Thoreau in Love (21 page)

Susan understood how much practice was needed to master the piece. She’d started playing when she was six. Her dream growing up was to study in Europe, and she’d fallen for William not only because of his raptor good-looks and inquisitive mind, but also because he’d lived and studied in Germany, where the “New Learning” was in full flower. Little did she think she’d end up on this island William liked to say was a playground for the rich, which Susan knew was mostly a lie. Yes, the rich still had summer houses there, but they’d mostly taken to crossing the Atlantic on swift steamships for their play, leaving Staten Island to the scavengers, the oystermen and ancient seamen. As well as immigrants suspected of contagion.

One afternoon as Susan practiced her piano, Madame Grymes, one of the few people on the island whose company she enjoyed, made an unscheduled visit. After first saying, “Your hollyhocks are so beautiful. I would mine looked as good,” she asked who the expert pianist was, saying she hadn’t heard such playing since she’d lived in New Orleans. With flattery and willfulness, Madame Grymes, who seemed to Henry a voluptuous gypsy, insisted that Susan perform the piece she’d been practicing, and before Susan could put up a fight, Madame Grymes had decided that Susan would give a recital. After Madame Grymes left, Susan went into a quiet fury, saying she could not and would not perform before her neighbors, but as Henry reminded her, she’d already said that she would.

“It’s nowhere near ready. I’m nowhere near ready,” said Susan, terrified.

“Is any performer ever ready?” asked Henry.

“Yes, yes. They are, and I am not.”

“But I’m sure you will be. It’s not a concert hall. It’s a recital, for neighbors and friends.”

When William heard about Susan’s afternoon recital, he became enraged that an engagement had been arranged without his knowledge or input—until Susan let on that Madame Grymes had talked her into it and she would rather not perform, at which point he decided that they should make an evening of it, invite lots of people, make it a full-scale musicale.

Susan’s terror turned to excitement as she gained more command over the piece, and her excitement was infectious, so much so that in the days leading up to the musicale, Henry actually had moments when he forgot how much he missed Ben. To allay Susan’s anxiety about her first performance since before her marriage, Henry and the boys sat in the parlor while she practiced. Like his father, Willie hated having to sit while his mother played, but for Haven it was heavenly, being able to curl up on one of the upholstered chairs to watch and hear his mother play.

Early on the morning of the musicale, the stern woman William had engaged arrived with four Irish girls to help out for the day. Immediately they turned the house upside down, removing rugs and beating them clean, clearing corners of dust and cobwebs, washing the wood floors with pine oil, baking breads and cakes, picking berries, polishing silver, slicing cheeses and meats and preparing sandwiches. The piano tuner arrived, performed his magic and disappeared, and the Irish maids returned the rugs to their proper floors, set out platters and arranged the parlor for the recital, which would be followed by dancing. Henry was surprised by all the fancy china and silver that had been hidden away in cabinets or behind the secret door at the back of the closet under the stairs. William arrived home early and was amazed at how the house could sparkle when “properly cleaned,” a dig Susan ignored. Finally Susan retired to her room to dress, and Mary took the boys upstairs.

Henry suspected that something more was afoot. Susan had insisted that he make certain to shave, and when he’d told her he’d shaved only two days before, she said, “Shave again.”

William greeted the guests as they arrived. First among them was Madame Grymes, who was accompanied by a young woman with a heart-shaped face and auburn hair fashionably pulled up. Madame Grymes made a beeline for Henry, her charge in tow. “Monsieur Thoreau.”

Henry couldn’t help but see Madame Grymes’s ample bosom barely covered by her burgundy silk dress and several scarves. “Madame Grymes,” he said, and, determined not to show how shocked he was, he took her hand and, bowing, kissed it.

Madame Grymes blushed and turned to her charge. “What did I tell you?
Enchanté
. Monsieur Henri Thoreau, permit me to introduce Mademoiselle Beatrice Biddle. I’ve told her you are
un ami
of Monsieur Ralph Waldo Emerson and are
un escriver
yourself. She is a great reader, and an admirer of the Sage of Concord, so naturally very eager to meet you. And tonight of all nights, when the moon is full.”

“Miss Biddle.”

“Mister Thoreau.”

Saying, “I shall leave you young people to chat,” Madame Grymes did just that.

Smirking, Miss Biddle said, “And tonight of all nights. . . . I fear Madame Grymes fancies herself a matchmaker.” Henry was quite taken by this lovely young girl who had the most luminescent white skin he’d ever seen. Struck dumb, in fact. Giggling, Miss Biddle went on, “Shall we let her think she’s been successful?” Henry nodded vigorously. “And if you must address me as Miss, a convention I despise, at least call me Miss Beatrice, though I’d much prefer Beatrice or Bea.”

Finally Henry found his tongue, and a willing accomplice. “Then Beatrice it will be, Bea. But you must call me Henry.”

“Thank you, Henry. I shall. Henry.”

When Beatrice closed her small lips they resembled a cherry. But her lips were rarely closed, and her lovely oyster dress rarely stopped rustling. Beatrice was full of life, and full of stories she told that made Henry laugh, even if it was about how her younger brother had fallen off his horse that morning.

Henry found her audacity refreshing. As they waited for Susan to appear, they discussed Emerson, her brother, Transcendentalism, her uncle, Concord, her mother, New York, her brother again, and Staten Island. Until William announced that Mrs. Emerson was about to begin, Susan’s recital had slipped Henry’s mind.

“Shall we sit together?” asked Beatrice.

“I would be honored,” said Henry.

When Susan made her entrance, wearing the glorious emerald-green dress she’d had made in Boston, with the tight bodice and billowing skirts set off by the ruby-colored sash, William choked, and the guests gasped. Beatrice clapped her hands together and said, “What a beautiful dress!” Susan, nervous as could be, nodded and seated herself at the piano.

Der Fliegende Hollander
wasn’t the kind of music most of them had ever heard, as their grimacing discomfort showed. Susan played the “Overture” and “Sailors’ Chorus,” and whenever there was a pause old Mr. Albert burst into applause. “He’s hoping it’s over,” Henry whispered to Beatrice. Uncomfortable silence filled the room as Susan continued to play.

Henry’s mind wandered through the harsh and lovely notes of his life and settled on Ben. He was sure Ben would love this too, and he turned and there was Bea with her cherry lips, sitting beside him, and though she smiled and lifted her eyes, he turned back with the awful thought that he wished it was Ben beside him. But then Beatrice touched his hand, and all seemed right with the world. Ben was gone, and his old life with him. He turned to Bea and smiled. It was Beatrice who knew when Susan was finished, and she who began enthusiastically to applaud, joined in equal fervor by Henry. “Henry, you must introduce me,” said Beatrice.

“Of course.” The rest of the audience acknowledged Susan’s performance with polite clapping. When Susan stood, Beatrice and Henry rushed to her. The other guests, slightly baffled, spoke among themselves and took refreshments from the young Irish maids. After they were properly introduced, Beatrice gushed, “That was thrilling, Mrs. Emerson.”

Susan’s face pinked. “Thank you, Miss Biddle.”

“Please, I wish you’d call me Beatrice. You look so beautiful and your play is brilliant.”

With noticeable silence, William squeezed by them and tinked a piano key. And tinked it again. “I couldn’t quite tell if it had been tuned or not.”

Offhandedly, Beatrice said, “Perfectly tuned, I would say.” And then, with passion to Susan: “It’s so Germanic.”

“A little too Germanic for my tastes,” said William.

Henry cringed at the nasty dagger William thrust into his wife, but Beatrice was used to his kind of thinking. “Truly?” she said, putting him down with one word. “I think it’s brilliant. And my gosh, Mrs. Emerson,” she went on, innocently turning the dagger on William’s manhood, “the way you played it, I wonder, what are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

Susan, stifling a giggle, excused herself to welcome the other guests. William seethed, and Henry watched, amazed at how Bea again knew exactly what to say to repair William’s bruised ego. She got out of him that he had lived and studied in Germany, that he had actually visited the great Goethe in his home. She also got William to admit that he was a bit wistful for those times of abandon. And then Bea came crashing. “No need to take it out on Susan, though, is there?” And forever the little milk-white skinned young woman with the cherry lips had William’s respect and admiration.

While Beatrice continued charming and toying with William, Henry’s attention was drawn to a minister not much older than he was, who expressed himself with a flamboyance at odds with his solidity and stature. Beside him stood another, much older minister and a little woman with yellowy skin as pale as her hair and dress. The older man was Dr. Schramm, the Emersons’ minister, and the younger couple was introduced as the Reverend Ralph Reed and his wife, Toppy. After chatting for a few moments, Reverend Reed said, “So this is the house where the infamous Major Andre was entertained.”

“Lord Howe as well,” said Henry.

Reverend Reed said, “I know how to liven up this place.” To which Toppy said, “Oh no, dear, please.”

Reverend Reed commandingly took the floor and said if they didn’t mind, he and his lovely little wife would like to perform the balcony scene from
Romeo and Juliet
. Toppy tried to fade away, but the reverend would have none of it. “Come, dear.”

Everyone clapped, the scene was set, and the reverend began with grand gestures and a big, hammy voice. “But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?” With which Toppy, barely audible, chirping words like a nestling chick, and abbreviating the text, said “Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?” But alas, it was not necessarily abbreviated, since her husband, more than making up for her timidity, performed Romeo with bluster and dash. “It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!” On and on they went, she abbreviating and he interjecting whenever he saw fit. It was the hammiest Romeo Henry had ever seen. And judging from the squeezes Bea gave Henry’s hand, the hammiest Bea had seen too. But the invited Staten Islanders loved it, and applauded with gusto when the reverend and his little wife took their bows.

Susan, biting her lip, elbowed Henry in the side and crossed her eyes at him. He quickly looked at the floor to keep from laughing. “Susan, stop,” he said under the applause.

Susan clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “It’s time to dance!”

“Now
this
is a musicale,” extolled old Mr. Albert as Susan banged out “We Won’t Go Home Till the Morning.” Henry and Beatrice were the first to dance, and their example got most of the others joining them. But as he and Beatrice bounced around with joy and abandon, Henry noticed that Reverend Reed, standing at the edge of the dance floor with his pale wife, seemed to be gazing only at him. At first Henry was flattered, thinking he was being singled out as the most interesting dancer to watch, but then he realized there was something more to the reverend’s gaze, and it made Henry uncomfortable. Plus, the reverend just stood there, gawking. The next time Henry and Beatrice circled to where the young reverend and his wife stood, Henry let go of Beatrice, grabbed the reverend and his wife’s hands and dragged them onto the dance floor, and didn’t Toppy come to life. Around and around they danced, and then Susan was relieved of her piano duty by one of the Irish work girls, who knew all the popular tunes, and she danced happily with William, who lost all his stiffness and was without doubt the most excellent dancer there. “Susan seems to have lost ten years of her life,” said Henry to Beatrice. And she had. But all evening the young reverend’s eyes were on Henry, who reveled here and there with the feeling that Reverend Reed was not, in fact, dancing with Toppy, who he held at arm’s length, but with Henry, no matter where in the room he was. All in all, it was the best night he’d spent on dry land in many a moon, and when they were saying their goodnights, Henry knew the reverend’s “I hope to see you again soon,” was not convention speaking, but terrifying truth.

Still, Henry went to bed still dancing with Beatrice, imagining their future. Ben was also in his imaginings, but more as a houseguest who passed in and out of the action. The next day, Henry was excited to receive an invitation from Beatrice’s mother to come for tea. After lessons, he put on his best clothes and set off down the Richmond road.

The Biddles had helped finance the American Revolution and made out well because of the very great risk they had taken. Most of the Biddles remained in Philadelphia, but Beatrice’s father, a bit of a rebel himself, had taken his fortune and moved to Manhattan, where he married and raised his family. Their country house was walled and gated, with good reason. Within the walls were splayed fruit trees, all manner of blossoming rose bushes, boxwood hedges of thick rows of blossoming peonies. Inside the huge, lead-white clapboard house were incredible riches, riches unlike Henry had ever seen: silver candelabra and doorknobs, China vases and silk drapes, mahogany tables, gilded chairs, carpets from Persia. Mrs. Biddle and Beatrice greeted Henry warmly, then, surprising Henry, Mrs. Biddle left them alone. An awkward silence followed, as Henry didn’t know what to do or say. Beatrice smiled, blushed and then jumped up and proclaimed hammily, “What’s in a name?” Henry laughed at her perfect mimicry of Reverend Reed, who’d taken Juliet’s line for his own. “That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet.”