I heard Wallie’s footsteps on the back stairs and went to greet him. I made a great fuss about the portrait, which prompted him to insist that we show it at once to his papa. So it was that John, Wallie, and I all invaded Mr. Emerson’s study; Wallie carrying the daguerreotype before him like a prize.
Mr. Emerson was suitably impressed, and insisted the portrait must take up immediate residence on the parlor mantel. We stood side by side, admiring it. “It’s a remarkably good likeness,” he declared. “But what else would one expect, since the sun itself is the painter?”
MY THIRD CONFINEMENT came at the end of November, the pains commencing two hours after Mr. Emerson’s departure for Boston. It was Henry who helped me to my bed and sent Nancy to fetch his mother to serve as midwife. Even before she arrived, he paced the downstairs hall like a father, his footsteps keeping time with my labored breaths. Cynthia kept up a soothing chatter throughout the long afternoon, until I was finally delivered of a girl just after sundown. The baby gave a lusty cry, which was answered by Henry’s hearty cheer from below.
An hour later, I begged Cynthia to allow Henry entrance so that he might see the baby. He came in shyly, knowing that the territory he invaded was sacred to women, but too charmed and curious to refuse the invitation. He gazed at my new daughter with a wonder on his face that made it clear he considered her the most profound of miracles.
The sound of the coach rumbling to a stop in front of the house brought us all to the alert. “It’s Mr. Emerson!” I cried. “Where are the children?” Henry went to find them, while I urged Cynthia to quickly make the baby presentable.
“Part and comb her hair before Mr. Emerson comes in,” I said, anxiously brushing my own tangled mass.
“There’s none to part,” she said.
And indeed there was not. Her head was nearly bald, covered only with a fuzz of light brown hair. Yet she was the fairest of all my babes, a small pink-and-white rose of rare beauty. Mr. Emerson was suitably impressed, though he expressed no regret at having been away during the birth.
We could not agree on a name. The only one we both liked was Ruth, and Mother Emerson would not allow it. She had never liked her Christian name. The day after her birth, as he took tea with me in our chamber, Mr. Emerson suggested that the child should bear the name Asia.
“No,” I said. “It’s too peculiar. I don’t wish my daughter to be burdened with its implications.”
He gave me a startled look. “I didn’t realize you felt that way.” He poured more tea into his cup and held it between his hands in a meekly sorrowful way, like a talisman of regret.
“You did not ask.”
“I meant no offense. It was an affectionate name.”
I did not reply. He never again referred to me as Asia.
As CUSTOM DECREED, I was confined to my chamber for a week after the birth. I lay upstairs in my chamber, nursing my nameless daughter, eating the poor food brought to me by the servants, and listening to the opening and closing of doors below. The evening conversations in the parlor were muffled by the walls and floor, but still sufficiently audible that I could recognize my husband’s rising inflections and Henry’s explosive, barking laugh.
During that long week, Henry visited me daily, bringing me news of the world and lengthy reports of conversations. He described Bronson’s long-winded and poetic diversions and Elizabeth’s sweet platitudes in explicit detail. He always took time to admire the baby in her cradle and expressed sincere gratitude when I allowed him to hold her. He never forgot to look in on Wallie and Ellen; he gave them daily piggyback rides and on good days took them on backyard excursions. At the end of the week, he surprised me by announcing that he was leaving Bush.
I let out a cry of dismay. “But why? Hasn’t Mr. Emerson given you a sufficient measure of his time?”
He smiled and shook his head. “Waldo’s been both fair and generous. And I’m not leaving permanently—I’ll be back within a month.”
“So long?”
“I mean to write a book on the English poets. There are books I require that I don’t have the funds to buy. So I’m going to establish residence in Cambridge with Stearns Wheeler which will allow me access to Harvard’s library.”
“I thought you were writing poems, not books about poets.”
“Waldo doesn’t see my future there,” he said. “He thinks my poetry inconsistent.”
I frowned. “I wasn’t aware that Mr. Emerson had changed his opinion of your work.”
“I believe he’s right, Lidian. He hasn’t told me out of malice, but from concern.
“I don’t know his reasons,” I cried. “But he’s wrong! And I mean to tell him so!”
“You may tell him what you wish, but he’s only speaking as my friend. You must not plague yourself with my concerns, Lidian. You must take care of yourself and the children.”
I looked down at the baby whose head lay in the crook of my arm. As I watched, she smiled in her sleep, and her sweet expression calmed my agitated spirit.
“Then in return you must promise me not to give up poetry,” I said. “And I must have a full report on the English poets when you return.”
“You know I’ll always give you a report. You are my chief counselor and confidante.” He went to the doorway where he stood looking at me, about to leave and yet not leaving. I read his reluctance in the sag of his shoulders and the limp way his arms hung at his sides. And, sinner that I was, his reluctance made me glad, for it promised his return.
THE NEXT DAY I left my room for the first time since the baby’s birth. As I stepped into the upper front hall my eyes fell on a trail of dead flies along the baseboard. It was obvious that the servants had taken advantage of my confinement and neglected their cleaning. I was certain that the entire house was in disrepair. I felt so ashamed I moaned out loud.
I heard the sound of voices below me and recognized Elizabeth’s gentle inflections. She came to the bottom of the stairs and called up to me. When I didn’t answer, she came up and found me bent over the baluster rail. She led me back to bed and I lay with my eyes closed, listening to her soothing voice. After some time, I was able to master myself and rise above my tears.
Yet something had shifted within, and I no longer had a clear perspective on my life. I was profoundly bewildered by the position in which I found myself. I’d maintained from the first that I was ill-suited to be a housewife. The cares and duties confounded me and I responded by concentrating on the tiniest detail—as if a rapt attention to the minutiae of housekeeping might shield me from the terrible realization that I was trapped in a cell of my own making.
HENRY RETURNED TO Bush on the tenth of December in fine spirits, having obtained a letter from the president of Harvard permitting him to use the college library. His satchel was stuffed with books, which he laid out on the dining-room table so I could examine them—volumes and volumes of Scottish poetry and the entire works of Sir Walter Raleigh.
“I believe the only true education I’ve received comes from books and my own observations,” he said. “I’m still determined to be a poet.” He settled in again at Bush as if he’d never left. He came and went with a guileless frequency, often disappearing over the fields for hours or closeting himself in his room to read his books and write his poetry. Occasionally he took afternoon walks with Mr. Emerson or Bronson Alcott. Sometimes he spent the entire day in his boat on the river or exploring one of Concord’s many ponds. Yet it was not the constancy of his presence that comforted me; it was the dependability of his good cheer. He imparted a rare energy to the house when in residence. We always found some time each day to converse. The disparity in our ideas stimulated and challenged us. We liked nothing better than to test out thoughts against the granite of each other’s opinion.
One evening, as he popped corn for the children in a warming pan over the parlor fire, Henry told me that he was thinking of building a small house by the shore of a pond and living there alone. The kernels cracked and burst in
the pan, and Wallie and Ellen laughed and then began to squeal with excitement as the exploded corn lifted the cover off the pan, causing several fat white pieces of corn to jump out onto the carpet.
“To what purpose?” I asked, rocking the baby’s cradle with my foot as I mended a frayed seam in my husband’s shirt. “Why would you wish to separate yourself from society?”
“Society agrees with me less and less.” Henry gave the pan another shake and drew it from the fire. “I’m determined to make an experiment. To see how well a man can live without the accoutrements of civilization.”
“But what profit would you draw from such an experiment?” The baby stirred in her cradle and I increased the pace of my foot.
“Doesn’t every effort profit a man to the degree in which he invests himself in it?” He sat on the floor with Ellen leaning on one arm and Wallie on the other. When he glanced over his shoulder at me, I caught the shadow of a frown. “Don’t touch!” he warned Ellen, who was reaching for the pan. And then, gently, “The corn isn’t ready yet. But you’ll have some very soon.” He looked again at me. “Haven’t you said as much yourself?”
“Perhaps so.” I had to smile. Henry had a flair for pointing a discussion in a direction that took the conversational wind out of my sails. “But, on a practical level, I wonder what you’ll do all day living by a pond?”
“Watching the progress of my garden and recording the advancement of my mind will be sufficient activity.”
“For many it would be more than sufficient,” I said, returning his smile. “But your mind is uncommonly active, and I think it wants accomplishment as well as self-reflection.”
He laughed aloud and a corresponding wave of fondness filled my breast, a nearly overwhelming affection for this young man who sat at my feet with my two oldest children. The sight of the three heads bent together over the pan affected me so acutely that tears stung my eyes. I quickly turned my attention back to my mending. Some things did not bear protracted thought.
IN MID-DECEMBER Lucy came to Concord and brought Sophia. As soon as she stepped in the door, Sophia ran upstairs to see the baby. She scooped her up and rocked her in the crook of her arm. She smiled and cooed and sang a little song. The baby gazed at her in that calm and thoughtful way that wide-awake infants have, as if she had the capacity to comprehend all the puzzles of the universe but no way to explain them.
“You poor little nameless dear!” Sophia cried, planting a kiss on the smooth round forehead.
“You must give her a name,” I said. “She’s been waiting weeks for someone to bestow her true name on her.”
“Me?” Sophia looked at me. She’d grown into a poised young woman, with her mother’s thick, dark hair and her father’s blue eyes.
“You’re a young lady now,” I said. “And a strong-minded one from what your mother tells me in her letters. She mentioned that two young men in Plymouth have asked for your hand, but that you’ve rejected both.”
“She wants to be like you,” Lucy said.
“You mean she must wait to marry until she’s thirty-three?” I laughed and patted Sophia’s shoulder. “I have only one piece of advice, my dear. And that is never to settle for a man.”
She gave me an odd look before turning her attention back to the baby. “Edith,” she said suddenly. “It means ‘joyous.’ The baby’s name is Edith!”
I saw at once that she had hit upon the perfect name. My new daughter had merely been waiting for someone to come along who recognized who she truly was.
16
Sorrows
The brook into the stream runs on;
But the deep-eyed boy is gone.
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON
On the second Sunday of the New Year it snowed all day. At twilight I lit the lamps, musing on the way the light pooled at the base of the lamps and fell onto the surfaces in the rooms, like water overspilling a glass. An urgent knock at the east entrance startled me from my reverie.
I didn’t recognize the boy who stood shivering on the stoop, but he looked so forlorn in his thin coat that I invited him in at once. Disregarding the clots of snow that fell from his boots onto my green carpet, I hurried him into the dining room to warm himself before the fire. He looked about ten or eleven. Stiff black hair poked from beneath his brown cap. His coat sleeve was torn at the shoulder, exposing a dirty gray shirt.
“I’ve come to fetch Mr. Thoreau. He’s here, ain’t he, ma’am?” His young voice was so thick with Irish brogue that it took me a moment to understand.
“He is,” I said. “But he’s not to be disturbed.” Henry had retreated to his room at four after spending most of the afternoon outside observing the storm.
“I’ve a message for him.” The boy’s hands were bright red and severely chapped. “‘Tis urgent, ma’am. Mrs. Thoreau told me so herself.” He was still shivering.
An odd, instinctual reluctance made me hesitate. I did not like the thought of the boy ascending our front stairs and entering Henry’s room. More truthfully, I feared what this visit might portend.
But duty must always trump fear, so I went upstairs and informed Henry of the young messenger. He gave my hand a light pat as he moved past me to the stairs, his fingertips callused and warm and all too briefly on my skin. I did not follow immediately but gave him a moment of privacy with the boy while I scouted up a pair of mittens for the boy, which I easily found in the nursery closet. Mother Emerson was forever knitting socks and mittens and hats and we had plenty to spare. When I returned to the dining room, Henry had already put on his coat and was knotting a brown scarf around his neck. His face was gray.
“It’s John,” he said, speaking in such a low tone that I would not have heard him, had my ears not been particularly tuned to his voice. “He has lockjaw and Mother is greatly alarmed. They need me home.”
He left at once and I stood at the window, staring out at the white, snow-covered fields, fearing the worst. Word came the next morning that Dr. Bartlett had given up all hope for John’s survival. I spent the day in a state of high alarm, constantly distracted by thoughts of Henry. I feared this trial might be too much for him, for I knew how deeply he loved his brother.
On Tuesday evening Henry appeared at our front door. Both Mr. Emerson and I hurried to greet him.
“He left us this afternoon.” Henry stepped into the hall, looking stunned and pale, speaking in a voice choked with tears. “He was calm to the last.”
“Oh, Henry!” I was about to embrace him when Mr. Emerson laid his arm on Henry’s shoulder, guided him into his study, and closed the door. When Henry left Bush an hour later, I was in my chamber, nursing Edith.
I plied Mr. Emerson with questions—what had Henry told him of John’s death? How was Henry bearing up?—but short of his assurance that John had faced his last hours with a manly and noble resolve, he could tell me nothing. I was left to pray alone, begging God to be merciful to the Thoreaus and particularly to Henry.
Henry came again late the next morning to collect his clothes. Mr. Emerson was locked in his study with the usual orders not to be disturbed, so I attended Henry alone. He seemed oddly calm; his face and gestures betrayed no weakness of spirit. Yet I knew his heart must be crushed. How I longed to embrace him, to show him the comfort of a friend and companion! Instead, I accompanied him to his room and helped him fold the clothes to fit his satchel. I took my time in accomplishing the task, for the moment seemed to me one of rare gravity and thus doubly precious. There was something about the small, ill-lit room that created a heightened intimacy, and I found myself able to offer my sympathy without any degree of awkwardness.
“We’re indebted to him for Wallie’s picture,” I said. “John had a remarkable facility for interesting children. He must have been a good teacher.”
“An exceptional one.” Henry stood at his desk, piling up his books and notebooks, wiping off his pen.
“I know you’re suffering.” I had laid out a shirt on the bed and was folding the slee
ves down over the front, running my hand across the fabric an extra time, as if to press out sorrow as well as wrinkles. “But you must believe that when John left this world a pure soul was translated to heaven.”
Henry pulled open the second drawer of his small bureau. “He was in great pain, you know. Lockjaw is a terrible way to die.” He paused and I heard him swallow. “He spasmed so hard I had to lie down on top of him to prevent him from throwing himself onto the floor.”
My breath caught in my throat and my own tears welled up. I was glad I was not facing him for I knew he must be struggling to maintain his composure.
“Yet the last conscious thing he did was to smile at me. He died in my arms.”
“I had not heard,” I whispered and then turned for I could no longer bear to present my back to him. “You brought him comfort. And reassurance. I’m sure of it. He was fortunate to have you for a brother.”
“No. I was the fortunate one.” His voice broke on the last two words, and he sank onto the room’s single chair.
I could think of nothing to say that would not break the fragile moment. In an extremity of compassion, I laid my hand on his shoulder so lightly I was not even sure he felt it. Yet when I started to draw it away he covered it with his hand and held it there. I don’t know how long we remained in that posture, but after some time his hand slid away and I went back to folding his shirts and trousers. My task was quickly finished. Too soon no shirts or trousers remained to fold.
I turned and studied him, struck suddenly by his youth. It was a quality I’d not recently considered, for his thoughts had always made him seem wise beyond his years. Sometimes I believed him even older than me. He sat sideways, his elbow propped on the chair rail, his head lying on his arm. He stared at a spot on the floor in front of his shoes. His hair appeared as if a gale wind had arranged it.
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