Mr. Emerson's Wife

by Amy Belding Brown

  “I’m sure you’re right, Mrs. Emerson. We are going at this thing backwards. We must first find our speaker, then raise our funds. Who shall it be, ladies?”

  The women all began to talk at once. Frederick Douglass was mentioned, as was William Lloyd Garrison and Samuel May. Each had a different suggestion—all of them men.

  “Why not invite a woman?” I said.

  “A woman?” Their faces registered no less shock than their voices.

  “We’re a female society. What better group to engage a female speaker?”

  “We’d subject ourselves to ridicule,” one woman said.

  “No man will attend,” said another.

  I smoothed my leather gloves on my lap. They were warm under my hand, satiny as newborn pups. “My husband will attend,” I said. “Mr. Emerson is as interested in the thoughts of females as of his fellow men.”

  Perhaps it was the incredulity of the women’s faces that caused me to doubt my bold assertion. For, while it was true that my husband had expressed his belief that women were the intellectual equals of men, he had not yet asserted that women should speak in public.

  “Do we have your word on that?” Mary Brooks asked.

  “You do.”

  “But can he persuade others to attend?” Cynthia moved restlessly on her chair, rocking from side to side so that her cap ruffles fluttered. She was a tall, sturdy woman, outspoken in manner, and renowned throughout the village for her love of controversy.

  “I cannot speak to his success. But I believe he will try.”

  I returned home that evening filled with enthusiasm, for the women had tentatively adopted my plan. My husband listened patiently and then commented with a smile that it appeared I had taken Concord by storm. I protested that I had done no such thing, and then insisted he must help me by promising to attend our lecture.

  “I can’t promise my presence for an unknown date. You know my own lecture schedule often takes me out of town.”

  “But I will tell you the date as soon as I know it myself!”

  He unwrapped my long wool muffler—in my excitement I’d neglected to remove it—and then proceeded to change the subject by kissing my neck and leading me upstairs to our bed.

  THAT FALL, Aunt Mary converted Charles to the Cause, and he began to lecture for abolition. Though he was a less eloquent speaker than my husband, he made up for it in zeal. He faced great hostility as a consequence of these lectures, and I once overheard Mr. Emerson cautioning him that, if he did not take care, he might face a violent attack similar to that suffered by Mr. Garrison in Boston. Charles retorted that the threat of violence by a group of slavery-sympathizing thugs was precisely the reason he was compelled to speak out.

  “You should lend your own voice to the Cause,” he said, pressing a long finger into my husband’s chest. “And soon. History will not look kindly on those who bury their heads in dusty old books while people lie in chains.”

  Mr. Emerson smiled gently. “I have no desire to be remembered by historians,” he said. “I merely want to be left in peace.”

  The two brothers loved each other dearly, but they did not approach life in the same way. Mr. Emerson always played the role of the older, wiser brother, who weighed each action carefully before taking it. Charles was passionate and impetuous, with a zealous mind and a great heart, and I often found myself siding with him over my husband.

  Aunt Mary came and went as if she were part owner of our home, always complaining about her lack of a permanent residence. Though Mr. Emerson offered to acquire her a house in Concord, she was like a restless chickadee, unable to alight in one place for long, forever moving to what she regarded as a more auspicious situation.

  I enjoyed her company, despite her penchant for cutting remarks, so often at my expense. Perhaps she liked to see what my retort would be, for I always had one ready. And it was clear from her reaction that my own comments sometimes cut her more deeply than she cared to admit. Often we argued for more than an hour, our voices rising in angry octaves, before someone stepped in to call a truce. I knew that Aunt Mary relished these bouts as much as I did. Her eyes sparkled like small, bright jewels as she spit out her noxious words, and her mouth twisted in odd shapes that told me she was very near laughing.

  One afternoon late in November, as the entire household sat over dinner, our repartee got out of hand, creating a rift that chance and circumstance abraded beyond repair. We were in the midst of a discussion of economy, a subject dear to Mr. Emerson’s heart. He spoke at length on the distinction between a principled thrift and a miserly one. Aunt Mary joined in heartily, inserting her points often, calling to my imagination a small child dancing around a cookie jar and reaching in to pilfer one sweet after another.

  Suddenly the conversation turned bitter.

  “Take, for example, the extravagance I witnessed on a recent visit to Plymouth,” Aunt Mary said. “Society governed the tiniest detail, from the drape of a curtain to the arrangement of spoons on a table.” She picked up her own spoon and turned it slowly in her hand.

  I frowned at Mr. Emerson, but he was watching his aunt with his usual warm regard. I was beginning to resent his mask of affability.

  “I did not realize you had an objection to my tastes, Miss Emerson,” I said. “But you are wrong to believe that I follow the dictates of others on any matter. I have always—will always—follow my own principles.”

  Aunt Mary regarded me with mock astonishment. “But you must admit, Lidian, that you often indulge your taste for luxury. Look at the way you’ve decorated my nephew’s house.”

  “I think it’s lovely,” Lucy said, in an uncharacteristically firm tone.

  Charles put down his fork. “What’s wrong with it? I happen to like Lidian’s taste. Beauty eases the digestion.”

  “Not mine.” Aunt Mary lifted her small chin. “I find such excess distinctly unappetizing.”

  “Excess?” I cried, and would have said more, had not Mr. Emerson interrupted.

  “Aunt Mary, kindly move us on to a more pleasurable topic.”

  “Pleasure is it, now? Is that all you seek in life, Waldo? Has the Jackson extravagance seduced you so completely that you’ve abandoned principle?”

  I would have risen to leave the room, had not Charles spoken. “You go too far, Aunt Mary. Lidian is a woman of character and nobility.”

  “I’ve never hidden my thoughts in hypocrisy, Charles, and I’m too far advanced in years to begin now. If I’m sometimes more outspoken than you like, at least you can be assured I speak the truth as I perceive it.”

  “You perceive wrongly in this case!” Charles rose. His face had reddened dramatically. Mr. Emerson signaled him to sit down, but Charles ignored his brother. “And I think you must apologize—to Lidian and to all of us.”

  “Charles—” Mrs. Emerson interjected in a warning tone, but he did not look at her.

  “Apologize?” Aunt Mary looked at me. Her eyes reminded me of sparks from a crackling fire. “You don’t require an apology, do you, Lidian? Surely this is one home where I’m not required to apologize for the truth!”

  I said nothing, for my feelings had been sorely tried, and I knew that silence is sometimes the most effective retort of all.

  “It is not the truth!” Charles roared. “Waldo, why on earth don’t you say something to this woman?”

  “This woman? Now I’m this woman in my nephew’s house?” Aunt Mary pushed back her chair and got to her feet. “It’s plain I’m no longer welcome!”

  My husband was finally stirred to action. He rose and went to her. Mrs. Emerson, Lucy, and I were the only ones still seated. “Please calm yourself, Aunt Mary. Nothing has been said that cannot be unsaid.”

  “Indeed there has!” She shot a deadly glance at Charles. “When my own nephew refers to me with such contempt!” She gathered her skirts and marched to the doorway, where she turned and faced us. “If I am ever in this house again, it will be because I’ve been carried here on a li
tter!” And she left in a bustle of wool and cambric.

  I believe we were all stunned silent, for it was several minutes before Mr. Emerson thought to follow her, and by then it was too late. She’d taken a vow that she could not undo. More than apologies would be required to mend the broken tie.

  8

  Nettles

  It is so universal with all classes to avoid me that I blame nobody.

  —MARY MOODY EMERSON

  Charles paced back and forth between the dining room and parlor, shoe heels cracking on the hallway floor, hands clamped hard at the small of his back, his fair hair leaping about his forehead. “Inexcusable!” he raged. “There was no call for such incivility!” After several circuits, he stopped before me, where I still sat at the table. “I apologize on my aunt’s behalf. It embarrasses me to admit it, but today I’m ashamed of my family.”

  “Charles!” His mother pressed her napkin to her chin for a moment and then dropped it beside her plate. I noticed with dismay that the plate’s white rim was chipped. “You know how volatile Mary is! Why did you provoke her?”

  “I didn’t provoke her, Mother! She provoked me by criticizing Lidian!” He flung his arms out in frustration and knocked askew one of my botanical rose prints, which hung above the sideboard. As he turned to straighten it, Mr. Emerson came back into the room.

  “She’s gone.” He sat slowly in his chair and raised his hands to his face. “I fear it will be months before she returns. Charles—”

  “Don’t take me to task for defending your wife!” Charles spun to face his brother. “Aunt Mary was clearly in the wrong! She’s forever pitting one person against another, and I won’t tolerate her doing so within the family! One must draw the line somewhere!”

  Mr. Emerson looked at him sadly and let his hands drop. “You’re usually the first to laugh at her barbs, Charles. You understand her better than anyone. And you know how dear you are to her.”

  I saw the flash of tears in Charles’s eyes. He turned back to the print and tried again to straighten it. “I understand she has wronged your wife, Waldo.” The words lay in the air like stones in a field. My husband’s gaze shifted to me.

  “Do you feel wronged, Lidian?”

  “Of course she does!” Lucy blurted, and I turned to her in surprise, for it was not like Lucy to forget her manners. “How could she not? Liddy has never been interested in luxury and fashion!”

  “It’s all right, Lucy.” My hands, which had been resting in my lap, rose to clutch the hem of the tablecloth, seeking the coolness of the smooth, starched linen. “I hold no rancor toward Aunt Mary. I try to be tolerant of eccentricities since I’ve been deemed peculiar myself.” I intended my remark to elicit a laugh, but there was no response.

  It was Mrs. Emerson who spoke into the silence. “Perhaps you men should indulge yourselves in a long walk this afternoon. It would do you both a great deal of good, I’m sure.”

  The meal was over. No one except Frank had any appetite for the bowls of bread pudding that Nancy carried in from the kitchen. I asked her to save the leftovers for tea. I rose and I looked at my husband. “I hope you and Charles enjoy your walk.” I was not able to keep the bitterness from my voice.

  “Lidian.” Mrs. Emerson’s voice forestalled my exit. “I’d like to speak with you a few moments. In private, if that is possible.”

  As I turned to face her, I caught Lucy’s alarmed expression. “Of course, ma’am,” I said, though I longed to climb the stairs to my chamber and spend the next hour in solitude. I helped her from her chair, took her arm, and led her into the parlor, where I settled her close by the fire and called Hitty to add more wood. I stood a moment at the window, studying the shape of the black tree limbs against the sky. The sunlight of the morning had disappeared behind heavy clouds and the light that came through the windows was pearl-gray and watery.

  “It’s been a most unfortunate day.” Mrs. Emerson’s voice sounded like the scrape of an iron skillet across a range.

  “Indeed it has.” I turned from the window and gave her a sad smile. “I join you in hoping that Miss Emerson will soon return.”

  “She won’t.” She flicked her fingers across her skirts. “When Mary makes a vow she doesn’t break it. She’s been a second mother to my son.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of her influence. Mr. Emerson speaks of her with great reverence.”

  Hitty came in then, her apron full of wood, and dropped to her knees before the fire. I studied her narrow back, the coarse black curls that clustered at the nape of her neck, curls that were forever escaping her cap. She leaned into the fire, dropped a small log on the jumbled coals, and rocked back.

  Mrs. Emerson glared at her.

  “Thank you, Hitty,” I said. “You may go. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  Hitty bounced to her feet and scurried from the room. It was plain she was as discomfited as I by the tension in the room. I went to the fire, stirred the coals, and set two more logs on the fire before sitting opposite Mrs. Emerson on the couch.

  “I’m sorry to be the focus of family discord, Mrs. Emerson. You must agree, however, that I did nothing to contribute to it.”

  She turned her glare, which had not lessened with Hitty’s departure, on me. “I believe that, as hostess, you should have endeavored with more vigor to bring harmony to the meal.”

  “You blame me for what happened?”

  “One word from you could easily have diverted the conversation to a happier course.” Her eyes narrowed and she leaned forward. I wondered how clearly she could see. Her voice chafed in her throat. “We women have great power when we exercise it prudently.”

  “But her remarks were not at all justified! In fact, they were injurious and unfounded. I’m proud of Charles for rising to my defense!”

  “Pride goeth before a fall,” she said. “You cannot allow conceit to overwhelm your responsibilities. You’re a wife now.”

  “Conceit!” I rose, for my outrage no longer permitted me to remain still. “I’m well aware of my responsibilities!” My fingers clasped and unclasped the folds of my skirt. “Mr. Emerson did not choose me because he believed I would be like other wives. Nor has he indicated disappointment.”

  “I hope things will not progress to the point where he feels the need.” Her mouth clamped shut.

  I gazed at the lines puckering the skin above her lips. My rule of courtesy was suddenly overwhelmed by my desire to have the last word. “Please don’t forget that it was my virtue that was questioned today, Mrs. Emerson.” I left the parlor and went directly to my chamber, knowing even as I climbed the stairs that I would suffer the consequences of my rudeness, for every wife knows she cannot expect to gain her husband’s sympathy in a contest with his mother.

  I paced back and forth in front of the north windows, pulling at the sleeves of my gown, pinching the cloth circling my wrists and emitting great sighs, before I could bear it no longer and sought out Lucy for sisterly comfort. I found her reading in her chamber but I knew from how quickly she closed her book that she had not been able to concentrate.

  “Tell me,” she said, dropping the book into her brown serge-covered lap, “what did Mrs. Emerson want of you?”

  I made a mocking face. “To admonish me for my indiscretions at dinner. To remind me that it was my responsibility to turn the discussion toward harmonious conversation.”

  Lucy laughed. “Well, you have uncommon skill in conversation. And I couldn’t help noticing that you remained uncharacteristically silent through dinner.”

  “So you’re siding with Mrs. Emerson?”

  “Of course not!” Lucy batted my arm. “But why didn’t you defend yourself? It’s not like you to sit silent while your honor is attacked.”

  “I’m married now. I can’t continue to act the part of the obstinate spinster.”

  “Of course you can! Nothing’s changed but your title. You’re still Liddy Jackson. And always will be.”

  But my sister was wrong. I was not
the same. In marrying Mr. Emerson, I’d changed in ways that even I didn’t understand.

  CHARLES AND MR. EMERSON returned from their walk just as I was lighting the evening lamps. Charles was in high spirits, having persuaded my husband to join him in paying a call on Elizabeth. She had played her pianoforte for them and sang a very pleasant tune. Mr. Emerson invited her to join us for tea, but she’d declined. I was genuinely sorry to hear this, for my spirits would have benefited from her presence.

  Lucy did not come down to tea and Frank and Sophia were unusually subdued. But the walk and Charles’s company had evidently done my husband good, for he made no reference to the scene at dinner, except to inquire quietly after my mood. When I assured him I’d spent the afternoon in the excellent company of Mrs. Child’s novel, he laughed good-naturedly. We drank our cider and passed a platter of cold mutton and cheese while Charles and Mr. Emerson discussed the writings of Burke and Webster. Then the conversation turned to the value of reading in general.

  “A man ought to make the woods and fields his books,” Mr. Emerson said, firmly putting down his knife.

  Charles laughed.

  “No, I am quite serious. If a man invested thus in experience, at the moment of passion his thoughts would spontaneously infuse themselves with natural imagery.”

  I was about to comment when Charles rocked back in his chair, and laced his hands behind his head, his grin widening yet further. “Art is it now? For how long have you concealed your feelings for that noble lady? You hide your passions well, Waldo.”

  Mr. Emerson, who could no longer contain his own good humor, put back his fine head and laughed.

  IN NOVEMBER, Mr. Emerson received a call to supply the pulpit of the church in East Lexington. He told me offhandedly as we undressed for bed, mentioning the offer as if his decision was of no consequence. I stopped brushing my hair in midstroke and demanded that he tell me every detail. He explained that he was reluctant to accept, citing his unpopular views on the Trinity and the Lord’s Supper. I urged him to reconsider, for I had secretly nurtured the dream of sitting in the front pew beneath a pulpit of some church, listening to my husband preach.