The Honeymoon

by Dinitia Smith

  On the day she moved into her new home, Barbara Smith arrived, her golden hair streaming around her, her face flushed with the autumn air. “This is so sweet!” she cried with her usual enthusiasm. “You’ll be so happy here.”

  “It’s a bit dark,” Marian said.

  “We’ll fix that. I’ve brought some things to decorate with.” From her bag she took two watercolors she’d painted, already framed: a delightful little beach scene from Hastings where the Smiths had an estate, and blue and white irises. She tacked them up on the wall, then helped Marian unpack and rearrange the furniture. And together they made the place cozy.

  George came too, without supervision, without interruption.

  Still, she couldn’t escape the Review. Chapman brought manuscripts to Cambridge Street for her to work on. Combe had written ninety-six pages on “Criminal Legislation and Prison Reform,” with once again phrenology being the answer to everything. He was demanding the article be published whole. She toiled over it and persuaded Combe to cut it down to thirty-six pages, without offending him.

  In an effort to keep her at the magazine, Chapman offered her thirty pounds to do a new translation of Feuerbach’s Essence of Christianity. He’d put her name on it too, he said. Ludwig Feuerbach was another German critic of established religion, a philosopher and disciple of Hegel. Hegel had charted the evolutionary path by which humanity achieves a universal spirit, full freedom, absolute knowledge of itself. Feuerbach took Hegel one step further, arguing that Christianity itself would inevitably be superseded. God, Feuerbach said, was merely the outward projection of man’s own nature, his innate disposition to do good.

  All winter, she and George worked together in their little nest. He was editing a book on Comte. He’d met Comte in Paris several years before and had become interested in his philosophy of positivism, his belief that all we can know is that which we can see and hear ourselves. Now he was collecting his various essays into one volume, Comte’s Philosophy of the Sciences, in an effort to popularize the philosopher with English-speaking audiences, and she helped him correct his manuscript.

  To give him time to do his own work, she read proofs for the Leader as well. She even wrote some of his “Vivian” columns for him — she’d learned to imitate his style perfectly.

  In between she translated Feuerbach. “Love is God himself,” Feuerbach said, “and apart from it, there is no God … not a visionary, imaginary love — no! a real love, a love which has flesh and blood.” It was just what she herself had come to believe. The essence of Christianity was not dogma, not the trappings of ritual, but human beings’ love for one another. Even when Chapman couldn’t pay her the full amount he’d promised, she kept on with the work. “Marriage as the free bond of love, that alone is a religious marriage,” Feuerbach had written. Furthermore, a marriage bond “which is merely an external restriction, not the voluntary, contented self-restriction of love” is neither a true marriage nor a moral one.

  She began deliberately to pepper her letters with references to “Mr. Lewes,” so her friends would grow accustomed to his constant presence in her life. When Barbara came to tea, Marian confessed to her that she loved him. Barbara had been aware of her growing affection for him. Sometimes, when she arrived to visit, she found George ensconced with his book or even working on his manuscripts at the dining room table, and he would rise up and greet her in his usual cheery manner. Barbara had looked at Marian, her eyebrows raised in a question, but Marian had refused to explain.

  Then, one day, when Barbara came, he wasn’t there. Marian made tea for her. “Where’s Mr. Lewes today?” she asked.

  “The doctor’s ordered him to go to the country for a few days. He made himself ill with headache finishing the Comte book.”

  Barbara, as usual, got straight to the point. “Do you love him?”

  “Yes,” Marian said, her face flushed.

  Barbara frowned. Marian could feel her doubt and disapproval. Barbara had known him only by his public face, always joking and flirtatious.

  “I know you think he is simply a jokester,” Marian said. “But you don’t really know him. He wears a mask of flippancy. Underneath it all, he’s so kind, and he’s very sad about the way his marriage has turned out, and so worried for the children.”

  Barbara smiled, but her face was serious. “All I care is that he loves you and takes care of you.”

  “He loves me, Barbara. He does. And he wants to take care of me.”

  “Then as long as that’s true, he has my support.”

  As it grew colder outside, they were snug inside. They began to dream — of saving their money and running away together to Germany, where they’d live as man and wife, where George could finish his biography of Goethe.

  In January, she resigned from the magazine, though she told Chapman she’d continue to write for it. She had labored for four whole years as the editor. In early summer, they booked passage on the channel steamer to the Continent.

  Then, one day in June, just before they were to leave, Charles Bray appeared at her door, brisk and rosy-cheeked, hair askew, but now grown broad and rather fat. “I came up to London and I thought I’d drop by,” he said.

  He was her dear friend, but looking at him now, thirteen years after she had first met him when she and her father had moved to Coventry, she couldn’t even imagine why she’d ever been his lover. She knew that feeling had vanished for him too. He’d found more pleasing fare. He’d had three more children with Hannah Steane and he’d set up a home for them on Howard Street.

  His admiration for Marian had superseded whatever it was he’d wanted from her physically. She was a flower in the garden of all his interests, part of the landscape of his energies, and he was still constantly dazzled and excited by her responsive mind. He was determined to support her, to be there for her like a brother. It was strange of him, and she didn’t quite know why she had been singled out, but she was lucky, so lucky, to have him and Cara.

  His face was serious. “Cara and I,” he said, “we’re very worried about Lewes.”

  She stiffened, warily. “What about him?”

  “Everyone knows, now, Marian. He’s a married man.”

  “Yes. He is married. But as you well know, that doesn’t always matter.” She said this cruelly, but he didn’t flinch. He still believed without question in the rightness of his arrangement with Cara.

  She stood firmly in front of him. “I’ve never been so happy.”

  “But … he’s a rake. Everybody knows that.”

  “He may have been that once. But he’s no longer a rake. He’s a deeply unhappy man. He’s paid the price. He supports Agnes and Thornton’s children because Thornton is totally irresponsible. He gave them his name because it was the honorable thing to do. And he can never get a divorce because of that.”

  Charles sat down and let out a deep breath. “Marian, we can’t bear to see you hurt again. You give your heart away too easily. He’ll shame you.”

  “You have no understanding of him. You don’t know him.”

  “But he can’t marry you!”

  “A legal bond isn’t a real bond. As we both know.”

  He ignored this reference to their shared history, to his marriage to Cara and his family with Hannah Steane. “I can’t change your decision?” he asked.

  “No. You can’t.”

  “We love you, Marian, you know that, Cara and myself.”

  She softened. “I know. You saved me. And I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me.” She looked at him, measuring his reaction. “We’ve decided to go away together. We’re going to Weimar so he can research his book on Goethe. We’re going as man and wife.”

  Charles shook his head.

  “Please,” she said. “Promise me. Don’t tell Cara that I’m going. I can’t bear her disapproval.” If George humiliated her, their sympathy for her would make it all the more awful. If he backed out … she’d die. The fear rose in her body.

  Charles sighed,
but she could tell from that that he was agreeing to keep her secret.

  She went on. “I’d like to ask a favor of you. I can’t let my brother, Isaac, know I’m going. May I arrange with Mr. Holbeche to send my allowance to you at Rosehill? And then you can forward it to me at the poste restante?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ll be glad to do that.” He looked at her worriedly. “But if I recall, the next payment from the estate isn’t due to you till next December.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “How will you manage?”

  “Somehow.”

  “I’ll advance you December’s payment.”

  “Even though you disapprove?”

  “I can’t let you go hungry.”

  “Dear Charles, you are a brother!” She squeezed his hand.

  “And I’ve got yet another favor to ask you,” she said. “Will you go and see Chrissey sometime? Make sure she’s all right and let me know if she needs money. Things are terrible for her.”

  “I will,” he said. He picked up his hat to leave. “Dear Marian, I wish you great happiness. We all do.” She embraced him farewell.

  All that night she lay awake. She wasn’t tired at all, her eyes burned, her thoughts raced. The things to do: leave instructions for the landlady, Mrs. Pitt, on where to forward her mail; put the cash she’d withdrawn from her account safely in an envelope; pack enough clothing; books, because it wouldn’t always be possible to get English-language reading matter; paper, pen, and ink for letters, all the more expensive abroad at tourist prices.

  It was still dark when she rose. She bathed and washed her hair so that it buoyed out softly and fragrantly around her head. She wanted to be as beautiful for him as she could be. She rummaged through her case, unpacked and repacked it to be sure everything was there, to make more room for another book or two.

  The boat was scheduled to leave at noon from St. Katherine’s Wharf, but she’d allowed two whole hours to get to the dock. It only sailed once a week, on Thursdays, and if she was late —

  At ten o’clock Mrs. Pitt’s boy whistled for a hansom. One stopped for her. The driver was coarse-faced, with a thick, heavy brow. Scowlingly, he hoisted her trunk into the cab as if he were doing her a favor. “I’m in a hurry!” she said. “I’ll give you extra if you can get me there in time.”

  He didn’t reply. Had he heard her? Should she say it again? But then he might be angry.

  And off they went. It was only ten o’clock, but the sun was high. The hansom turned down Belgrave Road, across London, along Milbank and the Embankment. Oh, hurry, please hurry! The streets were packed, businessmen and shoppers, people up to London for the season. Would he be there when she arrived? They’d been so happy all these months, not a single moment of doubt spoken of. But now the old buried pain, of Chapman and Spencer and Dr. Brabant suddenly, at this moment of risk, resurfaced. The possibilities were before her again. Would this be the great disappointment of her life, the final hurt?

  Suddenly their way was blocked by a knot of cabs, horses jostling each other and rearing up, drivers swearing. The thick smell of dung and horse sweat and leather rose up sickeningly to her. She lifted the trapdoor. “Should we take another route, perhaps?”

  “Ahm doin’ me bloomin’ best!” the man snarled.

  Then, at last they were free, picking up speed, barreling through the streets.

  The Tower came into view, the noble tower, and the Bridge, and she could see the cranes and masts of St. Katherine’s. She leaned forward in her seat, as if to propel the hansom faster with her body.

  They reached the docks and she paid the man the extra shilling, ridiculous, because she was frightened that he’d ride off with her luggage. He threw the trunk to the ground.

  Amid the warehouses and ships’ masts glittering in the sun, the giant boat loomed, its name, Ravensbourne, emblazoned on the bow. The steam was rising from the funnel, it was about to leave. The horn blasted through the air, a warning. People were up on deck waving down to their friends and relatives below.

  But no sign of George. She searched the crowd. No face, no figure that would fill her vision, obliterate all else. It would kill her.

  Perhaps he was already on board, waiting. Another blast from the horn. She’d better board then. She hurried up the gangplank. From the railing, she searched for him amid the hordes below.

  A porter was coming toward her, shoving his cart loaded to the top with teetering bags.

  And then just over his shoulder — the small, familiar, jaunty figure bouncing along. He spotted her and waved and called out her name. “Ma-a-rian!” It came to her over the rumble of traffic, the clanking of cranes, the cries below. Heedless of all else, she pushed past the porter and ran toward him.

  “You came!”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t?” He seemed surprised. She buried her face in his shoulder and he wrapped his arms around her, gripping her with certainty.

  And she knew that he would never leave her.

  The horn blasted a final warning, and at first almost imperceptibly, the boat began pulling away. It moved out onto the river, away, away from England. It bore them along through the forests of masts, the ships of all nations, the colliers and steamers, past the docks, the wharfs and granaries. His arm was around her waist, his body close to hers. They passed the Greenwich Observatory, Gravesend, Tilbury Fort. And now, out to sea.

  They didn’t sleep their first night together, open to the world, officially declaring themselves as man and wife. They were too excited, had too much to talk about and plan. Instead, they strolled the deck looking out at the calm, summer sea, the sun going down, the waves stippled with moonlight.

  As darkness came, they lay on their deck chairs side by side, hands joined in the balmy night. She felt the rough skin of his knuckles, the little hairs on top of his hand, a small hand, but a hand the mere touch of which infused her with comfort, with safety. They could link their hands in public now and no one would care.

  There was a crescent moon that night, and the stars were clear. Just before dawn, they entered the Scheldt, its black waters flat and calm. They drifted past low-lying islands, the outlines of poplar trees, farmhouses.

  Quietly, the river wound its way. Ahead, there was a gathering of black clouds and the sky was lit up by flashes of lightning. Somewhere far away, a summer storm was brewing. It would not affect them. A faint pink emerged in the black sky, dawn.

  And slowly, calmly, the great ship proceeded, winding its way along, then at last making the great curve, and they could see ahead of them the spires of Antwerp. From there they would go by train to Cologne, to Coblenz and Frankfurt, and on to Weimar.

  Chapter 12

  They drifted across Europe, her body humming, a sweet new soreness in her flesh, in a continual state of excitement, seeing the world anew. Far from home, they were safe from censure; she was no longer afraid.

  In Weimar, George set about researching his Goethe book. They’d been there only a few days when Franz Liszt came calling on them in their rooms on the Kaufgasse. George had met Liszt before in Vienna and written a “letter” from “Vivian” about him for the Leader.

  When Liszt walked in the door, the sight of him struck her with physical force. Here was the man for whom women wore bracelets made from the pianoforte strings he broke in the intensity of his playing. He reminded her for a moment of Chapman, in his height, his angularity, his penetrating gaze. But Chapman was a second-rater, and this — this man was a god. He sat and chatted with them in a warm, free manner. She couldn’t quite believe that he was sitting there, in his black frock coat with his long hair flowing to his shoulders, on a chair in their sitting room, in human time and space. He joked about Nélida, the novel written about him a few years before, by his former mistress Madame D’Agoult, the mother of his three children, who had pilloried him for his philandering. It had caused a scandal, but Liszt just laughed at it.

  Liszt was living with the Princess Carolyne zu Sayn-Wittgenstein
now, in a house she’d rented for them on the outskirts of the city. “My poor princess,” he said, “she’s trying day and night to obtain an annulment of her marriage to Prince Nikolaus, so we can marry in the church — we’re both devout Catholics. Fortunately, people here in Weimar are very open-minded and they accept us. They don’t have these stupid prejudices.”

  Then, suddenly, he threw aside his gloom and smiled again. “You must come at once, this morning, to the Villa Altenburg. The princess is dying to meet you.”

  An hour later, as their carriage pulled into the circular driveway of the yellow mansion on Jenaer Strasse, the air was thick with the threat of rain. It was a rather plainly drawn, beige-and-yellow building, standing by itself on a hill at the edge of a pine forest with a view overlooking Weimar.

  The butler, Heinrich, greeted them and showed them to the garden, where other guests were waiting for the Maestro at a long table under a canopy of trees, set with bread and smoked meats and cheese. There was a Herr Hoffman von Fallersleben, a poet, and a Dr. Schade, who’d written something about Saint Ursula and the eleven thousand virgins, and Liszt and the princess’s secretary, Herr Cornelius, and Joachim Raff, a musician and expert on Richard Wagner, who was Liszt’s main preoccupation at the moment.

  As they waited for Liszt to appear, the guests chatted among themselves. Marian kept glancing up at the thick sky, praying it wouldn’t rain and spoil the party.

  Liszt made his grand entrance. On his arm was the teenage Princess Marie, the Princess Wittgenstein’s daughter, dressed in white, an ethereal, wraithlike girl. Behind him trotted his Scotch terrier, Rappo. A few moments later, the princess appeared.

  “I’m delighted!” the princess said warmly, extending her hand to Marian and making a little curtsy. Marian was taken aback. She’d expected that Liszt’s mistress would be a great beauty, but the princess was a short, fat little thing, wearing a white morning robe of a semitransparent material. When she smiled, Marian saw that her teeth were black. Well, she did have a rather exotic profile and bright, dark hair, and very dark eyes.