Thoreau in Love (27 page)

“Didn’t know what?”

“It’s not a proper church.”

“He received his degree from Yale.”

“Better you don’t go, than go there. It’s low Protestant and welcomes all.”

“Yale?” asked Henry, gleefully obnoxious.

“St. John’s.”

Of course, Susan saying that sabotaged herself, not that any argument she made had a chance. Henry walked to Bea’s house, where her four-in-hand was harnessed and ready. Bea came out the front door, looking lovely in her sage green dress. But she seemed a bit miffed. “Mother says we need a chaperone,” said Bea, her cherry lips in a pout. “A heinous duty, but Robert’s agreed to do it.” Bea giggled, and out the front door came Robert, dressed like no one Henry had ever seen, in sparkling black boots, a burgundy tailcoat and vest, beige trousers and a narrow brimmed beige hat half the height of a high hat. Henry was quite overcome with Robert’s dress and, when he took off his hat, the most beautiful violet eyes he’d ever seen. Awkwardly, he introduced himself, but then he and Robert couldn’t stop talking. They climbed into the four-in-hand, and off to Bay Street they went, Beatrice driving, happily for Henry at a reserved pace.

For such an unorthodox minister, Reverend Ralph Reed seemed quite orthodox in his black Geneva gown. And with his dark hair and beard, somewhat sinister. His congregation was small but rapt. And though Henry would rather have been outside with all the chirping birds, he was quite taken by the reverend’s sermon, which was not about The Book but the book Henry had written a review of and sent to the
Democratic Review
, John Adolphous Etzler’s
The Paradise Within Reach of All Men
. Reverend Reed told in horrible detail the conditions of the poor and the misery that existed across the harbor in Manhattan—the misery Henry had glimpsed but not really seen—encouraging his listeners to witness it themselves. “It’s within our reach, according to Etzler, to heat and cool their apartments using the power of the sun, and to give them running water, cold and hot! I’ve been experimenting with Etzler’s ideas, trying to focus the power of the sun to create steam power, but so far without success.”

Mr. Mell, one of the neighbors the Emersons had never deigned to make the acquaintance of, turned to the person beside him and, in what he thought was a quiet voice, bellowed, “What strange things he talks about.”

Everyone laughed good-naturedly.

Undeterred, the reverend continued, “Don’t we want to help these poor souls?” And went on for fifteen minutes bearing witness, mingling tales of naked children and milkless mothers too weak to beg, and giving thanks for the bounty “we have here,” never mentioning money, until one of the parishioners offered his hat to take up a collection. It wasn’t money they needed, said the reverend, but spiritual help. The more he demurred, the more money was collected; to Henry’s horror, Bea threw in a shiny new five-dollar gold piece her aunt had given her.

“That’s a half eagle, Bea,” said Henry, grabbing the hat. “Are you sure?”

“Oh Henry, we’re so fortunate,” said Bea, dabbing tears from her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief.

Outside the tumbledown clapboard church, the morning air was cool, the grass freshly cut. “I did it myself,” said Reverend Ralph, as he insisted he be called.

Bea introduced Robert to Reverend Ralph, but then Robert bashfully stepped back and dropped his gaze to the ground. Henry said how impressed he was by the parishioners’ generosity. Reverend Ralph smiled and without missing a beat politely changed the subject by saying how lucky Miss Biddle was to be accompanied by not one but two handsome gentlemen.

“Yes,” said Beatrice, “I am fortunate. But you should use some of the money you collected to fix up St. John’s,” said Bea. “At least have it painted.”

“Alas,” said Reverend Ralph, “the money’s for a better cause.”

Henry, more and more feeling a snake-oil salesman at work, once again changed the subject, saying, “I imagine I am the only one other than yourself who has read Etzler.”

“Indeed? How did you come upon it?”

“Emerson recommended it. Ralph Waldo, not William. Though I must say, I had a very different take on it than either of you.”

“You know Ralph Waldo Emerson?”

“William Emerson is his brother.”

“I had no idea.”

“Hence my Transcendentalism.” Their talk eventually came to Henry’s saying that he didn’t think the possibilities of life were evident in his present situation, to which Reverend Ralph answered, “Perhaps they are within you, Henry, not in the place where you reside.”

“That seems to be the theme of my journey.”

“Make sure part of your journey takes you to Manhattan, if only to visit these Biddles.”

During the ride back, Bea invited Henry to accompany them that afternoon for a dinner in town. Henry said he couldn’t, and Robert said, “Oh please, please come with us. It will be so much more fun with you there.”

“Thank you for asking me. I wish I could, but I am afraid these are the only good clothes I have. I’d feel like a country bumpkin.”

“I do wish you would come, Henry,” said Beatrice. “You look most handsome.”

Enthusiastically, Robert said, “I have a green suit you could borrow!” Robert was a good four inches taller and much trimmer than Henry, who burst out laughing.

“What?” asked Robert.

“Robert, Henry could no more wear your clothes than I could.”

“But you fit into them rather well,” said Robert, digging into his sister.

“Just as well as you fit into my skirts.”

“Bea!” said Robert, flushing five shades of red. “You promised you’d never tell anyone that.”

“I never expected you’d tell anyone I tried on your suit. Once I did it. Once.”

Henry laughed. “Oh, you two. I love the way you get along.” And the three of them laughed from relief. And then Henry said, “Another time I would love to accompany you to dinner, after I’ve purchased new trousers.”

“Promise me?”

“You have my word,” said Henry, charmed.

Henry decided to spend the afternoon in the marshes and at the shore, but before he could change his clothes, the sky darkened. He sat at his window to watch the oncoming storm just as Master Haven came up the stairs, calling for him. “What is it, my young maestro?” asked Henry, and Haven held up the whistle Henry had made him and said proudly, “I can play now.”

Willie appeared behind Haven and said, “You can’t play. You were just lucky.” Haven let loose on the whistle, a piercing shriek, and just as he did, thunder cracked with such power it rattled the panes. Willie screamed, “Mary, Mary!” and ran like a Norway rat to his protector, but Haven the brave stood timidly, thinking he’d brought the thunder to bear. More thunder boomed; Henry told Haven his music made the thunder dance. Haven clapped his nervous hands, and as they watched roiling storm clouds envelope the hill and darken day to night, a bolt of lightning shot out of the black, illuminating the dark, and struck the old elm in the meadow. Startling loud thunder shook the house.

Haven screeched and hid under the bed, and almost immediately the day brightened. But then the rumble of receding thunder mixed with the awful sound of live wood cracking, and Henry watched as the stately elm’s massive trunk split and a third or more of the venerable old tree crashed to the ground.

“Wha’s’at?” asked Haven from his haven.

“The old elm,” said Henry as he sank into his desk chair, feeling at one with the mortally wounded elm. But then the sun poured down and Haven crawled out from under the bed and onto his lap, bringing with him hope and life. “Is it over?” asked Haven.

“It’s over,” said Henry. “The storm has passed.”

14

But the storm inside the Snuggery had not passed. As the sun kept rising toward the solstice, joy, laughter and light fled the long brown, vine-covered house. Mary sobered into a proper servant, disciplining the boys the way her master wished. The boys in turn—or, rather, the masters interne—mastered little, save for Willie, who, following his father’s example, mastered the art of teasing with masterly meanness. The exuberance that made Haven such a happy child leaked from him like air from an India-rubber balloon.

Each day seemed worse than the last, until one morning his cheery, “Morning, Mary. Morning, Susan,” was greeted with a cool, “Good morning, Henry,” from Susan. Mary hightailed it into the kitchen. William was upstairs, getting ready for work. Susan pulled herself up and took a deep breath. “Henry,” she said. “As you know, Mr. Emerson has asked you to call me Mrs. Emerson. And now he’s insisting on it. For the children.”

“For the children. . . . Of course, Mrs. Emerson. But I hope you’ll excuse me if I slip occasionally and call you. . . .” The absurdity of the situation hit Henry, and he realized he didn’t really care, that he was there for himself, not for them. “Late for supper.”

“Late for supper?”

“Call me whatever you want. . . ?” He held out his hands, waiting for Susan to get the old joke. Mary, in the doorway, stifled a giggle. “My sincerest apologies, Mrs. Emerson. Mrs. Emerson it is, now and forever.” Though the porridge was hot, breakfast was chilly, and the moment William boarded the stage, Henry said, “Come on, boys, we’re going outside!”

“Why do we have to go outside?” asked Willie.

“Because,” said Henry, stopping himself before giving a rote, I say so. “Because we want to live life, taste it, smell it and open our ears to it. We’re going to fight this battle.”

“What battle?” asked Willie, his interest piqued.

“The battle to live freely, to live as we want.” And so they went into the sunshine, armed with crayons and charcoal, paper and tablets. They tramped through the fields, stopping to draw pictures of the bugs and birds and animals they saw or heard. Then, spying a woodchuck sitting on its haunches, sniffing the air, Henry had the boys imitate the woodchuck and say what they smelled. “I can’t smell anything,” said Willie.

“You can’t smell danger?”

“You can’t smell danger,” said Willie.

“What do you think that woodchuck sniffs for? What goes after woodchucks?”

“Dogs?” asked Haven, brightly inquisitive.

“Yes, dogs. Can you smell dogs?”

“When they’re wet.”

“Dogs, woodchucks, their sense of smell is much better than ours. They can smell bobcats and cougars and coyotes even when they can’t see them. That’s how they know they’re in danger. For the rest of the day I want you to smell everything you can. Close your eyes and picture what you smell in your head, then draw it.”

“Haven smells like doo-doo.”

“I do not!”

“He’s teasing you, Master Haven. That’s what older brothers do. My older brother teased me.”

“He does?”

“Did,” said Henry, and then, deciding not to open that can of worms, he said, “Not so mean as Master Willie teases you. But we can tease Master Willie back and show him what it’s like.”

Henry grabbed Willie and tickled him.

“Stop, stop!” screamed Willie. “I won’t tease.”

Henry stopped.

“But I do smell doo-doo,” said Willie after he’d recovered himself.

“There’s your crayon. There’s your charcoal. Draw what you smell.”

Of course that evening Willie went into his father’s library and announced that Henry made him draw doo-doo, and Henry was called on the fine Turkey carpet. Citing Elizabeth Peabody and Henry James, Henry defended his teaching methods, but William put down his heavy foot. “Henry, I want you to teach the children by rote. I learned by rote, as did Ralph. And look how we turned out.”

Henry couldn’t stop himself. “Precisely my point. Not so much your brother—”

“I beg your pardon?”

Henry was too angry to stop. “Learn by rote? That’s the farthest thing from his or any modern man’s thoughts. Did those professors at Harvard teach you nothing? Or were they still teaching by rote back then?”

“If I want my children taught by rote—”

“Find someone else. My school doors are open, as I insist a child’s mind must be open to the world around them, not restricted to a maze of memorizing their A-B-C’s.”

“I don’t have time for this now,” said William. But he did have time to make his point again. Around and around they went, until their responses themselves became rote.