Mr. Emerson's Wife

by Amy Belding Brown

I stepped closer, for I had not heard the baby stir into full wakefulness and wanted to assure myself he slept peacefully. Death—though I was loath to give it recognition—made me inordinately vigilant with my children. Yet when I looked at Edward I saw, with surprise, that he was wide-awake, his eyes gazing straight into Henry’s. There was a solemnity in his expression—a look I’d often observed in newborns—that caused me to reflect on the great, unspoken wisdom they bring into the world, a wisdom beyond the ability of an adult to comprehend.

  I glanced again at Henry and saw on his face a look of reverence and astonishment. I felt at that moment that I hardly knew him. He looked as if he were about to weep. Then, abruptly, his face resumed its normal cast and he was no longer a stranger.

  “He’s quite perfect,” he declared, smiling. “A philosopher, I think. Or a poet.”

  I knew there could be no higher compliment from Henry, since his own aspiration was to be a philosopher-poet like my husband. He looked back at Edward, whose gaze locked again on Henry’s. I sensed that something profound was taking place between them—something I both did and did not want to disturb. But no—it was more than that—what I saw was a mutual recognition in their eyes. Their tiny circle excluded me as surely as a stockade.

  I swiftly took Edward from Henry’s arms. “He will be whatever God in His wisdom desires.” I held him close to my breasts, desperate to reacquaint myself with his weight and form and smell. Yet, even as I embraced him, I had the uneasy feeling that I had not broken that circle. Some intimacy bound them to each other. I stepped back, away from Henry, clutching Edward tightly. Unwilling to return him to his cradle, I paced back and forth as if he required soothing. Henry watched me.

  “He’s quite wonderful, Lidian,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Entirely wonderful.”

  As I walked my son, clasping him securely to my bosom, I had the odd sensation that he and Henry were very faraway, as if Henry had carried him to some new country where the language, the laws—everything—was different. And I was left alone to watch them on the further shore.

  PART III

  July 1847 – April 1882

  The World on Fire

  She remembered them that were in bonds as bound with them

  —FROM THE GRAVESTONE OF

  LIDIAN JACKSON EMERSON

  27

  Transitions

  I left the woods for as good a reason as I went there.

  —HENRY DAVID THOREAU

  For nearly eight years Henry had been my companion and friend. I had come to believe his presence was the one ingredient that made my life bearable. When he declared his intention to build a cabin on the shores of Walden Pond and live a simplified life there, I encouraged him. I had imagined he would live there for a few months and return to the Thoreau family home by winter. But when he stayed on I championed his efforts, though I saw him less frequently and sorely missed our walks and conversations. Two years had passed and our friendship had dwindled—partly through reduced association—but also because it became increasingly clear that the weight of his attention was no longer focused on me. Henry—whose passion for life was reflected in a wide net of attachments—now concentrated his energies on nature.

  I wanted Henry back. In the end, it was that simple.

  Circumstance and desire rarely contrive a solution as easily as they did on that occasion. When Mr. Emerson announced later that summer that he intended to make an extended European tour, I was at first stunned, then infuriated. He had been to Europe before we met and seen all the famous places he cared to. Or so I imagined. More significantly, our children were young and our funds limited. When I protested, he invited me to accompany him, knowing that I would certainly refuse. Both my maternal responsibilities and my natural inclination forbade such a journey. I’d been ripped from my Plymouth home by marriage. I would not now be ripped from American shores by my husband’s conceit.

  For three weeks I fretted. I would manage household chores and my husband’s business contacts—I’d done so regularly when he was away on his lecture tours. But how would I contact him if I had sudden need? What if his mother became ill or—and I could hardly bear to entertain the thought, yet how could I not think it?—one of the remaining children sickened and died? I raged. I wept. I told him his trip would be my undoing. He turned a deaf ear and concentrated on his plans. Whatever affection he had once had for me was gone.

  One night near the end of August I dreamed I was walking along a country path and suddenly came upon Henry. He was standing at the edge of a great river, the sunlight slanting in such a way as to make his hair look like golden fire. When he saw me, he turned around and came toward me, his arms outstretched.

  “You are the star by which I set my compass,” he said.

  I woke, my face wet with tears.

  At breakfast I confronted my husband. “If you are set on going to Europe, then I want Henry here to take care of the house and land.” I’d not yet taken a bite of my pie, nor had I the slightest appetite for the coffee that filled my cup. I sat with my hands in my lap, my back as straight as if laced into a corset. “You cannot expect me to run this household without a man. I insist on Henry’s presence.”

  Mr. Emerson frowned and put down his fork. “Henry is not yours to command. He’s committed to his experiment at Walden Pond.”

  “I believe you could persuade him,” I said. “He is, after all, living on your land.”

  His mouth drooped at the corners—an expression I’d rarely seen. “I have no intention of curtailing his freedom. You may speak to him if you like.”

  “I want you to do it. It’s my condition for your trip.”

  “Condition?” His shoulders jerked, as if some object had physically struck him in the chest. “You’re my wife. It’s not your place to offer conditions.”

  I drew in a slow breath. “A wife is not a slave, Mr. Emerson, no matter that she is often treated as such.”

  He pushed back his chair with such a violent motion that a tongue of coffee sloshed out of my cup and onto the tablecloth. “I have never treated you as a slave!” I’d never heard his voice so animated by rage. “You are my wife. We are one flesh!”

  “No one owns me but Christ!” I cried, rising to my feet, for I could no longer remain seated. “And if you are to leave me, I want Henry here!”

  His eyes burned in the cold iron of his face. “There will be gossip,” he said.

  “Are you now afraid to be defended by the truth?” I looked at him, meeting his penetrating gaze with my own for a long moment before I resumed my seat. “I assure you I will do nothing to dishonor you,” I said, full knowing that I would constantly struggle with my desire for Henry.

  “I have been a good husband to you. I have given you a home and a family. I have put food on your table. I have not beaten you.” His voice was low and deliberate—if I had known him less, I would have imagined that he was calm. His face was as stony as our granite doorstep.

  “More than common courtesy is required to make a marriage,” I said.

  He sighed. “What is required of us is that we follow the prompting of the Spirit within.”

  “Which is why I insist that you persuade Henry.” I was surprised to hear tears in my voice, for my eyes were dry.

  “Very well,” he said. “I’ll try to persuade. But I will not coerce. If he comes, it must be of his own free will.” He picked up his fork again and studied me over the tines. “But I doubt he will agree, Lidian. He’s grown very jealous of his solitude.”

  “Tell him it is my request,” I said. “He will come.”

  My heart was less certain than my words, but they proved true. Henry left his cabin at the pond without a backward glance. On the sixth of September, a month before Mr. Emerson sailed for Europe, he moved back into the chamber at the top of the front stairs.

  It was heaven to have Henry under our roof again, so near to hand and heart. I felt as if the world had finally righted itself. If he experienced
any regret at leaving the pond, he did not tell me, but plunged into our domestic round with a grace and enthusiasm that captivated the children and me. Mr. Emerson alone appeared unaffected. He remained immersed in his studies, apparently oblivious to my new happiness and the immensity of my relief.

  Henry was as kind and considerate as ever, and I was gratified to detect a familiar luster in his eyes when he looked at me. I contrived ways to be in his company, hoping I might steal a few moments alone with him. I planned outings for the children, asked for his advice on writing poetry, and requested his thoughts on the new philosophers. I insisted that I needed his help on my shopping rounds on the Mill Dam so that my purchases might be safely carried home. I inquired about the details of his life at the pond. I drew him into discussions of gardening and philosophy, the sort we had previously enjoyed. He seemed as happy as ever to turn his mind down those familiar paths.

  Yet sometimes I sensed a hesitancy, a subtle diminution of attention when he listened to me, as if he were hearkening to a distant voice. I wondered if he were reliving his experiences in the woods—if his time there had transformed him in some enduring way.

  September was the loveliest of seasons in Concord—it combined the ripeness of late summer with the piquant tang of early fall. I found myself going outdoors often, even on days when household duties burdened me. I worked in my garden and took walks across the fields as Henry did, often stopping at Edmund Hosmer’s farm to share a cup of coffee with his wife and discuss our children’s constitutions.

  I BEGAN to wonder where Henry’s long afternoon rambles took him. I imagined that he might be on a round of appointments in the woodlots surrounding Concord—secretive meetings with shadowy figures. Then something happened that confirmed my suspicions.

  It was an afternoon in the last week of September, and I’d gone upstairs after dinner to rest while the children took their naps. It was warm and the sun had rolled across a hazy sky to the far side of the house, so my chamber was in shadows. The birds were always silent at this time of day, but as I lay there, I could hear the bristly murmur of bees at my window and the blows of Henry’s hammer. He had been repairing the house clapboards all morning. I thought of his callused fingertips and work-smoothed palms. I felt a wave of desire as I recalled how they had felt on my skin that November night in the barn four years before. I’d called him away from Walden Pond and he had come. This gave me a perverse and shameful comfort. I experienced the full gravity of womanly power.

  I heard the east door open and Mr. Emerson call Henry’s name. Then the sound of footsteps—my husband’s.

  “The summer house looks handsome enough in the shade of that chestnut,” Mr. Emerson said. His voice was quite clear—I realized he must be standing directly below my window. “As long as one is not too near.” He referred to the strange structure Bronson Alcott was building in the field east of the house. Mr. Emerson had wished for a simple shelter where he might sit and meditate in the gentle breezes of a warm afternoon. But Bronson was as fanciful in design as he was in conversation. The building was an arrangement of curving gables and beams, and appeared to always be on the verge of collapse.

  I heard Henry’s chuckle. “Today it cants east. Yesterday to the west. Who knows where it will lean tomorrow? Perhaps it will decide to walk to Boston.”

  Mr. Emerson laughed and then his voice turned somber. “You must keep me informed while I’m in Europe.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m depending on you to watch over my property and children. I know—” Mr. Emerson paused. “I must be candid with you, Henry.”

  “I hope you’re always candid with me.”

  “There’s the matter of Lidian.”

  I sat up abruptly and the left side of my cap twisted loose from its hairpin and hung askew. I fixed it quickly, and sat forward to get a clear view. The field was in shadow, but I could see the summer house roof—light brown against the darker land.

  “Yes, I’m aware of that,” Henry said.

  I saw my husband in my mind’s eye, his hands pushed down into his pockets, a trait he manifested when ill at ease. “As you know, it was her wish that you stay here while I’m gone. I myself didn’t think it the wisest course.”

  Henry was silent. My husband cleared his throat. “My station in life requires that I not look like a fool. Or that my wife appear to be a woman of low reputation.”

  “Lidian is not—”

  “No, hear me out. She’s an overly sensitive woman. She doesn’t master her passions well. You must watch out for her in many ways.” He paused. “Do you take my meaning?”

  There was another silence and then Henry said, in a cold voice, “I believe I do.”

  I touched my cap again, though it did not require further straightening. A cold sickness spread through my body.

  “Nor do I want her involved in this transport business of yours. I believe your cause is just, but it’s dangerous. If Lidian gets wind of your activity, you know as well as I do she’ll not stay out of it,” my husband said. “She’s like a snapping turtle—when she latches onto something she will not easily let go.”

  “I believe her tenacity could prove an asset to you,” Henry said, “if you’d allow her more influence.”

  “She influences me quite enough.” My husband’s tone was crisp. “What I would like is your word on this, Henry. Do I have that?”

  There was a short silence before Henry said, “Of course.”

  “Good. Now we’ll have no more of this conversation, my friend. I am content.”

  I lowered myself back onto the bed and stared up at a crack in the ceiling plaster that formed a V over Mr. Emerson’s pillow.

  MR. EMERSON LEFT for Europe on the fifth of October. It was a dark day, promising rain. As my husband boarded the packet ship Washington Irving, I stood beside Henry on the dock, our clothes whipping about us in the strong sea wind. I heard the slap of the tidewater as it sloshed against the pilings; the cries of seagulls sounded in my ears. My shawl sounded like a log crackling in the fire as it snapped repeatedly against the length of my back. The ship was a long, low vessel, painted black above the waterline, with cream molding along the plank sheer.

  Henry stared straight ahead, his left elbow lightly brushing my right. I knew he was as aware of me as I of him, for he shaped the motions of his body to mine, as if we were engaged in the patterns of a dance. A new burst of wind came off the water, carrying with it the stench of rotting fish. It swirled about me and lifted my hem like a fractious kitten so that I was forced to bend and soothe it.

  Mr. Emerson appeared on deck and leaned over the rail. I lifted my hand and waved; Henry did the same. After a moment, Mr. Emerson waved back. Then the anchor was weighed, and a noisy steam tug pushed the ship out of Boston Harbor without a sail being raised. I watched the packet grow small and black in the distance, until I could no longer be sure it was the ship I saw against the horizon or an errant wave. Not until long after it had disappeared did I turn away.

  WE FORMED a family—Henry and the children and I—not a common family but an ideal one, for there was a lively affinity and pleasant association whenever we were all together. Henry and I were true companions—united in a kinship that was rare even among married couples.

  Mother Emerson traveled to New York to stay with William’s family during my husband’s absence, and a new and happy ease entered my household routines. Henry assumed the role of father as if born to it. He was attentive, playful, and patient with the children. He was also demanding when the occasion warranted, and they obeyed him instantly if a certain tone came into his voice. I often watched him as he frolicked with Edward across the parlor carpet, and yearned to declare him Eddy’s proper father. Yet I curbed my tongue and contented myself with the pleasures of daily intimacy.

  One snowy winter evening Henry insisted we go coasting on Bristor’s Hill. He would allow no dissenters but bundled the children in their warmest coats and scarves, and insisted I do the same. H
e piled Ellen and Edith aboard our biggest sled while I drew Eddy on the small one, and we merrily set off. The moon was nearly full—it cast silver light everywhere, transforming the familiar trees and houses into fantastic fairyland castles.

  We coasted for nearly two hours, going up and down the broad white hill again and again while the moon climbed the sky and the stars glittered silently above our heads. It was not until Eddy’s spirits began to flag that I declared it was time to go home.

  When the children were safely tucked in bed, I went down to the kitchen, where I found Henry warming a pan of milk.

  “A good-night tonic,” he said, turning to smile at me over his shoulder. “You look as pink-cheeked as a schoolgirl!”

  He poured the milk into two bowls and we sat beside each other at the table and slowly drank it. The sweet milk warmed and calmed me, and a wave of sleepiness swept through me, so profound that I could not stifle a yawn. Henry chuckled as I set down my bowl and then startled me by covering my right hand with his. I looked at him and found him gazing back at me with a worshipful expression. In that moment, all the months of estrangement and uncertainty were swept away. I moved toward him at the same moment that he reached for me. He rose and gathered me into his arms in an embrace that was infinitely sweeter than I remembered. For several moments I was aware only of his scent and his strong hands moving over my back. Then virtue overtook me and I broke away. He blinked as a man does who steps suddenly from darkness into sunlight. I turned and fled to my chamber. My breath came in little gasps, my chest heaved, but whether it was from shame or bliss, I could not tell.

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Henry and Eddy built a snow cave in the garden. I watched from the window as first the children and then Henry crawled in and out. At twilight, I put on my shawl and went out to join them. My lamp cast petals of light onto the snow. I was entranced by the fantastical patterns.