Thoreau in Love (20 page)

And what would I do if Ben were beside me? Would I feel trapped? Would I worry that he’d tell everyone? Would he kneel before me like he did on
Dahlia
?

Feeling a cough coming on, Henry sat back. He coughed, then read what he’d written, smiled. “Now I’ve said what I wanted to say.” He coughed deeply. And then continued scratching with his pen, telling Stearns his fears as well as his joys. Still coughing, he went to bed and slept fitfully, waking several times in a sweat.

The next morning, because he didn’t want anyone peeking into his letter to Stearns, he asked William for one of his envelopes, which were rare and expensive. Just after Henry arrived in Staten Island, William, in a blush of generosity and to show off his wealth, had shown Henry his stash of envelopes, and said that whenever he needed one to let him know. Postage was unnecessary, as the judge had franking privileges, and he gladly paid for the luxury and status of having mail picked up and delivered at home. Henry inserted the letter, melted wax and secured the flap with his seal, hoping that Mr. Emerson would not break it in order to read his letter.

He needn’t have worried. Laughing good-naturedly, William said, “I trust the postman will be able to decipher your scrawl, Henry. I can’t make out a single word.”

10

Dinner with the Staten Island Emersons was nothing like the mealtimes in Concord. In Concord there was excitement, the world alive with possibilities, people arguing their solutions, people actually having solutions. In Staten Island, the world seemed a distant place. Susan spent much of her time trying to please her husband, but, as Henry quickly surmised, no one could please William Emerson, Esquire. Nothing was ever quite right for him. The potatoes were too mushy or not quite mushy enough. The napkins were not ironed properly. The children did not pay enough attention, and when they did, they weren’t listening properly. Annoying Henry no end, William insisted on calling his younger brother Ralph, or Ralphie. In Concord, Emerson was Waldo—or Wallie, as Margaret Fuller endearingly called him—but never Ralph and certainly not Ralphie.

This night William wouldn’t stop. After the sixth or seventh mention of Ralphie, Henry said, “His name is Waldo.”

Filled fork halfway to his mouth, William stopped midair. “What did you say?” He glared at Henry, his cold eyes darkening.

“I believe he’s gone by Waldo for the past fifteen or twenty years.”

“His given name is Ralph,” said William, his mouth tight. “My father called him Ralph, and I grew up calling him Ralph. I’m not going to stop now.”

“Even though he dislikes being called Ralph? And disliked your father enough to change it to Waldo the moment he could?”

“My father was a wonderful man.”

“I’m not saying he wasn’t. All I’m saying is that your brother prefers to be called Waldo, just as I prefer to be called Henry.” Henry took a bite of his potato.

“Henry is your name.”

Swallowed. “My given name is David. David Henry. I prefer Henry David.”

“Then I shall begin to call you David.”

“And you shall find that I do not answer.”

“He’s joking,” said Susan.

“I am not joking,” said William.

“Neither am I,” said Henry.

“Believe me, Henry, it’s one of William’s jests.”

Henry glared at William, whose tight lips curved into a grim smile.

“Had you there, didn’t I, David? Excuse me. Henry.”

They all laughed, but Henry kept his guard. He wasn’t surprised when, a few minutes later, William said off-handedly, “Who among us has the right to change his name?”

“To my mind,” said Henry, “any one of us may change our name. Isn’t change what this country’s about? Throwing off the old regime? If you don’t like your given name, why keep it? And now, if you’ll pardon me, I’m going to my room.”

That night, using just the light of the full moon shining on his small desk, Henry wrote into the night, determined to finish his “Winter Walk.” In dredging his mind and his notes and actually putting words to paper he forgot all about Ben and his miserable Staten Island future. His writing, he realized, was his escape. Being alone in the night with only the moon and his writings energized him. He looked out at the beautiful, crisp moon shadows. “I’m not going to fall into having the values of these small-minded Emersons.”

The next morning as William was about to leave for work, he said, “Henry, I want you to be more forceful with the children.”

“Forceful? Are you telling me to beat them?”

“Be more of a man.”

“Men don’t beat children in my book,” said Henry.

William balled his fists in frustration.

Henry went on. “Did you and Waldo really grow up in the same household?”

“Ralph and I were disciplined.”

“Waldo says tortured.”

“Waldo, as you insist on calling him, was not tortured.”

“Your father dropped him into the icy ocean when he was five. He turned blue. You must remember, since you stood there laughing.”

“He learned to swim that way. As did I.” William glared at Henry. “This is my house, and you’ll do as I say. I want you to discipline the children.”

“If you really wish me to beat your children, I shall.” William stopped in his tracks. Smiled to say, I’ve won. And Henry went on, “As long as I may beat you when I consider your behavior offensive.”

“Bah!” said William as he strode down the front path to the gate. The stage arrived, and William got on without turning back. Susan said, “Well done, Henry.”

Shaking with anger, Henry said, “He’ll drive me insane. He lives what he thinks a man’s life should be, instead of just being a man. I’m not going to hit your children.”

“I wouldn’t want you to.” Henry was flustered. He wanted to scream and run out of the house. Susan gently took his arm. “You know it’s not true, don’t you?”

“What?”

“What he said last night about his father. He won’t let the boys near the water because he so hates how his father taught them to swim.”

“Truly?”

“He did the same to William as he did to Waldo: dropped him off a dock into the icy ocean in June.”

“So why does he defend him?”

Susan shrugged. “He’s all bluster. He hated his father. Tells me often that he doesn’t want his children tortured the way he and Waldo were. But not a word, Henry. Not a word.”

“Not a word. I swear,” said Henry. “But the man just came up in my estimation.”

In lessons that morning, as Willie and Haven worked on their drawings, Henry wrote again to Stearns, his only real confidant:

I am about to burst. I feel like the woodchuck, whom all in these parts condemn for tunneling under gardens, because that is what it has always done. Walls collapse not because it wants them to, but because it digs tunnels beneath them. I do not will these feelings for Ben that rise in me. Even when I try to ignore them or think other thoughts, they are there or leave for a moment, only to return more vividly. They rise on their own, out of my innermost being. Naturally. And though these kinds of feelings are condemned by all, aren’t they just as natural as the doings of the woodchuck? Or, more to the point, as the feelings of other young men for what they call the fairer sex? If I am a man, then aren’t these the natural feelings of man. Yes they’re condemned by the small-minded; but is that condemnation or commendation?

You often exclaimed about the Indians and how they had totally different ‘values.’ The Indians valued people the rest of the world condemned, consecrated them in fact. Why hasn’t Ben written? He knows I’ll pay the postage, or rather, that the Emersons will pay
.

Margaret Fuller’s words came back: It’s a love poem to a boy.

“Yes, Margaret, it is,” said Henry, causing the boys to look up. But Henry didn’t notice. He was writing to Stearns.

My heart aches. Was I just nothing for him, a shipboard romance? Will I ever see him again? On a brighter note, did I ever tell you what Margaret Fuller said about my poem ‘Sympathy’?

Over the next few days, Henry’s cough worsened and he became feverish, with wild dreams whenever he dozed off. Often in these dreams Henry thought Ben was beside him and they were making love, and when he woke and discovered it was just a dream, he collapsed in misery and fell deeper into fever, waking at one point with a realization: “Oh my God, I gave him ‘Winter’s Walk.’ He hated it. That’s why he hasn’t written. Oh, Lord, that’s it, isn’t it.” And once again he fell into fever. A day later, after delirious, horrible dreams of Margaret and Waldo and Ben tramping through the ice and snow, dismissively saying, ‘This is what he’s writing about?’ and ‘What in the Lord’s name is he trying to say?’ and ‘Why doesn’t he just get a real job?’ his fever broke a bit. And after thinking about Ben and ‘Winter’s Walk,’ Henry lit up. “No, it wasn’t ‘Winter’s Walk.’ ‘The Landlord.’ That’s what I gave him.” And saying that, he lay his head on his pillow, smiled and passed out.

The next day Henry awoke with pains of emptiness in his stomach, though he was sure it wasn’t so much a lack of food as a lack of the sustenance Ben had given him and which he’d so quickly gotten used to. With Ben I felt whole. I didn’t worry so much about my future. I didn’t worry about anything. He was sure Ben was surrounded by admirers, while he suffered alone in his prison cell of a room, comforted only by fevered dreams of Ben, and by the blushing Mary, who brought him fresh water and soup and soda biscuits.

When the fever finally broke, Henry returned to his routine. One evening, William having retreated into his excellent library, Henry sat in the parlor with Susan looking through the newspapers William had brought home from the office. Henry discovered the Shipping News, which listed every vessel arriving and departing the port. He scanned the list for
Dahlia
. No ship by that name had arrived, and, thank God, none had departed. That would be the worst, thought Henry, to see that
Dahlia
had departed with no word from Ben.

“The Irish are ruining this city,” said Susan. “There was another murder last night in Five Points.”

“My paper has nothing about it,” said Henry. “May I see yours when you’re finished?”

Susan handed him the paper, saying, “I’m finished.” Henry skimmed the story. “Little Water Street,” he said. “That’s where they found the body?”

“Naked no less,” said Susan. “It’s unacceptable. It wasn’t like this until the Irish arrived. I wish they’d all go back where they came from.”

“But Mary’s Irish, Alice too,” said Henry. “You’d rather they weren’t here?”

“Mary and Alice are different.”

“Because they make your life easier?”

“Henry, you know the Irish are horrid.”

“The ones I’ve met seemed pleasant enough.”

“Are you referring to Ben?”

So she did remember his name. Smiling, he said, “Ben is English,” and went back to his paper. He’d been thinking of the youth he’d met on the road his first day on Staten Island. Picturing him now, Henry found himself stiffening in his trousers.

“You ought to start thinking of a career, Henry. Without prospects you’ll have no chance if the right girl happens along.”

Henry refolded the newspaper and put it down. “How can I have a career when I’m engaged to teach Haven and Willie for the next year? At any rate, I sent one piece off to the
Democratic
Review
; I plan to see Horace Greeley sometime in the next week. And Waldo has given me a reference to
Brother Jonathan
. Don’t worry about me. But what about you, Susan? Don’t you miss playing the piano?”

“If a tree falls in the forest. . . ? Do you think, because you haven’t heard me, that I haven’t been playing? I’ve been practicing that piece I received in the mail.”

“The one from Germany?”

“Yes. For more than a week now. I wait till you go out for your walk.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Henry, happily outdone. “Will you play it for me?”

“Tomorrow, perhaps, after William leaves. He can’t stand my practicing.”

The next day it rained, so after lessons while Susan practiced Henry listened from the other room and taught the boys to make newspaper hats. Hearing the piece in fits and starts, he couldn’t decide if he liked it or not, but the more Susan played, the more he liked what he heard. It’s Promethean, he thought. When Susan seemed to take a break, Henry and the boys proudly high-stepped into the parlor, wearing their newspaper hats. Susan laid into a spirited march, and round and round they went. Haven held up a fourth hat, and Susan said, “Is that for me?” Haven nodded gleefully and put the hat on his mother’s head.

“I want to march too,” said Susan.

“You can’t march,” Willie objected. “You’re a girl.”

“If I wish to march,” said Susan, rising from her piano seat, “I shall march.”

And march she did, leading a squad of one until Henry stepped in behind her, and then Haven, and finally Willie. They marched through the house, improvising their own music, until they returned to the parlor and collapsed in laughter on the Turkey carpet.

When the laughter died down, Henry asked if the mail had arrived yet.

“Are you expecting a letter?”

“From my friend Stearns,” said Henry, immediately feeling caught and wondering why he didn’t have the courage to tell the rude truth. “Or, I thought Ben might write.”

11

Overnight the kitchen garden had come into fruit. After a breakfast of just-picked strawberries and thick cream, bread fresh from the Dutch oven and a chunk of farmer cheese, Henry and the boys went into the schoolroom. As always, they began with Latin. “Do you remember what we learned yesterday? Master Willie?”

Willie stood, thought a moment and said slowly, “
Agricola, agricolae
, feminine, farmer.”

“Excellent,” said Henry, genuinely thrilled. “And the word for sailor is what?”

“I know, I know,” said Haven.

“Nota,” said Willie quickly.

“That was mine,” said Haven.

“Boys,” said Henry sternly. “The word for sailor is
nauta
. After me, now-ta.”

Though quietly despairing that he’d never again see Ben, Henry appeared to the Emersons to be happily adjusting to his new life. With Susan and Mary and the boys, he picked a peck of the ripest strawberries, which Mary and Susan then made into jam and put up in jars. He tutored the boys, he walked, he read. And listened several hours a day as Susan practiced the difficult piano piece she’d received in the mail, by the bright young German composer Richard Wagner, which every day excited Henry more.