Mr. Emerson's Wife

by Amy Belding Brown

  In the morning, as we sat over a breakfast of coffee and squash pie, I took up the crusade again. “You must accept this call as the blessing it is!” I wore my gray calico housedress and my husband his blue wool robe. “Think how many minds you influence from a pulpit!” I stabbed at my pie, caught a prong of crust on my fork tine, and popped it into my mouth. “You’d no longer have to seek out your audiences! They’d be waiting for you each Sunday morning. It would be a life of privilege compared to the uncertainty which burdens you now.”

  He smiled affectionately. “Lidian, you have things backward. You flatter my pride when a reprimand to my hubris is required. Remember, I’m no stranger to the pulpit. I’m as well acquainted with its pitfalls and discomforts as its privileges. It’s not the pleasure you presume.”

  “Still, I’d like you to accept it. At least for a while. It would bring us a more reliable income than your lectures, and you wouldn’t have to journey far.”

  He was silent for some time, staring into his coffee, as if he might find guidance written on its black surface. Finally, he spoke. “All right.” He put down his fork and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I’ll accept their offer. For a few months you’ll be able to watch your husband play the minister’s part. On the condition that when I leave that pulpit you’ll not browbeat me into taking another.”

  “Browbeat! I haven’t beaten your brow nor any other part of you!” I declared.

  “Call it what you will. You haven’t let the matter rest.” He smiled again—his generous, blessing smile that instantly swept my furies away. “You have the persistence of a terrier, my dear.”

  “It’s a trait that serves us both, Mr. Emerson.”

  His smile disappeared and he looked uncharacteristically chagrined. “I’d not change you, Lidian. But you must not try to change me, either. Promise you’ll not press me to return permanently to the ministry. I’m convinced that God has called me to another service.”

  I could not argue with God, and so I promised, though not happily. It struck me that the most demanding and onerous task required by marriage was the silencing of my tongue.

  Yet my happiness was greater than my vexation. When Mr. Emerson retired to his study a few moments later, I flew up the stairs to roust Lucy out of bed and tell her the good news.

  TWO WEEKS LATER, on my first Sunday as a minister’s wife, I wore my bridal dress under a gray velvet cape with a matching bonnet decked in white ribbons. The sky was overcast, as gray as my bonnet, and I tasted snow in the air.

  The church building was only a few years old and very similar in style and size to Concord’s First Parish Church—a stately white building with a two-tiered steeple facing the road. We climbed granite steps and entered a wide front door, then ascended more steps to the assembly room. The pews were already filled. I glanced at him; he smiled and took my arm, and together we walked up the long aisle to the front pew, where I settled myself while he mounted the steps to the pulpit.

  Oh, it was heaven to hear God’s word from my husband’s mouth! I sat in a trance of admiration, gazing up at him, silently thanking God that He had brought us together.

  After the service, we proceeded to the home of a deacon, where over a meal of cold beef and turkey we discussed English literature. Mr. Emerson was about to begin a series of lectures on that subject at the Masonic Temple in Boston. He was particularly taken with Shakespeare’s wisdom and articulate grace and for that reason had recently read Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet. He was fond of quoting particular lines that were not commonly known. Despite my own delight in the conversation, I quickly realized that the deacon and his wife were not familiar with Shakespeare, and out of charity I managed to steer the conversation in the direction of the new book of Watts’s hymns, which better pleased the entire assembly.

  On the way home, Mr. Emerson complimented me. “Your manners are unusual in the country, yet they serve us well.” He surprised both Lucy and me by leaning over and kissing my cheek.

  THAT WINTER he began to complain. First about my habit of opening windows to freshen the air, which he said chilled him and exposed him to lung ailments. Hadn’t he told me that he had a weakness of his air passages and joints? I argued that cold, clean air was the best cure for such debility. It had kept me from consumption—I was certain of it.

  Next he complained that I fretted too much over the arrangement of furniture and the color of the drapes and carpet. These things were of no consequence, he declared. They distracted the mind from lofty concerns. I contended that an attractive and graceful home was necessary to put the mind at ease. How could one concentrate on philosophy if an unsightly carpet or a dilapidated chair offended the eye? He had chosen me to manage his house, had he not? Did he now doubt my skills?

  He retreated before my arguments, but did not stop complaining. When I sent him to the village for hooks and insisted that he repair a broken hinge on a cupboard door, he protested that my demands were interfering with the writing of his book.

  “Surely you can wait a month while we get our home in order,” I said. “You were the one who envisioned a spa for philosophers here in Concord. It was you who required a particular environment for the cultivation of your muse. Do you now believe the opposite? Does place no longer matter to you? Do you think that all one needs is a bush to sit beneath?”

  “A bush.” He stroked his forehead. “Strident as they are, your words always give me pause, Lidian. Perhaps we ought to call our home Bush.” I thought it a foolish name for a home, but it stuck and our house on the Cambridge Turnpike came to be known everywhere by that curious appellation.

  “It’s not my words which are strident, Mr. Emerson,” I said. “It’s my heart.” Yet I admit that my voice sometimes grew shrill, and that I rarely submitted to his will without first vehemently asserting my own. I had believed from the first that Mr. Emerson and I had formed a new sort of union, where the wife was equal in influence and intellect to her husband. What I had not anticipated was the degree to which other people were made uncomfortable by our arrangement. I even began to wonder if Mr. Emerson himself found it awkward.

  Despite our disagreements, Mr. Emerson and I remained physically passionate. He sought me nightly, and my initial disinclination for the marriage act soon turned to unexpected satisfaction. I began to respond to his caresses with unfeigned pleasure. I welcomed the feathery stroke of his tongue on my neck and mouth, the silken insistence of his hand on my thigh. Our embraces, which had at first been swift and urgent, grew less hurried as my pleasure increased.

  Far from regretting the marriage, in those early days I thrived on it. My body and my mind had finally achieved a balance I had not dreamed possible. Best of all were our conversations. Mr. Emerson and I had glorious debates on every imaginable subject—the nature of men and women, the philosophy of freedom, inspiration and imagination, and the importance of social reform.

  ONE EVENING Mr. Emerson told me that he wanted to follow the country practice of having only one table at dinner. “The servants should partake with us,” he said. “They live under our roof just as Charles and Lucy and the children do.”

  I confessed that I’d never heard of such a custom. Yet the nobility of the idea appealed to me. “I’ll speak to them tomorrow,” I said.

  The next morning I found Nancy, Louisa, and Hitty in the kitchen, peeling potatoes into a white ceramic bowl. When I explained Mr. Emerson’s plan, Nancy and Louisa agreed, but Hitty shook her head. “I’ll stay in the kitchen, ma’am,” she said firmly. “It’s unnatural to eat with my betters.” She held a large, half-peeled potato in her left hand and she tipped it back and forth as she spoke.

  “But we’re not your betters,” I told her. “We’re your family while you reside with us.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I wasn’t brought up to consider such notions. I was raised proper.” She turned away, flicked her knife against her potato and a long strip of brown skin fell into the bowl.

  Only Nancy sat with us at di
nner that afternoon. Louisa had complained of a headache and taken to her bed. When Mr. Emerson tried to converse with Nancy, kindly inquiring after her family, Nancy answered, but sullenly, and pushed her food around her plate as if she had no appetite. The next day, she refused to sit with us, firmly telling us she’d changed her mind.

  “I’ll stay out here with Louisa and Hitty, ma’am. Where I’m comfortable.”

  Two months later, Hitty left us and returned to Plymouth where, she said, “People know their place and know enough to keep it.”

  I began to understand that the link between noble ideas and social improvement was not a simple one. Familiarity and habit were formidable opponents.

  IN JANUARY, Mrs. Emerson took up residence in the room above my husband’s study. I was determined to make her feel welcome, but I dreaded her long silences and Sunday soliloquies. Was this because my own mother had not sufficient health and time to teach me the ways of mothers? I’d observed the tender way Mrs. Emerson conferred with my husband and found myself longing for an older woman to look upon me with similar devotion. Yet it was impossible not to read disapproval in her scowling glances and the tart condescension in her tone of voice.

  “You have a fine eye for decoration, Lidian,” she told me on a Tuesday morning a week after she moved in. We were in the parlor, where I was busily removing dust from the claw-foot legs of the petticoat table. Mrs. Emerson sat on the couch, knitting stockings. Though I was turned away and couldn’t see her face, I perceived she did not intend her remark as a compliment. I knew she’d lived very plainly since the death of her husband, twenty-five years before. What had begun as a necessary economy had become a beloved habit, rather like the favorite dress that a woman wears long after it grows threadbare.

  “I seek bargains, madam,” I said. “I’m careful with my money.” I rolled the cloth tightly around my finger and pressed it deep into the mahogany grooves.

  “Mr. Emerson’s money.”

  I stood and busied myself with the drapery folds at the east windows. “He’s never objected to my purchases.”

  “He has a gracious soul.”

  I flushed. “He appreciates beauty, madam! The philosophical mind requires pleasant surroundings, and I consider it my duty to provide him with objects harmonious to the eye.”

  “Please do not continue addressing me as madam,” she said. The steady cadence of her clicking needles did not slow. “I am neither a guest nor some old woman invited to one of your soirees. I would prefer that you call me Mother.”

  I turned to look at her. She had her eyes on her knitting and the frilled brim of her white cap shaded her forehead so that I couldn’t read her expression. “If that’s what you prefer, then of course I’ll honor your request.” I folded my dust cloth and dropped it into my apron pocket. “Now you must excuse me for I have to go out and buy meat for dinner.”

  I don’t know why I consented so readily to her request when I’d never surrendered to my husband’s desire to be called Waldo. Mother seemed too intimate an appellation and forced me to recall each time I used it that I had no mother of my own. As I took off my apron and prepared to leave, I wondered if this were the true reason behind her request.

  9

  Portents

  Always the soul says to us all: Cherish your best hopes as a faith, and abide by them in action.

  —MARGARET FULLER

  The air in Concord was drier than in Plymouth, more extreme in temperature, and less congenial to activity. I found myself reflecting on how closely the people mirrored their climate. Concord was mud and dust and uncouth manners—all sharp edges and unhemmed fringes. It was the butcher and the judge at the same soiree. It was field dirt packed under ragged fingernails. It was the odor of pigs and cattle lying close upon the air all day, without the relief of a cleansing breeze from the sea.

  I was dismayed that I was not yet with child, and wondered if I had been cursed with barrenness. My husband’s physical attentions had been both constant and tender, and it seemed strange that God had not yet granted our mutual desire. I turned to the Scriptures for solace, where the cries of lamentation were countered by reminders of God’s faithfulness and love. I made it a point to count my blessings, and yet Concord itself often moved me to mourn my removal from Plymouth.

  I was thinking such thoughts one winter morning as I walked to the village with my market basket on my arm. I’d invited Lucy to accompany me, but she complained of a sick headache and retired to her chamber as soon as Frank went off to school. I wished she had not sent Sophia to boarding school in Boston the month before, for the girl’s presence refreshed me.

  The roadside mud had frozen into hard, gray ridges that made walking treacherous. Clouds the color of oyster shells loomed overhead and darker clouds crowded the western horizon. A damp cast to the air promised snow. Three large crows perched on a branch of the chestnut tree in front of First Parish Church and took flight as I passed. I stopped to look up at the tree. Its branches made an intricate black lace. The stark beauty enchanted me.

  As I stood in the road, gazing upward, my mind aflame with wonder, I heard a voice at some distance call out, “Ah! A kindred spirit!” Startled at having been so boldly addressed, I turned to see a lone man advancing toward me. Despite the cold, he wore no hat and his jacket looked uncomfortably thin. His gait was a rhythmic lope that was oddly graceful. Intrigued, I watched him approach, and was suddenly reminded of my childhood dance master—for this man carried his body in the same way, and seemed to possess a similar focused intensity. As he drew near, I recognized him as one of Cynthia Thoreau’s sons.

  “Good morning,” I said pleasantly. “Mr. Thoreau, isn’t it?”

  He nodded and moved to let me pass at the same moment I moved to proceed, and we found ourselves face-to-face. It was an awkward impasse, which I attempted to redeem with a sidestep, only to find that he, too, had decided to move sideways.

  I smiled. “It appears we’re destined to oppose each other. Perhaps one of us should wait while the other passes.”

  “It’s less opposition than encounter,” he said. “And now that we’re so well met, I remember where I saw you—you attended my mother’s antislavery meeting a few weeks back. You’re Mr. Emerson’s new wife.”

  “I am.” I was struck by the luster in his gaze. Although he was in no way handsome, this was the second time I’d noticed his eyes, which had a penetrating quality that was both intriguing and unnerving. I was also aware of his youth. He retained a boy’s innocent manner and persuasive intensity.

  He glanced up at the tree. “You must tell me what message you’ve received from this venerable chestnut. I’ve often heard her speak to me, but thought it was a singular gift. She’s more genial than I realized.”

  Again I laughed, charmed by his notion that the tree had a secret social life. “I confess she told me little, Mr. Thoreau—”

  “Please call me Henry.”

  “Henry. Only that she wonders what you’re doing in Concord. She thought you were a college student.”

  “Even newcomers promptly learn everyone’s business in this town.” He barked out a cheerful laugh. “Yet the tree is right, Mrs. Emerson, as trees so often are. The truth is I’m on my way to catch the coach to Cambridge.”

  “Godspeed,” I said, and went on my way, more cheered than I had been yet that day. I wondered if I might after all accustom myself to Concord’s country ways and come to regard them with affection.

  IN MID-FEBRUARY, my monthly flow ceased. Since it had happened before when I was ill, I was afraid to hope what it might mean this time. Yet my breasts were tender and I woke in the mornings filled with an enervating nausea that grew stronger each day. At the end of the month I went to Lucy and told her my symptoms. She confessed that she’d already suspected I was with child.

  “I couldn’t help but notice that you haven’t been eating normally. How wonderful, Liddy! What a blessing!” She gave me such a robust embrace I nearly toppled over. “You mus
t make certain you eat properly now,” she admonished. “No more picking at your food!”

  My protests only provoked her to more vehemence in her prescriptions. “I’ll make sure you take daily infusions of peppermint. We must take extra precautions that your dyspepsia not plague you—I know how susceptible you are to stomach complaints. And the child will rearrange your internal organs without the slightest regard for your comfort.” She smiled and clasped me to her yet again. “Tell me, what did Mr. Emerson say when you told him the news?”

  “He doesn’t know,” I said. “I wasn’t sure myself, so I came to you first.”

  “But surely he’s guessed! When I conceived Sophia, Charles knew before I did. Or suspected, at any rate. He was always observant of my monthly phases.” She blushed suddenly. I tried to think how I might frame a reply that would not embarrass either of us.

  “Mr. Emerson is always solicitous of my wishes in intimate matters,” I said. “He leaves it to me to watch the calendar.”

  “So he has no idea?” Lucy smiled a woman’s smile—secret and knowing. “Yet you think he’ll be pleased?”

  “I’m sure of it. We both want children. I think he’s dispirited that I didn’t conceive immediately after we were wed.”

  “Then you must plan your announcement!” Lucy was glowing, fairly dancing about the room in her excitement. I knew her love for all the small rituals of family life, yet this was different, more zealous. As I studied her flushed cheeks and bright eyes, I was forcefully struck by her resemblance to our mother. Though I had rarely known my mother in good health, still there had been a womanly vigor beneath her frailty, a reservoir of strength, like a spring of sweet water hidden beneath gray, forbidding stones. “You must set a moment aside from the rest of your day so that you will always remember the look on his face when you tell him. Take him a glass of claret at bedtime. Or wake him early to greet the dawn with your tidings.”