“That’s not true, Lidian. You’re needlessly overwrought. Think of how many times I came to you for advice on something I wrote. Think of the countless times we’ve discussed slavery and the rights of women.”
“I think of them often. Would it surprise you to know that I feel more used than nourished after those sessions? I fear I’m less your counselor than your servant.”
He stared as if my face had suddenly become unfamiliar to him. “What would you have us do? Turn our guest out into the street and be known all over Boston for our lack of hospitality?”
His words had their intended effect, for I felt an immediate sympathy for Margaret. Despite my jealousy, I admired her and could not bear the thought that she—or anyone—should perceive me as inhospitable. “Of course not! Margaret shall stay as long as she likes.”
He nodded gravely. “Then it’s settled. And now, I must ask you to leave, for I have a lecture to write.”
I rose stiffly. Despite the heat, my body was bathed in a strange, damp chill, and I left the room without another word to my husband. As I closed the door quietly behind me, Margaret came out of the Red Room across the hall. She wore a black-and-turquoise day gown that did nothing for her wide hips.
I made myself smile. “Good morning. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”
“Oh, not at all!” She smiled and fluttered her hands about. “I’m desperate for some company. Sometimes I think your house is simply too quiet. It can’t be healthy.” She blinked her large eyes and laughed—that explosive, horselike laugh that both repelled me for its coarseness and intrigued me because of its open sensuality. I did not understand Margaret Fuller, and even less my reaction to her. She was dazzling in her intellect and I thrilled to her lectures. During the winter of 1840 I’d made a weekly journey to Boston with Elizabeth Hoar and Mary Brooks to participate in her conversation series. I rarely found myself in full agreement with her, yet I deeply admired her conviction that women were the equals of men. Her passion for that ideal had already caused my husband to modify his views.
“Mr. Emerson believes that poets and philosophers require solitude in order to produce their work,” I said.
“Oh, I’m aware of Waldo’s beliefs.” Margaret wrinkled her nose and her eyelids flickered. “He’s always trying to convince me it is what I ought to believe as well.” She laughed again. “Come, Lidian, we’ll take a morning walk and cast away our cares beneath the trees by the river.”
I looked into her smile and was tempted—more tempted than I wanted to admit. I longed to forget my children and husband, hungered to neglect my household duties and escape to some pleasant, shady spot. I imagined spending not only the morning, but the entire afternoon as well, sharing confidences and philosophies with this carefree woman. Yet, as quickly as I imagined it, I rejected the possibility as the most deceptive sort of nonsense. I had obligations entrusted to me by God, duties I ignored to my peril.
“I’ve a great many things to do today, Margaret. Such leisure is not possible for me.” And I hurried away, leaving her standing alone in front of Mr. Emerson’s study door.
TWO DAYS AFTER our conversation, Mr. Emerson came into the dining room where I was nursing Edith in Ellen Tucker’s rocker. It was midmorning, a time when he was customarily at work in his study. Without greeting me, he went to the window and stared out in silence for a long time. I said nothing, for I was immersed in the pleasant serenity granted the mother of a suckling babe.
Finally, he spoke. “I’m no longer convinced of the value of permanent marriage,” he said quietly. He did not look at me.
For a moment his words did not register. “Are you referring to us?” My hand went numb on Edith’s tiny chest. “Or is this some new philosophy of yours?”
“A philosophy divorced from life is of no use to anyone,” he said. “I’ve given it a great deal of thought. You shouldn’t imagine this is an impulse. It seems to me that marriage is, by nature, a temporary relationship, with its own birth, climax, and death.”
“Then you’re suggesting that we break the vows we made before God?” I shifted Edith higher against me, lengthening my arm beneath her tiny torso. She was sleeping peacefully, heedless of the emotional storm gathering around her.
At last he turned to face me. “I bear you no ill will, Lidian. But I think it’s plain to both of us that we’re no longer united.”
“That’s because you’ve turned away from God! How can you expect a marriage to thrive if it’s not bound to Christ?”
He sighed and closed his eyes. “You know that I cannot resign myself to religious conventions any more than worldly ones. I’ve always sought my own direction.”
“Yes,” I hissed, “and where has it brought you? To a cold and lonely place, separated from your wife and children by this bold new principle of self-reliance. You would usurp God’s power for the sake of your pride!”
He stared, as if startled by my ferocity. After a moment he spoke quietly. “Pride has nothing to do with it. You know me better than that. It’s honesty, Lidian. I’ve always striven to be honest.”
Edith stirred in her sleep and I moved her carefully to my shoulder. “Then you are saying that honesty provokes you to abandon this marriage? To apply for divorce? What of your promise to me? What of your children?”
He stared at me, his expression impassive, almost bored, as if he were listening to the drone of some tedious lecturer, not his wife.
It was then that I asked the question that had been plaguing me for months—the question that all women ask in the midst of their pain. “Is it someone else? Have you found a new love?”
He did not answer.
I stroked Edith’s back. Beneath my fingertips was the soft cotton of her little dress, warmed by her body. “It’s Margaret, isn’t it?”
“No,” he said. “It’s not anyone else, Lidian. It is us.” Whereupon he took his hat from its peg and left the house.
I WALKED at night, for I could not sleep. I paced the house and the yard, strolled outside under the stars, hoping to find a solace that did not exist. I walked often to the churchyard to kneel by Wallie’s grave.
One evening Margaret offered to accompany me. We walked under moon-streaked clouds, the dim light welcome to my sore eyes, for since Wallie’s death I’d come to prefer night to day. A light breeze tugged at my veil and the hem of my skirts. I felt akin to a spirit born of shadows, as if I had no substance but darkness.
When we reached the graveyard I opened the gate and led Margaret straight to Wallie’s stone. I could hear the rattle of the river a few yards away, and the thrum of crickets in the grass. I fell on my knees and pressed my forehead against the cold slate. Margaret stood nearby, her head bowed. She may have been praying—I did not know. We both remained in our distinct postures for a long time. When I finally rose, the moonlight had shifted, casting Wallie’s marker into blackness so the words could no longer be read.
Margaret took my arm and guided me away, pointing out the odd shape of a cloud that hung directly above us. I looked at it dispassionately and made some remark about its color, though it had none. As we started back to Bush, Margaret turned to me.
“You ought not to lock your sentiments away, Lidian. They will scald your heart.”
The truth of her words struck me—it was as if they opened the lock in a canal and suddenly my ship of grief could sail forth. I began to talk of how Wallie continued to grow in my heart. I spoke of what an extraordinary child he was, of how wise he’d been, how unlike other children—more patient, tender, and in possession of a Christian compassion that few adults exhibited. I felt compelled to tell Margaret everything. I was aware that she was uncharacteristically silent, but in my need to speak of Wallie, I attributed her silence to interest and compassion. When I finally retired to my bed that night, it seemed as if a small portion of great sorrow had been lifted from me and my burden was easier to bear.
19
Arrangements
The life of woman must be ou
twardly a well-intentioned, cheerful dissimulation of her real life.
—MARGARET FULLER
Margaret’s visit had lasted a month when Mr. Emerson informed me that he’d invited her to live with us permanently. We were readying ourselves for bed. I stopped in the midst of unbuttoning my skirt and stared at him.
“Why did you not tell me this before she came?”
“She thought it best not to inform you until she’d decided one way or the other. She wished to make a trial stay first.” He didn’t turn to look at me as he spoke, but busied himself in front of his bureau by slowly removing his collar.
“She thought? Am I no longer mistress of this house?” My fingers froze on a button, numb now as if I’d plunged them into a drift of snow.
“Of course. But you’ve not been well. And since Wallie’s death, I’ve not wanted to add to your distress.”
“Distress!” I said. “Is it not distressing to discover that my husband has been making household arrangements without my knowledge?”
He turned quickly then, spun on his heel like a marionette snapped on the end of a string. Despite the dim light, I could see that he was scowling. “She’s your friend as well as mine. You yourself declared that our house must be open to all our friends, a port of safety for philosophers in an unwelcoming world.”
“That was years ago. Before Wallie was born!” I yanked the skirt off and hurled it to the floor, popping the button and sending it flying across the room. It hit a window and pinged onto the floor. One of my cats—the charcoal tom—pounced upon it from behind the rocker.
“No, Flavius!” I lunged across the room to scoop the cat into my arms, and then retrieved the errant button.
“Has motherhood now hardened your heart against your friends?”
“Of course not!” My voice rose; I heard the annoying shrill in it, but could not control its timbre. The cat lay briefly still in my arms, then leaped away in one long, elegant arc, landing on his feet in the center of our bed. “I mean that, ill or not, I ought to be consulted on such matters. Margaret herself has argued that a woman is no less wise or intelligent than a man. So should I not have equal say with my husband about who lives in our house?”
Mr. Emerson was silent. He stared at me without moving. As usual, when he refused to debate, my ire quickly dissipated. “I apologize for losing my temper,” I said. “Of course Margaret is welcome.”
He nodded, but continued to watch me. It was a gaze I recognized—a dispassionate, unforgiving look—not dissimilar to the one I saw each day in the mirror.
The next afternoon at dinner, as I passed the platter of sliced veal to Margaret, I asked her to join me on an afternoon stroll. “I’d like to talk with you about our new arrangement,” I said.
Margaret glanced at Mr. Emerson. “Oh dear,” she said, “I’ve promised to walk with Waldo.”
Henry, who sat beside me, made a small rude sound in the back of his throat.
My tears erupted without warning. I had not cried in weeks and they felt hot and unfamiliar. They burned my eyes; scored ridges in my cheeks. I pressed my hands to my face. “Then you must go with him,” I said. “I would not wish you to break your engagement.” I heard the bitterness in my voice and regretted it, yet the truth was I had carried this venom in my heart for so many weeks that I could no longer prevent its expression.
Margaret coughed into her napkin and looked again at my husband, but he didn’t return her glance. He continued to study his plate with apparent disinterest as he chewed his veal. Henry put down his fork.
Margaret reached across the table and touched my arm. “Dear Lidian. I’m so sorry. Of course I’ll walk with you. My little excursion with Waldo can easily be postponed to another time.” Again she looked at him.
“No!” I whipped my hands from my face and rubbed my eyes fiercely with my napkin. “You must walk with him. It’s what he wishes.”
My husband’s expression was utterly blank, as if his ears had become deaf to human speech.
Margaret shook her head and rose. Her entire demeanor was filled with apology and regret. She repeated that her walk with Mr. Emerson could be postponed. Yet I did not look at her. I could not, at that point, accept her pitying reversal.
Throughout the horrible scene, my husband continued to stare silently at his plate. After a moment, Henry rose and excused himself. I saw that he had left his food untouched. Mother Emerson asked me to pass the potatoes and commented on the weather, which threatened rain.
After the meal, Margaret persisted in her efforts and finally persuaded me to take a short walk with her. We headed across the low, swampy flats past Edmund Hosmer’s large house and the dilapidated Fletcher farm. Margaret was at her most understanding. It did not take her long to draw out my feelings. I’d experienced a sympathetic woman’s ear too rarely since coming to Concord. I willingly shared my frustrations concerning Mr. Emerson. If nothing else, I hoped to disabuse her of the notion that he had a warm and compassionate nature.
“He’s become so stubborn and implacable lately,” I told Margaret. “But what hurts me most is his lack of affection.”
Margaret murmured her understanding. She agreed that Mr. Emerson was difficult, that he had not given me the love I had reason to expect. Then she stopped in the road, put her hands upon my shoulders, and turned me toward her.
“Yet you must know that I regard you as the most fortunate woman in the universe! Surely the honor of being Waldo’s wife makes the faults of genius bearable!”
I stared at her. “If you were married to him you’d not find yourself so fortunate as you believe.”
“Oh, Lidian!” Margaret’s eyes were filled with the pity I abhorred.
THAT EVENING Henry joined me in the parlor, while my husband strolled outside with Margaret. I was seated on the couch with the ever-present mending piled in my lap when he came into the room and sat beside me. He said nothing at first—he had a way of looking at me that surpassed speech. Just the weight of his gaze could cause my throat to knot.
“Henry,” I said, not knowing what I wished to say, but feeling that some word must be spoken. I recalled how he had sat at the dinner table during my outburst, staring at my silent husband with an expression of disbelief and disdain. I knew he neither understood nor approved of Mr. Emerson’s silence. I’d heard the scorn in his voice on more than one occasion and wondered if Mr. Emerson detected it as well. But my husband no longer shared his confidences with me. He had younger, more malleable minds to mold.
After saying Henry’s name, my thoughts returned me to a silence so deep that I started when he placed his hand over mine. “Don’t break your heart on the rock of his indifference,” he said quietly.
I closed my eyes. “He is my husband.”
“A husband who does not love you.” The words shocked me, less for their boldness—It was characteristic of Henry to state his thoughts with supreme confidence—than because they so exactly echoed the doubts in my own heart.
I slid my hand from beneath Henry’s and picked up my mending. I meant to go back to it, to bury my suffering in the tedious monotony of stitching, but I made the mistake of looking at him. His eyes—usually filled with gray and blue light—appeared nearly black, for he sat beyond the range of lamplight, and was engulfed in shadow. Yet I felt them searching my face and drawing my own eyes more deeply toward his until we were locked in a mutual gaze so intense I felt a scorching heat burn the length of my back.
“He loves me as he can,” I said weakly. “Genius must follow its own inclination.”
“Some would incline differently,” Henry whispered. And though I knew he’d returned his hand to his own knee, I had such a powerful sensation that it still covered mine that I had to look twice at my lap to assure myself that my hands had both dutifully returned to the task of mending Mr. Emerson’s Sunday shirt.
THAT NIGHT in our chamber, I lay beside Mr. Emerson thinking of Margaret. If she knew my husband’s true nature, would she pursue him so ear
nestly? Would she allow him to pursue her? I wished I had the courage to confront Mr. Emerson directly—to ask if he had ever loved me at all. But he slept peacefully beside me, and I did not try to wake him.
I did not know him when I agreed to marry him. Nor did I know him now, seven years after we were wed. There was something in him so cold it was beyond knowing.
I could not sleep. I rose and put on my robe and paced the downstairs rooms all night in the moonlight, wondering whether my husband had been physically intimate with Margaret. In my wild, sorrowing state, I did not perceive that neither Margaret nor Mr. Emerson was the true cause of my anguish, but that its root burrowed deep into my heart.
THE NEXT MORNING at breakfast, Margaret announced that she must soon end her visit. She claimed she had family matters to attend—her mother was unwell. She hoped she might find her own residence in Concord at a later time.
I wondered what had prompted this change of heart. Had Mr. Emerson asked her to leave? I glanced across the table at him, but his look was impassive as he sat thoughtfully chewing upon one of the day-old biscuits.
On Saturday evening I gave a tea in Margaret’s honor, inviting all her Concord friends. Margaret seemed pleased with my efforts, though I heard later that she complained to her sister that it was “too much a mob” for her taste. At the end of the evening, when Margaret declared she’d accompany Sophia Hawthorne and her mother back to the Manse in their chaise, my husband volunteered to go with her. For safety’s sake, he said. I stood in the dining room holding a plate of cake crumbs, knowing—as did everyone present—that this would require Margaret and my husband to walk the long way back to Bush by moonlight. Yet I could not object without seeming jealous and common. I had to watch, unprotesting, as they left the house.
They did not return for three hours. Though I retired to my chamber, I could not sleep. Eventually, I heard the front door open and close and then my husband’s low voice and Margaret’s muffled laugh. A short time later, his tread sounded on the stairs. I did not speak to him when he entered the room.
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