All I ever saw him do with the bottle of medicine was stare at it. He read the label a dozen times over, until he had entranced himself and was on one of those frightening trips back to the war. He seemed to think he was looking at a bottle of liniment in a hospital tent, the one he’d actually been in after the Crater. For a quarter of an hour he was calmly, genially, out of his mind — during which time Riggs and Gerald came into the room and for the first time witnessed their father being quite unaware of who they were. I summoned Louise, who hurried the boys into the next room, telling them the stomach medicine had had some adverse effect upon their papa and that he would soon be well. But I am sure they knew otherwise: Gerald had gone white, and Riggs, in his manly little way, urged Louise not to go back and sit by Henry’s side “until his stomach settles.” I wish, instead of the two of them, that little Clara had been the one to see Henry this way: she has a sharper instinct (and tongue) and is more resilient than her brothers. I think she is entirely aware that her father is not “right,” and I believe she’s been so for the last few years, since she was six or seven. No matter, I eventually got everyone to bed, and I ended the evening by looking at my own bottle of medicine, the tonic prescribed for my “nerves.” The skull-and-bones on its label shrieked that not more than a teaspoonful could be taken every twelve hours, and had I not known just how ineffective it was (I had tried it that morning), I might have contemplated swallowing the entire contents — “That I might drink, and leave the world unseen.”
Hanover
10 October 1883
Last week at this hour we were passing through the Hartz Mountains, staring up from the coach at the Brocken, all of us marveling, even Henry, at the white mists surrounding it. We felt ourselves to be flying rather than pulled along terra firma by a team of bays. But only hours later we returned to the mundane earth — in the form of this city — with a great bump. I do not like Hanover; I never have since that day sixteen years ago when we had a terrific fight in the Waterloo Platz (over what, I cannot now remember). Henry has managed to settle us into a damp-filled boarding house, with the children crowded into a single room. (We are still near the nadir of his economic cycle, and such places as the Hotel de Russie are out of the question.) He told the landlady that he was determined to keep us here for the “extended experience” of Germany he is bent on having. (Solemn remarks about Bismarck and the emperor and the nation-state, to which Riggs and Gerald are expected to attend, emanate from him every several minutes.)
Up until yesterday I was grimly adjusting. I had discovered a small community of Americans and English among whom the children might find some friends (I no longer bother to seek any for myself), and I was determined I would find the courage to order that Henry’s German experience be fully “extended” and complete before Christmas. But then yesterday morning he announced his intention to remove us all to Berlin, so that he might read history in the national library. This undertaking required a special pass, he thought, and so he piled us all onto a train for nearby Brunswick, where he could talk to the American consul about getting one.
While Henry called at the man’s office, I was left to explore the town with the children. Henry would not give us the $2 fee to visit the palace, so we went off to the cathedral instead — one more cathedral, one more set of Henry the Lion relics. After perusing them, the four of us returned to the open air, walking along what once were ramparts, and deciding that Brunswick is a much nicer place than Hanover. Everywhere below us were lovely houses upon green hillsides. We chased and ambushed one another along the walkways, playing tag and singing in rounds. There I was with my three beautiful American children, ridiculously — but for a moment so happily — bellowing “Oh! Susannah” into the German air. For the first time in months I felt happy to be alive, rebellious, or — my old favorite word — encouraged. I believed I might yet overcome the disaster of my life, this disaster of my own making, created from my stubborn, blind love.
And then the day was over. We arrived back here in the dark, all of us silent in the face of Henry’s bad humor, which was brought on by the consul, who had denied him whatever application he sought. He would not eat his dinner, and would not allow the children, despite my angry protests, to touch anything but the vegetables on their plates. Today he has spent all day in the next room. (“Menschenscheu,” I heard the landlady whisper to her husband when he wouldn’t come to lunch — “Shy of human beings”) He did not permit the children to go out (they are now playing — happily enough, according to my ears — in a shuttered room), and he has forbidden me to sit by the window.
I am calm. I am clear. I shall now hide this book (an absolute necessity always) and write Will, who must, I have decided, come over here and get us. He must take us all home, and after that he must take us away from Henry. It is the only thing left to do. I do not know how we will end up once we are back in America; right now I must concentrate on getting us home, on rescuing my children by destroying my family. What lies ahead will be ugly and dangerous. My mind is already racing with plans and contingencies. It occurs to me that yesterday’s visit to the consul was a blessing. This man, whose name I now know, Mr. Fox, will perhaps remember the strange gentleman who called on him, and be disposed to help the man’s wife. I must tell Will his name in the letter, which I will ask Louise to mail for me. I need her now, and she must not fail me with her fearfulness. She must not fail the nephews and niece that, in her stifled way, she loves.
I must not fail myself.
O my love, my life — for nearly forty years! I am finally ready to surrender you, to save for my children what little is left of myself, to go away from you — if need be, never to see you again — to let others keep you under lock and key. I sit here in this small room, afraid to approach the window, surveying the little wreckage of my life, but I thank the Lord for one last great gift: the strength, at last, to admit my heart is broken.
Hanover
30 November 1883
We are still here, destined to remain so for another six or seven weeks at least. Today a response from Will finally arrived, but this letter that Louise and I have been watching for every single day, and are now contriving to keep out of Henry’s sight, has only made my heart sink further. Will says he is alarmed by what I’ve said, but along with his concern I detect an equal measure of embarrassment. This pillar of Cleveland never expected such family disgrace to shadow his own dignity. I am so far removed from my normal wits that I mistrust my ability to read between the lines, but in addition to everything else he says, I can’t help but notice a small sense of triumph over the stepbrother who always despised him: Will sees Henry’s mental incapacity as a vindication of his own character. My good brother would be ashamed to admit, even to himself, this delicious feeling, but I’m sure I see it lurking on the watermarked pages of his letter.
He says that if I cannot convince Henry to take us home before the New Year, then he will sail for Europe on January 5 and do what he can to fetch us back to America. He may bring Amanda’s Tom with him, for he fears terrible scenes and complications. Jared is too far away in California to be of help, and Will doesn’t want to drag Uncle Hamilton away from Albany, since he will be the one required to make the delicate arrangements for Henry once we have gotten him back home. Pauline, who has gone with Lina to St. Augustine for the winter, will be told nothing until all is accomplished.
I should be cheered by these plans, but I despair to look at all the weeks I shall have to endure until they are executed. Will does not know how things have worsened since I wrote. Henry is physically unwell, chiefly due to his frequent refusal to eat. (He has, thank goodness, been so preoccupied with his own food-aversion that he has let the children do as they please with their stomachs.) He is pallid and gaunt, and will not leave the house. Last week the landlady helped me summon a doctor from the next street, but he could only tell us the obvious, that Henry should eat more. Henry is for the most part silent, staring off at the wallpaper without a sound. A
t intervals he becomes messianic, though calmly so, wondering aloud whether Mr. Blaine, if nominated for President next year, will ask him to explain how he managed to make that happen. Once or twice he has sworn that voices are emerging from the picture in the hallway (a print of the Angelus), and he is often under the impression that Eagle Street lies outside our window. He mentions no enemies, but insists upon going to bed with a revolver under his pillow.
I now sleep in Louise’s room, a dereliction that has so far met with no resistance. It is, after all, only mothering he wants now — endless soothing, and reassurance that the children and I are not planning to leave. He once more allows them to play outside, but will not let me leave the house with them. I am able to go off with Louise, but only after lengthy explanations of the nature of our errand.
My chief fear is that he will harm himself — this worry much heightened by my discovery that he has written a will. It is incoherent — I cannot make any clear sense of what is being left to whom, but its first sentences seem to indicate that he thinks his demise will come soon.
For the last two hours, since the arrival of Will’s letter, I have wrestled with the desire to make Louise send him a cable in Ohio, one that says we cannot wait until the 5th of January for him to leave. I am held back by a fear that sending it would convince me the situation is even worse than it is. That would lead me to panic, whereupon I will be no good at all to the children. So far I have managed well enough (though I, too, have grown thin, from the strain); I tell myself I can manage several weeks more, through Christmas, which will distract the children and perhaps coax Henry’s mind from the terrible jail it is in.
The truth is that I have never loved him more than I have this last month. I have wanted to wail with pity over him, as if he were a corpse, and I a widow. He mutters more than ever of our hours in the box at Ford’s, forcing me to think of them too. I realize I shall be the last alive of the five persons who were in there once Wilkes Booth entered. When Will gets here, I shall be sending Henry into the same dark afterlife that Robert Lincoln banished his mother to before she actually died. For all my own suffering, and for all my certainty that no other course lies open to me — not if I am to save my children — I am stricken with guilt. The action, however reasonable, feels like treachery. And even now, no, I cannot bear the thought of losing him — my love! — forever.
A FRESH MAT of snow covered George Street, and the little opera house was festooned with gold torches and silver bells. Approaching the entrance with Henry, Clara squeezed her hands inside her red velvet muff, not just to keep them warm, but to give herself a pinch, to make herself believe she wasn’t dreaming. No, here she was in Hanover, two nights before Christmas, actually out with her husband like an ordinary wife, waiting for him to hand their tickets to the usher so they could go inside with the other American and British couples, to hear a local chorus attempt the Messiah, in English.
After this morning, it seemed a miracle. Henry had slept late, troubled by dreams an hour past his usual time to get up. She had come into the bedroom to find him thrashing, shouting at some pursuers to shoot him — to come and get him and get it over with, for God’s sake! When she grabbed hold of him and shook, she noticed that his nightshirt was soaked through. Once he came round, he was exhausted and docile, eager for her to stay as he ate every item on the breakfast plate that had been warming on the little porcelain stove in the room.
Afterward, he even let her go shopping without Louise, which is how she came to linger long enough in the bookshop in Frederick Street to encounter Mrs. Carswell, who shuffled in, huge and cheerful. A retired British major’s wife whom Clara had met her first week in Hanover, Mrs. Carswell was so naturally bossy and well intentioned that today Clara found herself pouring out her own story, right down to Henry’s morning nightmare. It was Mrs. Carswell’s matter-of-fact nodding, her complete lack of surprise or censoriousness, that made Clara wonder if here, too, as in Mr. Fox, the consul, she might have an ally when the time came to impose her will on Henry. Faced with Mrs. Carswell’s monumental patience and person, she felt a desire to rest her head like a schoolgirl against the woman’s great bosom, to fall asleep on it, in peace.
“He’s in a terrible slump, isn’t he?” said Mrs. Carswell, with no more alarm than she might have expressed in diagnosing a child’s head cold. “The poor dear. He needs strong medicine, and I don’t mean pills and potions. I mean sunshine, and people. You’ve got to force company upon him, my dear. You’ve got to let a lot of new faces crowd out this mood of his; you’ve got to let them trample it down to nothing. You won’t get him out of it if you stay in that boarding house with your little ones. Get him out, Mrs. Rathbone, and don’t wait ’til Christmas morning. You get him out and about right now. Today. Or at least tonight,” she said, reaching into her great beaded bag and extracting two tickets to the evening’s recital. “You do yourselves a favor, and Herr Wenzel, too. The choirmaster — a darling man, have you met him? You show up with your husband tonight and let him hear the Lord’s good news sung to a crowd of happy people. English words and English music! I don’t care what Herr Wenzel says, to me George Frederick Handel is an Englishman. Don’t you agree? In any case, you take these tickets and you use them. Show some courage. You’ll find me there tonight with Major Carswell. Look for the red and green plumes of my hat — it is Christmas, and I intend to wear it, even if it blocks the view of whoever’s behind me. Keep an eye out for me, and I’ll toss you all the encouraging glances you need.”
Clara didn’t know if this woman was incalculably sensible or just as silly. She only knew she wanted to do what she was being told, wanted to let Mrs. Carswell shake her up, just as forty years ago the Harrises’ Irish housemaid would scrub young Clara’s tear-stained face with a rough, soapy washcloth. So she went home with the tickets and told her sister she had a treat for her. Louise could spend the evening here alone with the children; she and Henry were going out. Mrs. Carswell had filled her up with such confidence that she didn’t even consider the possibility of failure. Henry’s pliant morning mood would continue, it had to, long enough to make him agree.
And it was soon settled. He would let her take him to the theatre. That is what he made it seem, a willingness to be led, to put himself in his wife’s motherly hands. He spent what was left of the morning following her around, giving her occasion to use terms of endearment she hadn’t spoken in years. Once or twice she almost lapsed into baby talk, a form of expression that had never been part of even their best days, when their intimate words had always been about their bodies, brutal, thrillingly so. Today he seemed as sweetly obedient as Gerald. Her heart was light. If this kept up for even a few days, they would have a last Christmas together that approximated happiness. His docility would also buy her time, let her conserve her strength for the showdown that would arrive next month with Will.
All afternoon she decorated the front room, and Henry kept out of sight to finish carving a wooden doll, a present for little Clara. He was clumsy at it, using a new long knife with an ornamental handle, one too delicate for the task. When he purchased it a week ago and began work, he had cursed himself each time the blade slipped, but today, when she checked on him, he seemed amused at being all thumbs. The normal human character is marked by a sense of humor, a notion of its own occasional ridiculousness … There were so many sentences she could quote from the books of mental hygiene she’d consulted year after year in the Library of Congress, and the Albany Public, and the English-language bookstore in whatever city she was passing through, statements of bland good sense whose inapplicability to Henry always caused her to quit reading. This suddenly apt one, a notion of its own occasional ridiculousness, came back to her now, like some sweet echo of her mother’s voice, and cheered her further. She returned to the damp little parlor ready to whistle, and she fastened sprigs of holly to the windowsills and hung the cards from Amanda’s children on the fireplace. The landlady, Frau Kiesinger, came up with a pot of wine for them
to mull on the bedroom stove, a gift that Henry accepted peacefully and set to stirring between bouts with the wooden doll.
There was only one bad moment, which came from letting down her guard. Gerald, seeing the cards on the mantel, remembered last Christmas and declared that he missed his cousin Louis. He was afraid the boy would forget him if they stayed here much longer. “It’s all right, sweetheart,” Clara reassured him as she put some walnuts into a bowl at the edge of the room, forgetting that her words would carry down the hall to the bedroom, through whose open door the spicy smell of the wine was drifting. “You’ll be seeing Louis very soon.” “Really?” Gerald said, running toward her at the same time Henry, with a worried expression, came out of the bedroom and started down the hall.
Her heart sped up, the way it did a dozen times most days, like a fire catching a bellows. But she caught herself and laughed, and kissed both her men, saying to Gerald as she stroked his hair, “Whenever your papa is done with his studies, dear. That’s when we’ll go. You must have patience. Louis won’t forget you. The day after tomorrow you can write him another letter telling him all about the presents you got for Christmas. All right?” She smiled at Henry, trying to effect a look of parental conspiracy; but she was aware of her effort, aware that this was the sort of smile she usually gave to little Clara when her papa had said or done something particularly odd.
But the crisis passed. Henry appeared calm, and she urged him to join them in the parlor as they strung paper balls for the tiny fir tree on the table. Why didn’t he sit here and read the London Times, which she’d picked up in the bookshop this morning? It was from two weeks ago, but already full of Christmas tidings. “Look,” she said, opening it to the third page as she moved him toward the sofa, “Matthew Arnold is going to be at the White House on Christmas Day. He and Mr. Arthur may even go to church together.” Henry took the paper and smiled, as if she’d brought up some pleasant family memory from long ago. While she and Riggs held opposite ends of the wire, Gerald and his sister strung the bits of paper around it. Clara glanced nervously at her husband. This gentleness, this respite, she thought, was a new form of torment: if he were no worse than this, shouldn’t she remain a good wife and take care of him, be glad to have him at her side for the rest of their days?
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