; so now the box of books that sat beside him as he journeyed toward Lenox and his meeting with Hawthorne contained six fresh-off-the-boat copies of The Whale, the English version, and six fresh-off-the-press copies of Moby Dick. These two editions were supposed to be identical in every way except for their titles; however, upon closer inspection, Melville had found a number of pages missing from the English edition, including the very last page—the epilogue—which made sense of the rest of the novel. Without that final page, without the survival of the main character, Ishmael, no narrator would exist to tell the tale, and the conceit of the narrative would collapse. Herman had nearly torn his beard out when he’d discovered the error, stamping and swearing and cursing Bentley, as if Captain Ahab had taken control of his body. Finally, he had calmed down enough to compose a letter to Bentley explaining the mistake and begging him to withdraw the copies he had already sent out to reviewers, but he feared it was too late. Could the English magazines be alerted before their reviews appeared? How quickly could the bungled copies be replaced, and at how much expense, and who would ultimately pay for it? A printing error that sabotaged the entire work! It was difficult to believe and even harder to swallow.

  He sat on the train brooding over this disaster, his mind blank with despair. He would simply have to hope that the mistake could be corrected before reviews of the misbegotten version destroyed its prospects utterly. Harper’s, at least, had produced a faithful version of his manuscript, so American reviewers would have the chance to evaluate Moby Dick as Herman had intended it. Perhaps that would be enough, since the American market would matter more in the long run; but Herman felt as if he had been rammed by this misshapen and hideous Whale, and now his soul lay shivered, hull up in the waters of eternity, waiting to sink.

  If nothing else, Herman told himself by way of consolation, I will at least be able to give Hawthorne the correct version. He held the copy of Moby Dick that he had selected for Nathaniel, the best example of the lot, with crisp, uncut pages, a flawless cover, and that true last page. Oh, how could they have left off the last page? he thought. It was a trick so cruel that only God or the devil could have contrived it, and Herman entertained the possibility that heaven and hell had called an armistice just long enough to collaborate against him.