Mr. Emerson's Wife

by Amy Belding Brown

  THAT FALL MARKED a change in our marriage. A chill descended like a cloak of dark clouds. At first I did not notice. I was too caught up in caring for the baby and the endless stream of visitors. I did not mind our lack of physical intimacy since it was for Wallie’s protection—it was well-known that milk would sour and curdle if new mothers indulged carnal passions. But the transformation was plain—an acidity that haunted Mr. Emerson’s voice when he teased me, an inexplicable bitterness that had not been present before. He no longer delighted in watching me put the baby to breast. He no longer asked after my health. Nor did he any longer make a point of inviting me to join our weekly conversations.

  One afternoon Henry Thoreau came upon me in the garden. I was on my hands and knees, weeding my roses, unaware of his presence until he spoke.

  “You make a lovely picture.” His voice was deep and musical.

  I looked up at him, wiping my hands on my apron.

  He smiled. “I could not resist the temptation to observe more closely.” It was the kind of comment that would have seemed brazen coming from anyone else. But Henry carried such an air of innocence and honesty that I understood at once that he meant exactly what he said.

  He asked me about the variety of roses I’d planted and then examined each plant with great interest. Soon he was kneeling beside me, pulling weeds from the soil. We fell into an easy conversation, the words and subjects flowing as naturally between us as if we’d been longtime friends. I found myself talking of Plymouth. As I spoke, a terrible, raw longing welled up in me. I stopped and sank both hands into the cool earth, as if I could locate solace there. Henry Thoreau sat back on his heels so that his back was shaped like a question mark. When I glanced up I saw in his face, not the pity I’d expected, but a startled recognition.

  “What is it?” I managed to utter.

  “I was thinking,” he said, in a voice as hoarse as my own, “of the time I lived in Maine. Away from Concord. I could not—” He stopped and shook his head. “I could not endure it.” And then he leaned forward, so close that his gray-eyed gaze was all I could see of him. “You do not feel at home in Concord, do you?” I confess I stared into his eyes a moment too long. My heart beat in my chest like a trapped moth.

  “I don’t know,” I gasped, and it was a gasp, for I could hardly breathe. Suddenly the sun was pressing down on my head and face; my eyelids fluttered in defense. I got to my feet. “I have to go inside. There are things to be done.”

  I left him, kneeling there in the garden, as I swiftly crossed the yard to the house. My back was as straight as a plank.

  I BEGAN to yearn more desperately for Plymouth, for the company of friends and relatives. Concord was a socially barren place—a country town where entertaining friends usually meant a raucous evening of drink and tavern music, where a lowly blacksmith and a brilliant solicitor were likely to be found at the same party. Where those who took an interest in philosophy and reform were so rare as to be invisible. Concord was a place where the world was out-of-kilter and unrefined.

  One evening, I interrupted my husband’s reading to ask if we might plan a trip to the Old Colony.

  “I haven’t traveled there since Wallie was born,” I said, knowing my tone was too plaintive, that it risked irritating him. But I could not swallow away the sorrow in my throat.

  He was absorbed in a small volume of Montaigne’s essays, but he looked up, placing his finger carefully in the page to hold his place. “What can you be thinking, Queenie?” he said, and there was no warmth in his tone, despite the pet name. “You know I can’t spare the time from my work. I have a lecture series to prepare.”

  “You could work in Plymouth. I know my uncle would happily make his study available.”

  “Lidian.” He sighed. “Why don’t you make arrangements to go yourself? Leave Wallie here with me. Surely even you must admit that the time has come to wean him. You could stay as long as you like.”

  A chill rolled over me, in a long, slow wave, like the ocean in April. I remembered the beach in Plymouth, in winter: desolate, hard, the wind tearing at my hair and cloak, snapping the hem of my skirts against my ankles until they were sore.

  I smiled at my husband, a tight smile, icy as the frozen beach. “Thank you, Mr. Emerson.” I turned, twisting on my heel in a swirl of gray serge, to leave the room.

  The next afternoon was cold, with a bitter wind that swept over the low fields and swirled about the house and barn. When Henry Thoreau knocked at the front door, I invited him in. He stood awkwardly in the hall, his ill-fitting clothes hanging on him as if on a hook. The sleeves of his coat were too long. His hair was unruly and wind-tossed, flying off in all directions. He wore a lumpy hat, shapeless with age.

  I smiled. “Welcome, Henry.”

  A slight flush suffused his face. “I’ve come to collect Mr. Emerson for a walk.”

  “On this cold day?” I glanced past Henry through the half-open door. The wind was thrashing on the far side of the Cambridge Turnpike. “I fear my husband’s been suffering from a cough lately. Perhaps—” But I was not able to finish my sentence, for Mr. Emerson emerged from his study at that moment to assure me that he felt quite well and had not coughed more than once since rising that morning.

  Henry waited in the entryway while Mr. Emerson got his coat. He said nothing, but I had the sharp sensation that his eyes saw past my concern to something even I was not aware of. At the door, I reached to adjust my husband’s collar, but his scowl was so disconcerting that I stopped short as if my hand had touched fire.

  Henry opened the door and made an odd little bow in my direction.

  “Do not tire yourself, Mr. Emerson,” I said.

  “My wife frets needlessly,” I heard Mr. Emerson say to Henry as they descended the steps. “The mother instinct has fairly conquered wisdom of late.” There was a fine edge of humor in his voice, but Henry made no response.

  THE NEXT DAY I began to prepare for a visit to Plymouth. I felt the most painful mix of emotions—a desperate homesickness for the Old Colony and a terrible dread at the thought of leaving Wallie. It had to be done, though. Lucy had convinced me that it was past time when my son must be weaned. Mr. Emerson was not wrong in his complaint that I’d delayed overlong.

  From the moment of my arrival in Plymouth, I felt a rejuvenation of spirits that I’d not thought possible. My interest in society miraculously revived, though I’d considered it buried for good. Nearly every evening I enjoyed the company of old friends and relatives. Their conversations brought me to life once again. I enjoyed tea several times at the home of Aunt Priscilla, where she’d prepared pastries of every sort: tiny lemon cakes flecked with sugar; muffins filled with all sorts of fruits; wee sausages in a sweet sauce; fresh buttered scones; delicate tartlets. And the tea itself, of course, which was the finest money could buy, direct from the Orient.

  Many in Plymouth commented on how motherhood became me. They told me I no longer had the gaunt, haunted look of the years before Wallie’s birth, but now radiated a deep contentment. My face was fuller and my cheeks pinker. I filled out my gowns so they no longer hung like sacks from my shoulders, and my arms no longer looked like bones.

  I thought often of Wallie, yet at times it seemed as if the past two years had been lived in a dream. At times I was nearly persuaded that I had never married, nor borne a child. At other times, I could barely endure the separation from my son. My breasts cried out for him, and I wondered if he cried for them.

  I opened the windows and inhaled the cold salt wind that swept past the curtains in restless gusts. In Plymouth, I had no need to concern myself with Mr. Emerson’s aversion to cold. I listened all night to the sea roll up the beach in its old familiar lullaby.

  When I returned to Concord after two weeks, Mr. Emerson greeted me warmly and took me to bed as soon as it was possible without offending decency. In his arms, I recollected all the reasons I’d agreed to be his wife, and my melancholy at leaving Plymouth vanished in our embrace. M
y joy was multiplied tenfold the next day when I held my son and listened to him babble.

  SPRING FINALLY CAME and the grass grew luminously green. My daffodils raised their yellow heads and my tulips came up in red and gold profusion. Robins bounced everywhere, spading the soil with their questing bills, their breasts so red it looked as if some spectral fire had bathed them.

  I soon discovered that I was carrying another child. Mornings, I lay in an impotent stupor, watching my husband through heavy-lidded eyes as he moved quietly around the room. He was considerate and pleased. He confessed that when I was carrying Wallie, he’d truly believed I would die before I was brought to term. He considered Wallie a miracle. As, indeed, he was.

  That spring I woke often in the middle of the night and could not return to the solace of sleep without checking on Wallie. I tiptoed into the nursery by moonlight and stood over him as he slept in his trundle bed. There was a rosy flush on his cheeks and his breath scented the air like a delicate flower. He was so lovely I could never prevent myself from kissing him, though Mother Emerson had warned me that I risked spoiling him with too much affection. Sometimes his eyes would fly open, and he would start up in bed as if about to cry out in terror. The next moment he’d recognize me and smile.

  WHEN WALLIE’S SECOND BIRTHDAY ARRIVED, I held a soirée in his honor, inviting the best of Concord to attend. I taxed Nancy’s patience mightily by fretting over the menu. And I reduced Louisa to tears when I asked her to polish the brass andirons yet again. I was determined that the gathering would be worthy of Mr. Emerson’s position in the community. And in the world. I had married a great man. A man of letters whose mind was so radiant that, though he was not handsome, every head rotated immediately toward him when he entered a room.

  The soiree was a triumph. All who were invited came, and there were many exclamations over the simplicity and arrangement of the furnishings. The house was filled with laughter. Many commented on the beauty of the new parlor, where my husband regaled our guests with his wisdom and wit.

  Only after everyone had left and Mr. Emerson and I had extinguished the lamps and climbed the stairs to our chamber, did I discover that he’d hated every moment of the festivity. He did not need to say it—I knew his expressions well by then. His brooding forehead and the particular jut of his chin when he was troubled immediately proclaimed his vexation. When I pressed him, he shook his head and waved his hand, as if to shoo away an annoying insect and muttered, “Misdemeanors.”

  That night I dreamed that Mr. Emerson and I were walking in heaven, talking pleasantly together, when we suddenly came upon an immense tree blooming with small pink flowers. Ellen Tucker was sitting under it in her green rocking chair. She rose as we approached, and Mr. Emerson went to her at once. I watched them embrace and understood in that moment that she would always be his true wife, whereupon I turned away and left.

  When I related my dream to Mr. Emerson, he listened more attentively than usual, and when I was finished, he caressed my cheek and said, “Your nobility extends even to your dreams.” I know he meant it as a tribute, but my heart was aware only of the words he had not spoken.

  I began to understand that I would never replace Ellen in his affections. They’d been married only eighteen months; she was not his intellectual match; she never gave him a child. Yet his heart was forever entombed with hers.

  I conceived a plan I confessed to no one. It came to me one February afternoon as I sat in the dining room, sewing a linen bonnet for the baby and reflecting on a conversation I’d had with Mr. Emerson the evening before. We’d retired to our chamber earlier than usual that night—for once we’d not entertained guests. Mr. Emerson was in a contemplative mood, and when I inquired, he confessed that his thoughts had been with Ellen Tucker all day.

  The uncharacteristic tremble in his voice made my heart go out to him. “Do you have so many sad memories?” I asked.

  “On the contrary,” he said. “Whenever I think of Ellen, all I remember is happiness.” He then told me how the sight of her always filled him with such joy, such hope of delight. He told me how good she was, that she was the source of all gaiety in their marriage. Yet he had many regrets and still rebuked himself for his cold, impersonal demeanor toward her. Because of it, he said, remorse ran through his life like a river through a long valley.

  He sat on the edge of our bed as he spoke, staring into the fire, and all I could see was his silhouette against the shimmer of flame. It was as if all the dark sorrow that was inside him came out and crouched upon his back.

  I didn’t know what to say. How does a woman console her husband for the loss of the woman he loves? Yet I sensed that he wanted some response from me, and I struggled to find words to convey a measure of the comfort he sought.

  “I think you are too severe,” I said. “It’s clear that you loved Ellen well. Your devotion to her memory testifies to that.” I stroked his hand where it lay on the coverlet. I felt, in that moment, that we’d never been closer. There was such rare affection in this conversation that it surpassed even the intimacy of our physical union.

  “If only I’d been less self-centered.” His voice scratched in his throat. “Perhaps her life might have been lengthened. Perhaps we might have enjoyed the fullness of our love.” He was staring hard into the fire. He didn’t seem to notice when I withdrew my hand. My one thought—the only thought my mind could encompass at that moment—was that, if Ellen had lived, Mr. Emerson would not be my husband.

  Yet I was aware—how could I not be?—that he was begging me for absolution. That he wanted to be forgiven for his imagined coldness and neglect of Ellen.

  “She knows your feelings,” I whispered. “She attends you. You know that. Deny that you can feel her presence.” My hand stole to the back of his neck and touched the smooth curls there.

  He bowed his head into his hands and, though he did not weep, his shoulders shook as if with sobs.

  I sat all the next afternoon, sewing in the green rocker that had belonged to Ellen. It was a comfortable chair, and afforded me a strange solace, for I’d come to believe her spirit hovered near. When I sat in it, I sensed the magnitude of her love for my husband. It seemed to me that it not only endured, but daily grew stronger. Her devotion encompassed our union, and therefore me. The idea came to me slowly, as a rose slowly unfurls its petals, but by evening my mind was set. If our new child were born a girl I would name her after my husband’s first wife.

  MY LABOR BEGAN just before ten o’clock on the twenty-third of February. The pains were hard from the first, and as soon as Mr. Emerson was notified, he sent for Cynthia Thoreau, who attended me throughout the night.

  The birth was fierce and swift. At eight o’clock the next morning, my daughter lay in my arms. When Mr. Emerson came into the chamber shortly afterward, I looked at him and solemnly announced, “I’ve already named her. She is Ellen Tucker Emerson.”

  He said nothing, but the blood drained from his face, and he gave me such a haunted look that I momentarily regretted my decision. Then he broke into an angelic smile and kissed me. My heart lifted. I knew that he understood the nature of my gift. And that he would always feel indebted.

  Ellen was a fine, healthy infant with fair skin and dark hair. She suckled well from the start. That afternoon, while the family and our friends enjoyed tea in the dining room downstairs, I wrapped her in an eiderdown and placed her near the fire. The ensuing hour was one of the holiest peace. I lay on my pillows, watching her and listening to her baby murmurs. Now there was a new Ellen in my husband’s life, one who would take the place of the angel he adored.

  Whenever Henry visited he asked to see the baby and always expressed wonder at her beauty. He was unlike other men—he expressed no disdain for the rituals of a woman’s life, but rather seemed to find all events of equal interest. Whenever I consented to let him dandle Ellen, his delight was so apparent that I said he should find himself a wife at once, so that he might have a child of his own.

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p; He gave me an odd look, but said nothing.

  By the end of April that year, Margaret Fuller was with us again. She came and went like a spring wind, always stirring things up, exciting the air, making everyone in the household alert. I loved to hear her talk, for her mind was filled with noble thoughts and great ideas. She was the queen of conversations, engrossed in all the latest philosophies. Whenever she arrived, she immediately captured Mr. Emerson in the net of her eyes. She had no child to distract her, no household to run, no horde of guests to entertain.

  Though she claimed to admire the baby, Margaret was oddly reluctant to hold her and never played with either of the children. Instead she took long afternoon walks with Mr. Emerson. They returned so deeply engaged in conversation that neither of them heard my questions, nor did they notice Wallie tugging on his father’s sleeve for attention. Margaret’s face was often flushed and her hair tumbled by the wind. Her eyes darted around the parlor like bright dragonflies, seeking a place to light. But there was no face save my husband’s where they settled for long. His mind was the only perfume that attracted her for more than a moment.

  I felt plain and uninteresting in contrast. I was consigned to the background of household life, caught up in a thousand menial tasks. The management of Bush and the care of the children consumed me. I ceased keeping a journal, for I no longer had time nor clarity of thought to devote to it. When evening finally came, with its opportunity for stimulating conversation, I was drained to the point of silence. I often sat in a daze, watching Margaret and Mr. Emerson discuss great thoughts and principles. Yet, tired as I was, the waves of excitement that passed between them did not escape my notice.

  The thought occurred to me that Mr. Emerson might have proposed to Margaret if he’d met her before me. I knew that it was my mind that had most attracted him. Margaret’s genius was that her body was her mind—the two were indistinguishably fused.