He had even come to terms with Fanny and the role she played in his life. He loved her and accepted that he would love her all the days of his life, but he would never have her. Not the way he wanted, not the way he hoped.
There was something in his mind, some pull toward depression that had brought him to the depths of despair on many occasions. In those moments, he often wondered if death was the only respite he could hope for, the only relief at hand. Each time, however, when he was dragging upon the seabed of his misery, thoughts of Fanny and a flame of hope would bring him to the surface again. One more day. One more month. One more chance to be in her company and feel the light she brought into a room even when he knew she was angry with him.
That light had been enough—so many times it had been enough—that he could acknowledge her influence in keeping him from the ultimate despair. Without the hope that one day she would love him back, he would have had no purpose. God’s ways were most certainly mysterious, and Henry could not pretend to know all the reasons why Fanny was so important to him, but he felt certain she had given him reason to live when he could find no other.
But now he would move on. Now that he better understood his mind and its limitations, he would find other reasons to live. Other sonnets to sing and other purposes to fulfill. Fanny had played her part, and he would always love her for that, but he would no longer put aside all other beauty for the sake of wanting to capture hers.
Another thing had become clear to him these last months, creating a new confidence within him that was exciting. Henry was not a writer—he was a poet. The beauty of words seduced him, and the ability to choose the right one with the right tone and structure to express what he wanted to say with absolute perfection was both a gift and a salvation. He had begun writing again, prose within his journal and poetry within the pages of his sketchbook, and the words had become living things. Creations all his own. He did not think of any audience but himself and his God, whom he felt more clearly than he had before. He felt sure that He was pleased with Henry’s work so far.
Early on his way to the Rhine, Henry had the chance to spend more time with Charles Dickens in London, and he had felt ignited—as much as he could, given the state he had been in—by the social awareness that Dickens wore like a second skin. Dickens told stories with great teachings disguised within his characters. But not so disguised as not to be recognized. His position had not made him popular with everyone, and yet he did not allow the people’s opinion to dissuade him. Dickens had said he believed that God had given him permission to preach within the pages of his books, but to the denomination of humanity rather than any one sect.
Henry had found Dickens’s determination inspiring then, but as the days and weeks had turned brighter, he had found even greater value. That same devotion had come alive in Henry, and the light had poured out from his pencil in the form of new work, different work—work that would be hated by some and raised like a banner by others.
Henry’s time in Germany was coming to an end, and he was determined to do all he could to secure the foundation he planned to stand upon once he returned to Boston. Not broken, decrepit, and nursing his wounds, but confident, determined, and willing to accept the fullness of the thing that had been so far away for so long—himself.
Henry lifted his gaze to take in the view around him and then wrote the date on the top of the page. The words had been marching through his mind for days, waiting for him to write them down. He could feel the eagerness of the pencil in his hand to birth this idea and give it wings. Mezzo Cammin was part of the first line of The Divine Comedy, but it was fitting since he was at his own midpoint—“Mezzo” meaning middle—not only in years, but in regard to the change that had taken place. That “Cammin” was a city in Germany was equally fitting for the tribute he was eager to pour upon the paper from the beautiful perch above the city.
He was not sure the poem would be something he would share, but he needed to write it. He needed to mark this point in his life.
Half of my life is gone, and I have let
The years slip from me and have not fulfilled
The aspirations of my youth, to build
Some tower of song with lofty parapet.
Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor fret
Of restless passions that would not be stilled,
But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,
Kept me from what I may accomplish yet;
Though, half-way up the hill, I see the Past
Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights,—
A city in the twilight dim and vast,
With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights,—
And hear above me on the autumnal blast
The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights.
Thirty-Five
Shifting Wind
Fanny pulled back the drapes and looked at the full moon that bathed Beacon Hill in silvery light. She let the drapery fall, took a breath to calm the butterflies in her stomach, and moved toward the wardrobe where she had put the old coat of Tom’s and the hat of her father’s that she’d taken two days before. Neither men wore the items often, they would not be missed, but Fanny was anxious about someone finding the items in her room.
She put the hat on her head and the coat over her riding breeches and boots. She hoped the disguise would hide her gender in the dark. As she rolled up the sleeves of Tom’s old coat, she shook her head at her foolishness. Twenty-five years old and she was embarking on such a childish caper.
She scowled at her reflection in the glass—she did not a handsome man make—and then turned up the collar and moved to the door of her bedchamber. She had oiled the hinges herself earlier in the week, and the door eased open without a sound. She closed it just as silently and tiptoed carefully down the hall, the stairs, and to the back door that led to the alley behind the house.
She remained ever watchful for servants—especially Mathews since he had caught her the last time she was bumping around the house in the middle of the night. Only she wasn’t bumping this time, she was merely a whisper. When she shut the back door behind her, she dared feel the first sense of victory. Her pride did not last long, however; there was still the matter of crossing Beacon Hill and making her way to the river undetected.
Her chest was hot with the possibility of discovery, and as she walked, scanning from side to side, she imagined the write-up in the paper if Frances Appleton, daughter of industrialist and Congressman Nathan Appleton were found dressed like a man wandering the city at night. How would she explain herself if she were caught? Would claiming poetry as her reason help her to claim insanity?
The further she got from home, the more complex her feelings became. She hadn’t been caught, but every nervous step she took made it less likely that she could run for the safety of home. Yet she kept taking those nervous steps, her hands sweating in her pockets, and her mind spinning with horrible scenarios that would result from her discovery. However, it was nearly two o’clock in the morning, and Boston, it seemed, was sleeping.
Movement caught her eye, and she startled, taking in the hunched figure of a man walking the opposite direction on the other side of the street. She looked down and moved forward as though she too had purpose.
Finally, after what felt like the longest walk she’d ever taken, she saw the bridge and her anxiety turned to anticipation. She fingered the book she’d stuffed into the pocket of the coat and smiled. What an adventurous woman she was! If only there was someone she could tell of this brazen act who would not reprimand her for it.
Fanny reached the bridge but did not stop until she had crossed it and turned back to face Boston from the Cambridge side. That is how Mr. Longfellow would have approached.
She allowed her thoughts to still and her breathing to slow while she took in the scene before her. The West Boston Bridge, illuminated by the light of a full moon, stretched across the Charles River, both connecting the two cities and keeping
them separate. She began to walk in slow, calculated steps, imagining the burden Mr. Longfellow had carried the night he had taken this same route.
She reached the center of the bridge and moved to the railing where she could look over the side. The black water moved inland with the fluidity of light and the stillness of a serpent. She allowed the mood to fall upon her—the air, the moonlight, the smells, and the warmth that rose from the bridge itself. Then she reached carefully into her pocket, removed the book, and turned to the same page that had been marked when Harriet had returned the book to her months earlier.
“The Bridge” was the first poem Fanny had read from her new perspective of trying to better understand the writer. Until that day, everything she had read of Mr. Longfellow’s was with a critical eye and, even more shamefully, a predisposition to find the work poor. That was not to say she didn’t still find merit, but she had not been looking for merit. She had been looking for flaws.
Since her discussion with Harriet in the nursery, however, Fanny had not been so intent upon the weaknesses of Mr. Longfellow’s work. And what she had found was beauty. Great beauty, awesome depth and goodness that she had not seen before. She had reread Ballads and Other Poems, Voices of Night, and Outré Mer, and her impressions of Mr. Longfellow’s work was very different than it had been.
Even Outré Mer, which she had liked upon first reading, had gained depth, likely because of her own maturity. She could hear Mr. Longfellow’s youth in the pages; but rather than it being a distraction, she found it endearing. Of everything she’d reread and better understood, however, Fanny’s favorite was “The Bridge.”
She could see Mr. Longfellow there—here—taking in the moment and translating the experience into a poem of both hope and sorrow. She could not help but wonder how many of the cares and sorrows that inspired the poem might be related to her.
She brushed her hand over the book and tilted it so the white page caught the moonlight well enough to allow her to read, though she nearly had the piece memorized. She licked her lips, fixed the image of Mr. Longfellow standing in this very same place, and began to read.
I stood on the bridge at midnight,
As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose o’er the city,
Behind the dark church-tower.
It was not midnight. She had feared too many people would be about at that time of night, but Fanny looked around her, identifying the moon above the city and even finding the church tower. She smiled and turned back to the words of the poem.
I saw her bright reflection
In the waters under me,
Like a golden goblet falling
And sinking into the sea.
Fanny leaned forward to see the wavering reflection of the moon on the surface of the water, just like a golden goblet sinking into the sea.
And far in the hazy distance
Of that lovely night in June,
The blaze of the flaming furnace
Gleamed redder than the moon.
It wasn’t June—it was August—and she wasn’t sure what Mr. Longfellow meant by the flaming furnace, but she did not let it ruin the mood.
Among the long, black rafters
The wavering shadows lay,
And the current that came from the ocean
Seemed to lift and bear them away;
Them? The shadows, Fanny assumed, but she wasn’t entirely certain. Perhaps shadows were a symbol, as the flaming furnace likely was.
As, sweeping and eddying through them,
Rose the belated tide,
And, streaming into the moonlight,
The seaweed floated wide.
There was vegetation on the edges of the water, waving along with the current.
And like those waters rushing
Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thoughts came o’er me
That filled my eyes with tears.
Fanny’s own eyes filled with tears as the heaviness of what came next settled upon her. She had hoped she would become part of the poem if she recreated this scene, and she felt the burden he carried when he wrote these words, and the solace he hoped for.
How often, O, how often,
In the days that had gone by,
I had stood on that bridge at midnight
And gazed on that wave and sky!
How often, O, how often,
I had wished that the ebbing tide
Would bear me away on its bosom
O’er the ocean wild and wide!
For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me
Seemed greater than I could bear.
But now it has fallen from me,
It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others
Throws its shadow over me.
Yet whenever I cross the river
On its bridge with wooden piers,
Like the odor of brine from the ocean
Comes the thought of other years.
And I think how many thousands
Of care-encumbered men,
Each bearing his burden of sorrow,
Have crossed the bridge since then.
I see the long procession
Still passing to and fro,
The young heart hot and restless,
And the old subdued and slow!
And forever and forever,
As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions,
As long as life has woes;
The moon and its broken reflection
And its shadows shall appear,
As the symbol of love in heaven,
And its wavering image here.
Fanny finished reading, but her eyes remained fixed on the page while tears rolled down her cheeks. Such a heart. Such a burden. She wiped her eyes and then reverently closed the book. She lifted her face toward the moon, praying that its cleansing light would wash away the regrets she had felt these last months as she realized how much she had missed the man who had loved her too ardently. He was not in Boston—he’d gone to Europe to rest—and yet somewhere he was beneath the same moon. Was he thinking of her? Was it fair to hope he was?
Even now Fanny worried that what was drawing her to him was his gift of words and the ambiance he could create with them. She could not forget the unease she felt in his company. But was it unease? Or could it be something else? Something she had been too young and too stubborn to identify. The way he looked at her, as though he could see more than anyone else could see, had made her feel conspicuous, but what if it were not something to be afraid of? What if the fact that he had seen the very worst of her and loved her still was proof that, of all the people in the world, he could love her best?
The idea of seeing him once he returned still filled her with trepidation. While she was not in a hurry to experience a visit with him, something had changed within her. When he returned, and when she was ready, she would take the opportunity to see if that change was enough to overcome all the years that had brought her here—brought them here.
She had taken Harriet’s suggestion to heart and had begun a new study of the Bible, a new level of pondering over the sermons she heard in church each week and what pathways God would have her take. With her increased devotion had come the sweet treasures of spirit. Awakenings. Understanding. New ideas and remedies for old laments. That she had so much time alone gave her plenty of time to explore her thoughts and feelings.
Mary and Robert had returned to England in May. Tom had come home but was gone again. Emmeline had gone to live with an aunt in New York, and Jewett was always traveling, it seemed, acting on this new idea or that one. He was a man of business, like his uncles, and did not stay in one place for long.
As Fanny had noted before, her friends were moving forward with their lives. This time, however, though it likely appeared to others that she was not doing the
same, she was moving forward too. She was coming to accept God’s will and was realizing more and more that His path was the better one.
His path also seemed to be leading her to Mr. Longfellow. Despite him being ten years her senior, despite him having loved before, despite the fact that his class was below what she had expected she would need to be truly happy. All the objections she had raised had been pulled out to sea like the shadows in Mr. Longfellow’s poem—all but one.
Though she had read and reread his poems and Outré Mer, she had not yet returned to Hyperion. The scars held her back, as did her shameful response. She feared that, despite the awakening she had experienced these last months, Hyperion would breathe new life into her old complaints and eclipse all the good ground she had conquered. But she would have to read it. She had to face that demon in order to know if it, too, might look different than it had the first time she’d read with her “hot and restless heart.”
Fanny closed the book of poems and stuffed it into her pocket, bidding farewell to the scene before her. “Good night, Mr. Longfellow,” she said to the soft rush of the river. Then she turned toward home, turned up the collar of Tom’s coat, and began her journey back.
Thirty-Six
New Beginnings
“Good evening, Professor.”
Henry’s breath caught in his chest for the split second it took to recognize the voice, feel the invigoration, and then stamp it out. Each time he anticipated seeing Fanny, he felt sure he would not react in such a way. Each time he was disappointed to realize she still cast a spell over his senses.
Forever and Forever (Historical Proper Romance) Page 23