Mr. Emerson's Wife

by Amy Belding Brown

  We were utterly unable to succor each other. The collision of our private sorrows had wounded us beyond striving. Though I recognized that our son’s death had driven Mr. Emerson yet farther from Christ, I could do nothing to repair the breach.

  While I spiraled downward into a melancholy so profound it hurt to breathe, he planned a lecture trip to Philadelphia. I lay in bed for days with the curtains drawn, staring at the ceiling. I nursed Edith and kissed Ellen good morning and good night. Yet when Mrs. Emerson came with her Bible and tried to comfort me by opening the curtains and reading my favorite Psalms, I rolled away and faced the table where I’d set my homeopathic powders. The small bottles winked in the afternoon light.

  Elizabeth came and sat by my bedside, stroking my forehead and praying for God’s mercy. A fever raged in me—a fire so hot I imagined it might scald her gentle hand. It did not abate for weeks, for the fever was caused not by illness, but by grief.

  After a month, Lucy declared that I could no longer afford the luxury of illness. I had two children to care for. I closed my eyes and turned away from her as well.

  On the first warm day of March, Henry came to see me, still weak from his own illness. The snow had crystallized into crumbly undulations in the field, and icicles dropped beads of water from the roof, creating the narrowest of moats in the snow. We had let all but the kitchen fire go out and I was lying beneath a blanket on the chaise in the parlor, reading—or trying to—though my sense of desolation kept obscuring the words. He entered the room so quietly that I did not at first know he was there. I happened to glance up for a moment and saw what appeared to be a shadow. I started and nearly dropped the book. Henry looked utterly stricken. Heartsick is the only word that suited his appearance that afternoon. I put out my hand to him, the way a drowning woman might extend hers above the waves.

  “Henry!” I said. “What a welcome sight you are!”

  He tried to smile. I recognized the slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. Yet his attempt failed miserably, and all I could be certain of was the grave solemnity of his eyes.

  “Sit down. Please.” I closed my book and smoothed the blanket across my lap. “I’m glad you’ve recovered. And very grateful that you’ve come.”

  He closed his eyes and turned his head away, as if he could not bear to see what showed on my face. Yet his hand finally reached out and met mine. I was struck by the cool relief that came from his touch.

  “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long.” He withdrew his hand and lowered himself carefully onto the straight chair next to the window. The way he moved gave an impression of extreme fragility, as if his bones lay directly beneath the surface of his skin and were in danger of shattering should he jar them with any sudden motion. His hair was uncharacteristically neat, evenly combed and slicked down, and its conformation to his skull made his ears appear to stick out. But what had changed most were his eyes. They appeared faded and colorless, like broken shells upon a beach. I looked at them, and then away, for I could not bear the pain I saw. My glance then fell upon the daguerreotype of Wallie on the fireplace mantel and my throat knotted as I recalled the morning John Thoreau had presented it to me.

  I glanced back at Henry and discovered that he’d followed my gaze. “We owe so much solace to John,” I said. “I cannot believe they are both gone.”

  He bowed his head.

  We sat for some time in silence. I heard the water dripping from the eaves, and the clamorous conversation of crows in the trees beyond the garden. Sunlight dappled the screen of young hemlocks outside the west-facing windows. I became aware of a profound camaraderie in our silence, an easeful goodness that rose from our proximity. I thought how rare and blessed it was to be in another’s presence without speaking, to sit comfortably in utter stillness. And I noted something else, as well—a faint pulse of vitality had been restored to me when I saw Henry. I no longer felt wholly dead.

  After some time, Henry raised his head. “How are you faring, Lidian? Tell me, is your faith sufficient consolation?”

  We had argued over Christianity many times, and Henry was often disposed to make light of my orthodoxy. Yet I sensed in his question a solemn and sincere concern for my welfare; his usual disdain was entirely lacking.

  “There is no consolation,” I said. “I sometimes picture him enjoying heaven and that brings a small measure of comfort. What’s most difficult is the way the world goes on without him. I could not have imagined that it would even exist—I cannot imagine it—and yet it does.”

  “It’s not the same world,” he said softly. He was leaning forward, his head turned at an odd angle so that he watched me as if from behind some obstacle. His hands, spread on his knees, closed into fists and opened again. “Everything—everything—has changed. I feel that I must learn to walk and talk—to breathe—all over again.”

  “Oh,” I murmured, and my eyes filled with tears, as I felt the truth in his words. I had thought and experienced them all myself. I rose, the blanket rolled to the floor, and I grasped Henry’s hand and sank to my knees in front of him. “Oh, my dear friend,” I whispered. “You know! You understand!”

  He did not move as I placed my forehead on his knee, still clinging to his hand. After a moment I felt his free hand graze the top of my head—the softest of blessings—and then move to my shoulder.

  “Stand up, Lidian,” he said. “Please get up.”

  It was not until that moment that I realized my gesture caused him a profound discomfort. I rose, and though it took me only a matter of seconds, the motion felt exceedingly awkward and seemed to last a very long time. When finally I stood before him, he rose too and said he’d promised to return home before dark.

  He moved to free his hand from mine, but I would not release it. “You must tell me when you’re coming back to live with us,” I said. “You are coming back, aren’t you?”

  He gazed at me with his haunted, pale eyes and I saw in them a yearning as strong as my own, a hunger so fierce it frightened me. “Yes,” he said, squeezing my hand. “Yes, of course I am. As soon as I can make arrangements.”

  WHEN HENRY CAME THROUGH the front door the next afternoon, I was trimming the parlor lamps. I hurried to greet him, and found him at the open doorway of my husband’s study frowning in at the empty room.

  “Is Waldo out?” His brown satchel sagged from his shoulder. “I’d hoped to speak with him.”

  “He left for New York this morning. Another lecture tour. He won’t be back before the eighteenth.” I found myself brushing at my apron an inordinate number of times. “I didn’t expect you so soon, Henry. But it’s good to have you home.” I could not stop myself from touching his arm as I led him up the stairs to his room. There I made up the narrow bed while he unpacked his clothes.

  I was just plumping up the pillows when Ellen peeked around the doorframe. She threw herself at Henry, wrapping her small arms around his knees so that he swayed and I feared he might crash to the ground. He did not lose his balance but instead, hooked his hands beneath her arms and swung her high into the air where she squealed with delight.

  When he put her down, Ellen begged for more, but I told her to hush and reminded her that Mr. Thoreau had been sick. She looked up at him solemnly. “Wallie was sick, too,” she said. “He’s gone to heaven now.”

  Hearing my daughter speak these words in Henry’s presence struck me with a strange new pain, and I made a small sound that he must have taken for a gasp. He brushed my arm with his hand—the briefest gesture of reassurance—and then squatted in front of Ellen, so that their heads were at the same height.

  “But I haven’t gone to heaven, as you see. I’m not yet good enough for the company of angels.”

  Ellen poked out her lower lip. “I wish the angels would let Wallie come down and play with me. Just for a day.”

  “I think the angels must love Wallie so much they can’t spare him. And besides”—he touched a small curl in front of her ear. I noticed that his finger had a long scr
atch running the length of it—“my brother is there too, and he’d be lonely if Wallie left.”

  Ellen regarded him thoughtfully for a long moment. Then she nodded and reached up to touch his face—a simple, babyish gesture, though she was no longer an infant. “Will you pop corn tonight?”

  Henry laughed. “That’s up to your mother. But I’d certainly like to.”

  I thought of all the fall evenings when Henry had popped corn for Wallie and Ellen, recalled the firelight flickering on their joyful faces, the shine of their hair. The memory rose up and enfolded me in its sweetness.

  “Of course we’ll pop corn tonight,” I said. “In celebration of Mr. Thoreau’s return.”

  That evening, as I watched the white puffs of corn fly out of the old warming pan, I laughed for the first time since Wallie died.

  I slept easily that night, for I felt myself wrapped in a warm, embracing peace. Edith lay close by me in her cradle where I could tend her. Ellen slept in the nursery, and Henry was back in the chamber at the head of the stairs. Grief and desolation had been banished from the house.

  In the middle of the night I sat up in bed so suddenly I nearly cracked my head upon the post. I reached for the cradle and was reassured when my hand struck the familiar smooth wood. Edith was fast asleep. I wondered what had wakened me. Then I heard the plaintive notes of a flute. I sat listening in the darkness. The melody was sweet and yet somehow unspeakably sad, as if Henry had taken all the tender, poignant music in the world and combined it into this single strain. I let my head fall back against the pillows and allowed the music to rock me as the sea had rocked my father’s ships, as my mother’s arms had rocked me as a child.

  18

  Tribulation

  As for Waldo, he died as the mist rises from the brook, which the sun will soon dart his rays through

  —HENRY DAVID THOREAU

  I did not believe that my roses would bloom again after my son died. Yet that June, as always, the damasks raised their tight pink fists to the sky, and the sun peeled them open, petal by fragile petal. Thus did God slowly strip me of every illusion—even the conceit of despair.

  That June, Henry planted a garden in the dooryard of the Manse for Nathaniel Hawthorne and his new bride, Sophia. At my husband’s suggestion, the Hawthornes had rented the house Reverend Ripley left vacant when he died. Mr. Emerson was successfully fulfilling his dream of creating a community of intellects and writers. Henry spent much of the summer working the soil. I understood, as others did not, that this unique gift was born of Henry’s grief. Like me, he instinctively knew that only direct contact with the earth could ease an anguished heart.

  In the midst of that summer of sorrow, Margaret Fuller came again to Concord and took up her customary residence in the Red Room. Her presence erased the deepest lines of grief from my husband’s face. She brought a new vitality and cheer into the house.

  I was glad for him. I yearned to enjoy Margaret’s company and wit as much as he. Yet the very day she arrived I was confined to my bed with a tooth abscess. I listened to her bell-like voice from my chamber, my jaw throbbing, dazed with pain and laudanum. In my stupor I imagined my husband welcomed Margaret not just into his study, but into his arms.

  It was almost a week before Margaret finally visited me in my chamber. She brought flowers—bright yellow roses. Filled with remorse that she’d neglected me for so long, she stroked my hand with the tips of her fingers, murmuring her sympathy.

  “Do forgive me, Lidian,” she said. “I’m mortified that I disregarded you so! Truly, I didn’t realize you were home. I assumed you were in Plymouth visiting relatives.”

  I looked at her and tried to summon some Christian forgiveness. Yet all I could find was the realization that Mr. Emerson had not mentioned me or my illness.

  “I’m heartsick over Wallie’s death,” she continued. “He was the most extraordinary boy! I feel as if I’ve lost my own son.”

  I withdrew my hand. The pain in my jaw made it impossible to speak, so I did not tell her what was in my heart—that she had not the faintest glimmer of understanding. Margaret knew nothing of motherhood and could not begin to perceive the depth of my mourning.

  Again that afternoon, I heard her laughter below in the hall outside my husband’s study, as they prepared to embark on a walk. I pictured her arranging a bright scarf over her curls, smiling up at him, her eyes shining like stars.

  Throughout her stay, Margaret was constantly by Mr. Emerson’s side. Every day they took long walks in Walden Woods and Sleepy Hollow. They bantered over the dinner table. They enjoyed late-night conversations in his study and in her chamber.

  Meanwhile, I spent day after day lying in shuttered darkness, my head fierce with pain. Dr. Bartlett bled me and applied a ginger poultice to my jaw. My fever subsided but my morbid suspicion did not. I longed to confront my husband. Yet I feared becoming a shrew. Had he not expounded the priceless worth of friendship in his lectures? Had I not fully agreed with him?

  One Sunday I spent the evening pacing in my chamber, while Margaret, Henry, Bronson, and my husband sat in the parlor and discussed the importance of the great German philosophers. Back and forth, back and forth I went, my heart hammering in my chest. I pulled at my fingers and feverishly stroked the backs of my hands. My eyes leapt from the window to the far wall and back again. I tugged at my hair, pulling it from its combs until it fell in unruly turmoil down my back. I had a sudden, vivid memory of the sea during a severe winter storm in Plymouth twelve years before. The ocean had churned and gnashed, rolling six-foot waves up the beach and sucking them back down again into its dark mouth. I had an ocean storm within me, one barely contained by my flesh.

  I heard Bronson and Henry leave. My husband and Margaret remained in the parlor, continuing their conversation. I imagined Mr. Emerson looking into Margaret’s eyes, perhaps touching her arm, or holding her hand as he spoke. The sound of her nasal laughter pierced the walls and ceiling. My husband’s voice rose and subsided. I thought of bubbles frothing at the base of a waterfall. I recognized a tone I had only heard him use during our marital intimacies. Jealousy assaulted me with a ferocity that scalded my neck.

  If I’d allowed myself to weep, I would have covered the floor with my tears. When at last I heard the door of the Red Room close and my husband’s footfall on the stairs, I retreated to the nursery and crawled into bed beside Ellen, letting her warm flesh and gentle breathing soothe my trembling body.

  When, three days later, Dr. Bartlett declared me well enough to resume my duties, I discovered that Henry had grown angry during my indisposition. He glowed with a transparent fury as he came and went about the house and yard. When questioned, he would not speak of his reasons, yet one afternoon I found him in the barn, repairing a broken chair rung. I insisted that he reveal the source of his vexation.

  “If you must know, it’s Miss Fuller,” he said. “Or rather, Waldo’s absorption with her.” He picked up his hammer and pounded the new rung into place.

  “You’ve told me yourself that Mr. Emerson is a sun that naturally attracts planets,” I reminded him.

  “Yes, I’ve made that comparison.” His voice was bitter. “Yet the sun does not cast an excess of light on just one of its planets, but on all of them equally.”

  I turned away, for I could not bear to look into his eyes and see my own sorrow reflected there.

  The next morning Henry and I, drawn together by our mutual sadness, lingered over breakfast, probing the nature of love and death. The following morning we did the same, and the next, and many more after that. We created our own society of two. Neither of us mentioned Mr. Emerson, though he stood between us like a sentinel, measuring the significance of all things.

  Gradually, Henry’s antagonism toward Margaret infected mine. I found myself growing bitter and jealous. Finally, on a humid morning in August, I knocked on Mr. Emerson’s study door and, when granted entrance, asked him to reveal exactly what he discussed during his late-night conver
sations with Margaret.

  He had been writing. Papers were spread all over his table. The vase of roses I had placed there the day before had been set on the floor. He put down his pen and looked up at me.

  “We speak of philosophy,” he said. “It wouldn’t interest you.”

  “That’s absurd!” I said. “You know I’ve always been attracted to the study of philosophy!”

  “You relish debate more than investigation, Lidian. Your Christianity constricts your understanding.”

  “You dare say such a thing?” My pulse pounded in my neck and my hands thrashed in the folds of my skirt. “Make an accusation of my faith? You know that’s not true! Christ is the lens of my understanding.” I paced back and forth, whirling in front of him, my fists beating at my waist, as if their frenzy might contain my rage. “Margaret has poisoned your mind against me!” I gasped. “I should not have allowed so much freedom in my house. Had I known—”

  “Calm yourself!” he said, his voice sharp as acid—a tone I’d rarely heard him use. “We cannot have a conversation if you behave like a child in the midst of a tantrum. Sit down.” He turned, gesturing to the settee.

  I managed with some difficulty to settle myself on its hard red cushion, though I was inwardly raging. I took a deep breath, and tried to begin again.

  “I don’t begrudge your friendships, but I wish to be included. You told me when you proposed marriage that you considered me your dearest friend and that you wished to regard me thus for the rest of my life.” I placed my hands in my lap but they would not obey me—they kept tearing at my skirts. “Yet now you turn away from me toward others whose minds you imagine to be brighter. As if our physical intimacy has bred in you a disrespect for my mind.”