Emily & Herman Page 9

  “Suitable in what way, Herman?”

  “Handsome, amusing, well-read, eligible.”

  “In that order?”

  “In that order.”

  “Miss Dickinson, what have you to say to such a list?”

  “Tiz not a bad one, although I think my dear mother and father would prefer his state of eligibility to occupy the first place on it.”

  “Well said. And why not add ‘of independent means’?”

  “Why not?”

  Emily sensed that the amiable, conspiratorial tone Sarah Morewood was using with her was entirely due to the woman’s regard for Melville. The socialite’s red hair and blue eyes, her fair skin and enviable poitrine, her double strand of pearls and the yards of salmon-hued silk used to fashion her gown all contributed to making Emily feel like the woman’s housemaid in comparison.

  “What about this ‘well-read’ part?” she asked, grabbing Emily’s forearm as if they were practically sisters. “Does that mean you are well-read yourself?”

  “Mr. Melville exaggerates.”

  “You know very well that I do not,” he said. And the way he said it, the tension in his voice reflecting a stratagem of dissimulation put Sarah Morewood ever so subtlety on notice.

  A waiter appeared with a tray of champagne flutes filled to the top. They all took one. Sarah clinked her glass with Emily’s.

  “As Madame Pomadour was famous for saying, ‘Champagne is the only wine that enhances a woman’s beauty.’”

  “Then I shall drink much of it,” said Emily.

  “Nonsense,” said Melville. “Neither of you are in need of any further development in that department.”

  “What a gallant thing to say Herman—though you are blushing! How divine!”

  In an attempt to try to draw attention away from his distress Emily only made things worse.

  “Madame Pompadour?”

  Sarah looked right at her with a sparkle in her eye. “She was the mistress of Louis the XV of France.”

  Looking to be meddlesome Sarah sat Emily between Melville and a deaf dowager. The Spanish duchess sat between John Morewood and Austin. After dedicating an obligatory five minutes of boring banter to her, the socially awkward Morewood spent the remainder of the meal talking business and real estate with the older males closest to him. This provided the belle from Andalusia free rein with the son of Amherst.

  “I think teaching young unfortunate boys is a fascinating thing to do. It is a noble and charitable act.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutamente. But what do you do for amusement?”

  “Amusement is frowned upon in Massachusetts.”

  She laughed at this, placing one of her hands upon his forearm as she did so.

  “But, you do not share this point of view, do you?”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “Oh no. I can tell. You put up a good and proper facade, but inside, and when you can, the real you is quite different.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Because I am like this as well. I recognized a kindred spirit the second you walked in the door.”

  “Kindred spirit—a duchess from Spain and a humble school teacher from New England?”

  “What difference does that make? Six generations ago my family were herding sheep. Besides, I have come to your country to escape all of the pomp and circumstance I grew up with—I am looking for new experiences in a new world.”

  “What sort of experiences?”

  Their eyes locked. The not unpleasant tension between them was relieved only when she looked down and smiled.

  True to her word Emily did imbibe a more than healthy quantity of champagne. Virtually everyone around her did. And now they were drinking a burgundy to accompany lamb stew. All of it was contributing to a general erosion of inhibition and Melville felt less and less inclined to maintain his guard. He leaned over to her and spoke in a whisper.

  “I cannot stop thinking about this morning … on the steamer.”

  Her eyes widened and with her head she gestured toward the woman seated next to her. “Mr. Melville.”

  “Don’t worry about her. Mrs. Vanderhoven is as deaf as a post. And please call me Herman.”

  “I shall call you ‘Armando,’ seeing as how I am soon to have someone called ‘Maria Luisa’ for a sister-in-law.”

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Of course. But tell me something. Is Mr. Hawthorne really indisposed—or is it something else?”

  “Something else of course.”

  “I can only imagine what he may have said to you.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “Have you considered that perhaps he is in the right?”

  “I have considered nothing else. I go over and over it all, considering ‘everyone,’ but my heart, for better or worse, is as attentive to it as Mrs. Vanderhoven’s ear.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “I would never compromise you.”

  She looked into his eyes, as if searching for something, “Quote me something else from your whale book. You’ve no idea how much I yearn to read it.”

  He swallowed his happiness, gave it a thought, and cleared his throat. “There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange and mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, though the wit thereof he but dimly discerns, and more than suspects that the joke is at nobody’s expense but his own.”

  “Are you engaged to anyone?” the duchess asked Austin.

  “In a manner of speaking,” he replied, finishing his wine and feeling himself to be perhaps the most cosmopolitan and sophisticated swain within a thousand miles.

  “I shall take that as a ‘no.’ You are not in love with her ne c’est pa? Is there someone else?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “I shall take that as a ‘yes’! This is the one you feel things for. Do tell. And you are forbidden to answer ‘in a manner of speaking’—a most absurd expression.”

  “Yes, there is someone else. But she is inappropriate … for my family.”

  “What did I tell you—we are kindred spirits. What is ‘wrong’ with her? Is she black?”

  “No!”

  “An Indian Squaw?”

  “No.”

  “Is she a he?”

  “No!”

  “Then?”

  “She’s Irish.”

  “How would you describe the joke made at your expense?” asked Emily, beginning to entertain some doubt as to whether she would be to stand properly once the desserts were cleared. She took one last sip of the Sauterne, a wine theretofore unknown to her and which she found sublime.

  “Apart from life itself?…” Out of habit Melville checked his beard for debris and shot a glance over at Sarah who had spent a good deal of the dinner finding excuses to lean forward in his direction revealing the inviting valley between her breasts. It occurred to him that perhaps her possible encouragement of his dalliance had a hidden motive. Then he looked down toward the table’s other extreme where to his continuing astonishment Austin Dickinson still dominated the attentions of the Iberian aristocrat who’s beauty he could admire but for whom he felt only negligible attraction. But observing her did dislodge the memory that his father had once visited Spain, before he ever met his mother. And once again he concurred with himself that our fathers are mysteries “as I shall be for Malcolm.” It seemed to be a rule of nature. “… As you can see Emily I am waxing profound tonight, profundity being another word in this instance for blathering.”

  “Not at all. I could listen to you blather for a very long time, Armando.”

  When the guests and their hosts retired to the library for coffees and liqueurs while the servants removed the last plates from the dinner table, Maria Luisa and Austin repaired to a stone bench placed by the reflecting pool. Some of the trout, sensing their proximity, stirred and Austin could almost feel their pent up energy in the dark shallow
water.

  “You cannot marry a woman you do not love, Austin, a woman you have no desire for. I had a marriage like that and wasted almost ten precious years of my life.”

  “It is not that simple.”

  “That is how it seems to you now—but yes it is that simple.”

  “I am not sure if I wish to marry Fiona either.”

  “You must break off both engagements and come to Europe for at least a year.”

  “And what shall I live on?”

  “You can live with me—in London and in Paris and in Madrid. You will be my dear cousin, or my tutor, that way I can pay you to help me with my English and the sciences and I shall introduce you to the most fascinating young women on the continent.”

  “You must not jest with a poor boy from Massachusetts.”

  “I love that word.”

  “Which?”

  “Mass-a-chu-setts. And my offer is entirely serious. I am so very bored now that I am a widow—bored and relieved—and I just know we would amuse each other to no end.”

  “I do not know what to say madam.”

  “Yes will do. I sail tomorrow but I shall give you my card before this evening ends so that you can write to me to say when you are arriving.”

  “Arriving where?”

  “London. I shall be there until the end of September.”

  “You astonish me.”

  “Promise me you will.”

  “Dear woman …”

  Austin came into the library and approached Emily in an altered state. He did his best to ignore the many stares aimed his way as he corralled his sister into a private corner and got straight to the point. “Don’t say anything. And please don’t ask any questions. Just listen.” He then proceeded to relate the extraordinary offer the duchess had made to him. When she reacted as anyone might, his face reddened and he exclaimed, “It is fate, Emily, my fate, this trip to New York, this dinner, walking into this house this evening and meeting this person. It is a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

  “What about Sue? What about Fiona?”

  “I have already made up my mind to return home tomorrow, by way of Fall River, and I shall speak to both of them, freeing them of any compromise of any sort.”

  “Are you sure Austin? I know how you can be sometimes.”

  “I have never been so sure of anything in my entire life.”

  Shortly thereafter Maria Luisa gave her card to Austin and then said goodnight to all, begging their pardon and proffering the legitimate excuse of an early departure the following day. As Austin lingered behind to have a few more words with his new patroness, Melville and Emily went about making their farewells to the Morewoods, Melville feigning an obligation to see the siblings back to their hotel. The communal level of inebriation was such that no one seemed to notice.

  Waiting for their carriage out front, and for Austin to appear, Emily told Melville what had happened. She was fighting tears.

  He spoke her name. He said it with tenderness. She tuned to face him. “I cannot believe it.”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  She looked off to the side, not yet willing to admit his opinion.

  “These things happen to young men.”

  “These things.”

  “Adventures. They all add up and impart character over time. The only unusual thing in this instance is that you, his sister, are bearing witness to it.”

  “There is nothing ‘usual’ about that most singular woman.”

  “On that point I am in agreement. But he will be fine. I’m sure of it. Who knows if he shall actually follow through with it? When I left home, for a much longer period of time, enmeshed in an enterprise far more perilous, no one from my family was there to see it.”

  “I wish I had never left Amherst. That we had both stayed behind.”

  “Do you really?”

  She turned away from him once more. He stood there by the carriage, its driver still awaiting direction. The horse stamped its right front hoof upon the hardened earth of the deserted street.

  “It has been a long day,” he said.

  “I am not in the least bit tired,” she said. “I suppose it must be the coffee after all that wine.”

  “All right,” he said. “… Well … There is always the Oyster House that fellow Whitman mentioned. It’s close by.”

  “Yes,” she said, shrugging her girlish shoulders, “Why not? In for a penny … Let me go back in and see what’s keeping him.”

  Some minutes later the three of them entered the establishment. Numerous carriages were parked out front and a golden light given off from a score of crystal chandeliers gave the place an inviting glow. A long bar ran down one side, a large section of which was reserved for waiters shucking hills of oysters. Behind them was a line of mirrors, baskets of lemons, and damp crates filled with finely chiseled ice. The rest of the room was a sea of round tables and booths packed at that hour with a decidedly wealthy and successful looking clientele.

  “How extraordinary,” said Emily. Her spirits seemed to rise the instant they came in through heavy doors of leaded beveled glass. Austin, feeling almost sinful for merely being there, took in the magical aura of the space and claimed it as yet another sign of how his life must change.

  “Welcome to New York,” said Melville, relieved to see Emily smile again and feeling a glimmer of gratuitous pride about his native town that had such cosmopolitan eateries hidden about and going full tilt at such an hour.

  They found Whitman at a corner table near the kitchen conspiring with a serious looking, well-attired black man approximately Whitman and Melville’s age. This gentleman, who was facing the establishment’s entrance, rose as he realized Melville and the Dickinsons were headed to the table. Whitman turned around and then stood just as they arrived.

  “Mr. Whitman,” Melville said.

  “Mr. Melville, Mister Dickinson, Miss Dickinson. What a pleasant surprise. I did not think for a minute you might actually consider my invitation.”

  “Our dinner party has put us into a bit of a state and we decided that we were in need of a change of air before retiring.”

  “You have come to the right address. May I present Mr. Thomas Downing whose father owns this fine saloon. Thomas, this is Herman Melville, Miss Emily Dickinson, and her brother Austin.”

  Downing shook hands with the two men and made to kiss Emily’s saying, “Enchanté.”

  She had never met a gentleman of color before.

  “How do you do?”

  “I don’t actually speak French but I find a few random phrases impress the ladies.”

  “Most impressive,” she said, blushing.

  “Are you Melville the writer, sir?”

  “I am.”

  “I am a devoted reader of your books.”

  “I am very pleased to learn that, Mr. Downing.”

  “The first two dozen oysters and a bottle of French white wine I highly recommend are on the house.”

  “That’s very kind. Thank you.”

  “I must continue to circulate.” Then, turning to Whitman, “You won’t forget our chat, Walter.”

  “How could I?”

  Just as Thomas Downing was taking his leave, the kitchen doors opened and his father, the distinguished proprietor, George Downing, appeared. Introductions were repeated all around. Melville noticed how the elder man offered a particularly warm handshake to Whitman.

  “I would be very pleased to stay and converse with such an artistic circle, but I need to go. We don’t get enough of your kind in here and the place is in need of you. Although I shouldn’t complain too much because my normal clientele keeps things profitable.”

  “What sort of people are they?” asked Emily. The answer to this question had already been provided by Whitman hours earlier but she was so entranced with the elder Mr. Downing’s sonorous voice and exquisite manner that she wished to try to prolong his presence there.

  “Lots of politicians, mostly the corrupt ones who’
ve got all our money! And men of business, ‘entrepreneurs’ as some of them like to be called, whose intake of spirits is in direct proportion to their profound boredom with what it is they do all day.”

  “Good gracious.”

  “I must be on my way. I row out each night at this hour to meet the dredging skipjacks before they reach and unload at the barges, to make sure we only obtain the very best they have.”

  “You row out into the harbor at night sir?” Austin asked him.

  “A strong young man does the rowing now, like Thomas here used to once upon a time.”

  “I am mightily impressed,” Austin replied.

  “As a boy,” Melville said for the second time that day, reiterated now for Emily’s benefit, “I would dive for them off Whitehall Slip. The river was clear and clean then.”

  “I’ll be. Thomas, make sure this man and this table’s orders go on the house!”

  “I’ve already invited them, father.”

  The oysters and two bottles of Muscadet arrived in less than a minute.

  “When are you all returning to the North Country?” asked Whitman serving the wine.

  “Sometime tomorrow or the next day I expect, no, Emily?”

  “Yes. Tomorrow would be better. I’d worry less about getting back on time.”

  “Tomorrow it is then. I’m not sure what Nathaniel’s plans will be.”

  “I’d like to make a suggestion if you don’t mind,” said Whitman.

  “Not at all.”

  “Rather than take the steamship again, why not try a new route provided by the Long Island Railroad. Have you done that yet?”

  “No sir. I usually go up the Hudson, or go by train to Albany, which is considerably closer to home than Boston.”

  “I strongly recommend it, especially if you have never seen Long Island, Miss Dickinson. One leaves from Brooklyn and goes all the way out to Greenport on the North Fork, which is a swell place to picnic this time of year. And from there, a steamer ferry takes you to New London, Connecticut, where there are trains to Boston, and perhaps to other Massachusetts towns as well.”

  “Actually, New London does have good transport to Amherst and Northampton, I believe. What do you think, Emily? Do you have any special interest in passing through Fall River again?”