Emily & Herman Page 3

  She inspected the small pink nubbly nipples upon her slight breasts, the perfect little “o” of her navel, the dark modest thatch of hair between her legs hiding a snug and oystery introitus. And she opined to herself that this is what women were. This is what they really looked like. So what was modesty? Men were muscular and hirsute with dangling things and women were curved and softer. None of the other animals, created each one by the same God Almighty as she, wore a strip of raiment and did not seem ashamed or any less noble for it. Little children were sometimes seen to run about undressed without exciting reprobation. And yet her clothing, worn each day since she could remember, covered virtually every bit of her, and were a button to be seen undone or the skirt of her dress inadvertently raised to show an ankle all manner of shame and disapproval would rain down upon her, not only from without but from within herself as well.

  She expected the bestial strangeness of copulation had much to do with it. For men and women married to copulate. No one spoke about it as such but everyone thought about it. All of the clothing and liturgical admonishments and the solemn duty to be with child came down with a mighty focus on what one saw dogs up to in alleyways.

  There she went, sinning again she was sure, just by entertaining such musings. But she could not resist. Resisting felt far stranger than looking straight and true. What went on within her head and heart was her own affair. It was only untoward and vulgar when spoken aloud or, worse still, actually engaged in! But what sort of Mighty God, fashioning creature after creature to live in abject naturality without a care in the world would then bestow upon His most beloved invention such strange restrictions and provisions for sin? She expected a bit of celestial humor at work.

  Then, in a darker hue, she recalled Austin’s doubts spoken to her just two evenings ago. They had been sitting on the porch after nightfall smelling the dampened summer pine, sipping currant wine, and counting fireflies.

  “I see mankind marshaled in mighty hosts,” he said, “yet under different banners, and marching on to the word of their several leaders, whom they believe, each his own, have received from the Omnipotent himself the true—and only true—chart of the route to knowledge, to happiness everlasting, and to him. And now new doubts encompass me, for if either, and only one, which is right?”

  She thought him to be at his most handsome when struggling with such concerns, ones she shared with herself in private, and which she knew he had attempted to share with Susan Gilbert and her sister only to be faced with an icy wave of rejection.

  “Go on,” was all she said to him as she enjoyed the motion provided by the rocking chair she sat in that only her father could occupy when at home.

  “I am besought on the one hand to join one standard and on the other, another—the advocates for the standard of the Cross appeal to me in the most solemn manner, as I value quiet from the gloomy doubts and fears within me—as I value perfect peace and happiness through a life eternal, in God’s name to join them, for so surely as God is God, all the rest are marching on to death and perdition—but when I survey their ranks, and observe their comparative thinness, I hesitate. I ask myself, Is it possible that God, all powerful, all wise, all benevolent, as I must believe him, could have created all these millions upon millions of human souls, only to destroy them? That he could have revealed himself and his ways to a chosen few, and left the rest to grovel on in utter darkness? I cannot believe it. I can only bow and pray and hope that He teaches what He will—for my obedience shall be my highest pleasure.”1

  “Surely one can entertain such well-reasoned doubts without resorting to such anguish Austin.”

  “My anguish comes from the reaction such thoughts incite in Sue.”

  “Then, if you love her, in any case, perhaps a vow of silence regarding these matters might not be too hard a sacrifice.”

  He had laughed at that.

  She pulled the plug of cork covering the drain and watched the water swirl away and when it was all gone she continued to lay there just a few moments more, her eyes closed in modesty, but enjoying the humid summer air wafting over her wet skin.

  In the Garden of Eden neither Adam nor Eve had felt any shame about their nakedness—until Eve ate an apple from the forbidden Tree of Knowledge and offered it to her mate. For this simple act, they were banished and condemned to know disease and mortality, and made to feel the shame she felt then, and they were branded with original sin, the curse of which would be passed along to all their progeny. Surely this was just a story, a child’s tale dreamt up long ago to explain the weight of woes besetting us.

  Then there was the element of the serpent, an apt symbol to toss into the mix. She remembered Milton’s line: “… Who first seduc’d them to that foul revolt? Th’ infernal Serpent; he it was, whose guile Stird up with Envy and Revenge, deceiv’d The Mother of Mankind…” But why was it the serpent had tempted Eve and not her mate? Surely t’was a man that penned the tale.

  She rose and reached for the linen towel and wrapped it about her and peered down to the yard in time to see two gentlemen dismounting by the picket fence. She did not recognize either one—friends of Austin’s she presumed. The older of the two looked the proper squire, distinguished and self-satisfied. The other sat his horse better and had a more relaxed demeanor—perhaps tentative might be a better word. It was as if one of them had already fixed his compass while the other was still searching.

  She dressed, returning to her natural unnatural state, and recalled the ending to Milton’s poem she had memorized during her last year at Mount Holyoke.

  “In either hand the hastning Angel caught

  Our lingring Parents, and to th’ Eastern Gate

  Led them direct, and down the Cliff as fast

  To the subjected Plaine; then disappeer’d.

  They looking back, all th’ Eastern side beheld

  Of Paradise, so late their happie seat,

  Wav’d over by that flaming Brand, the Gate

  With dreadful Faces throng’d and fierie Armes:

  Som natural tears they drop’d, but wip’d them

  soon; The World was all before them, where to

  choose Thir place of rest, and Providence thir

  guide: They hand in hand with wandring steps

  and slow, Through Eden took thir solitarie way.”

  1Taken and adapted from a letter written by Austin Dickinson to Martha Gilbert in 1862.

  4

  REFRESHED AND DRESSED IN WHITE, SHE DESCENDED THE stairs observing her brother Austin with the two riders now well inside their front hallway. Suddenly, all eyes turned upon her. Introductions were made—their surnames blazing into her like flaming arrows.

  Knocking a riding crop against his boot, Hawthorne kept his gaze upon Austin Dickinson. “Clearly I should have written first. I don’t know what possessed me not to do so?”

  “But then we would never have had the pleasure of making your company,” said Austin, smoothing back a lock of hair the way he did when he was agitated.

  “I propose your lack of correspondence to be a telling detail,” Emily said, looking at Hawthorne until he returned her gaze.

  “And what might that be?”

  “I believe it is known as ambivalence.”

  “About?”

  “Why would a man of your literary standing feel the need to impart lessons to students who’ve read little more than the Bible and The Pilgrim’s Progress?”

  “Precisely for that reason I should think.”

  “Well put,” she said, conceding with a blush.

  “Might you have any notion as to how long your father will be in New York before proceeding on to Washington?” Melville asked, unknowingly irked by this flirtation.

  “At least a fortnight. Of that I am certain,” said Austin Dickinson.

  “Well our next port of call is to be New York.”—then, looking at Hawthorne—“Perhaps you can make Mr. Dickinson’s acquaintance there.”

  “I will write to him straight a
way,” said Austin, standing a bit taller.

  “But perhaps we might all have some tea first,” Emily said, still looking at Hawthorne.

  “We’ve no intention of imposing upon you any more.”

  “Imposing?” questioned Emily. “I don’t think so. Your appearance here has made our afternoon I should think, no Austin?”

  “My sister is quite right. We insist you stay and rest a bit with us. We’ve the house to ourselves and know where all the better cakes are hidden.”

  Emily excused herself and put the kettle on the boil, gathered together cups, saucers, the sugar bowl and napkins, and arranged an assortment of sweet cakes made by the cook from a recipe that came from Emily’s beloved Aunt Lavinia. Then she joined the men in the parlor. Hawthorne was studying a shelf of books while addressing her brother.

  “So my name is known to you.”

  Austin nodded toward Melville. “Both your names.”

  Melville threw up his hands. “Readers! May Neptune bless you both.”

  The innocence in the remark led Emily to take stock of Melville. Though the older author was decidedly more distinguished in appearance and manner, and more classically handsome, there was a certain energy—and perhaps even a hint of impropriety—about the younger writer, twelve years older than she, that unsettled her. “I think I may speak for my brother,” she said, “in saying we are astonished at having you both here in our parlor.”

  “And honored,” added Austin.

  “Nonsense,” Melville replied, pleased and embarrassed and looking out the window in the manner of a man disinclined to suffer closed spaces. “We’re but scribblers, like the roaming troubadours of old, barely staying afloat. The honor is ours.”

  “Though not the astonishment,” Emily said with a smile.

  Melville smiled back looking at her directly for the first time. “That remains to be seen.”

  “My friend Mr. Melville exaggerates. Much more of a romantic than I, he chafes with more energy against the satisfactions of our actual state,” said Hawthorne checking the buttons of his waistcoat.

  “What state is that?” Austin asked.

  “We are husbands and fathers with small properties and smaller children. Our wilder days are most decidedly in the past.”

  “Is not there something wild about domesticity, lurking underneath?” asked Emily.

  “Not if I can help it, Lord no,” Hawthorne replied. “In order for me to go about my work what I most require is peace and tranquility.”

  “And you Mr. Melville?”

  “If I were to answer with honesty, I would say there is wild within all of us, lurking underneath as you say. It is perhaps our most irksome, mysterious and profound characteristic.”

  “You’ve a fine and proper library here. But I see no examples of either my nor Mr. Melville’s works,” said Hawthorne, peeved by Melville’s assertion. He succeeded in drawing Emily’s attention back to him.

  “Our father is a pious gentleman worried about the fate of our souls. You’ll find nothing bolder on public view than Professor Hitchcock’s Elementary Geology.”

  “We keep the stronger spirits locked under key,” said Austin, “above, within another, less-accessible chamber.”

  “I consider myself a good Christian,” Hawthorne went on. “What literary improprieties of mine merit such banishment?”

  “The passions and then the hanging of poor Hepzibah Pyncheon is a stronger draft than this parlor can sanction,” Emily answered, pleased with herself.

  Hawthorne furrowed his brow somewhat theatrically. “Is this a home then or a church?”

  “A bit of both at times,” said Austin, “though not today thanks to the absence of the Abbot and Prioress.”

  “Your most recent work, in my humble opinion, is your best. The Scarlet Letter is a masterpiece,” Emily said, feeling foolish as she heard it leave her lips.

  “I do thank you for that, but all this time I thought we were in Amherst, not Salem.”

  “In Amherst there are more ministers of the cloth per square yard than in any other township.”

  “Melville here is finishing a work of biblical proportions that smells of hellfire itself.”

  “Pray tell,” said Austin.

  “I do not agree with my mentor’s critique.”

  “Is he your mentor?” Emily asked.

  “He has been a most helpful reader and influence.”

  “I at least believe in Redemption,” said Hawthorne. “Herman doubts the very fabric of the firmament.”

  “What sort of name is Herman?” Emily asked him with a smile.

  “A very silly one I’m afraid. It’s an old German or Norman name meaning ‘soldier’ or some such thing. In French I’m told it’s Armand.”

  “Armand Melville. Much better,” said Hawthorne.

  “Does he always tease you like this?” Emily asked, while glancing at Hawthorne.

  “He’s just irked that I have almost finished my book while he is still in the middle of his next.”

  “Now that is true,” Hawthorne said, liking the way this sounded.

  “And what is your book about Mr. Melville?” asked Austin. “Could you tell us just a little?”

  “I would not know where to begin.”

  Emily noticed the discomfort once again that was not entirely modesty but something else.

  “It’s about a whale,” Hawthorne said. “A great white behemoth that could be the devil, or the Great Almighty.”

  “An allegory,” Austin suggested.

  “No. Just a sea table,” said Melville. “And factual at that.” factual at that.”

  “Sea tale he says. They’ll be using it as kindling in Salem to burn its unfortunate readers,” said Hawthorne patting his friend on the back a bit harder than was called for.

  It was after tea and out on the porch when Emily mentioned that she had only been to Boston once and never to New York’s city. Melville, entranced by the young girl’s wit, and Hawthorne, flattered by her reverence, immediately invited brother and sister to accompany them on their journey. Thus began an animated conversation of parries and thrusts, feints and retreats, protests and reconsiderations. In the end, it was an ulterior motive of her brother’s that led him to convince her to say yes. Unbeknownst to Emily, Austin’s official girl, Susan Gilbert, had a rival, a fellow teacher called Fiona Flanagan who was summering with her modest relations in the town of Fall River. He invented an excuse that would induce their party to reach New York by way of Boston, rather than heading back west. From there, the most agreeable way of making the journey would be via train from Boston to Fall River, where the Bay State Steamboat line had its main port of call. The two writers were amenable to this plan, as they too had friends and family in Boston.

  For her part, Emily chose to overcome her somewhat exaggerated preference for remaining in Amherst after quickly surmising that only good could come from her association with two such published men. It was her most fond wish to someday enter their world, if only in a most tangential manner. She also supposed a visit to New York was bound to happen anyway and why not get it over with now in the company of the man she felt closest to, her brother, and these other two gentlemen chaperones who embodied such depth and experience. The only other time she had been to Boston was as a girl in her teens, sent there to stay with friends to recuperate from a nervous relapse, and thus, she looked forward to replacing that memory with another.

  Melville and Hawthorne bid them adieu and went on their way to stay at an inn the siblings recommended and where they could leave their horses for the duration. Austin and his sister set about composing and dispatching letters to both their parents presenting the most unassailable justifications they could think of. They all agreed to meet for an early breakfast at the Dickinson house.

  At the inn that evening, over a meal of ham and ale, Hawthorne and Melville entertained second thoughts.

  “I’m not entirely sure what it is we have gotten ourselves into,” Hawthorne s
aid, lighting a pipe. “The household’s head might not take kindly to our magnanimous offer.”

  “They are both of age and certainly know their parents better than we,” Melville said chewing on a stubborn piece of gristle.

  “I’m certainly in no rush to pass this development on to Sophia, even though my intentions could not be more benign nor gentlemanly.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m in agrement.”

  “Well, then there you have it! What are we getting ourselves into, man, that we cannot share it with our beloved spouses?”

  Melville only smiled and patted his friend on the shoulder.

  In bed that night, while waiting for sleep, Emily felt an unsettling agitation within, conflicting currents of excitement and regret moving upon a sea of nostalgia for the home she would be leaving tomorrow. This happened to her each time she went away, even to places as close as Mt. Holyoke in South Hadley where she had gone to school. She did not understand it very well, nor had she much desire to investigate, for the truth was that part of it was pleasurable. The dread was real, but so was the acute awareness of time and place that threatened to break her heart with emotions tangled about where she was and what she possessed. The bed she slept in, the embroidered edges of the pillowcases, her nightgown mother had bought, the solid wooden floor, the oval rug, her writing desk, her things in the closet, all of it there with her now neat and orderly and where they should be. The view out the window of the swaying trees and the cricket sounds. There was a violence to leaving that never ceased to impress her. She was already agonizing over the moment tomorrow morning when she would close the door to this room behind her, knowing how she would try to trick herself into not studying it too carefully before doing so and knowing herself incapable of doing otherwise—that she would look at each and every thing as if it might be for the last time. This reflection led to another she obsessively savored as well. That her room and all of her things placed within it, the house itself and all of its furnishings, the dust resting upon the attic floor, the wax topped jars of blueberry preserves stacked upon the pantry shelf, would remain while she was away, absolutely still, there, whether looked upon by her eyes or not, just in the same way they do when someone dies. And just as sleep began to overtake her, wading through the hazy stream separating consciousness from its darker twin, she remembered all the efforts her grandfather had expended for Amherst and his family, and thanks to which she lay there so safe and surrounded by all that vibrated in consonance with her surname, and then how he had died so far away from home. It sent a shiver through her heart.