Read Online Miss Fuller by April Bernard - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: April Bernard
Tags: General Fiction
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these were pages of a letter, a private letter, addressed to “Sophie.” At the very top, in urgent block letters, was written: IF FOUND, THIS LETTER IS FOR SOPHIA HAWTHORNE IN CONCORD MASSACHUSETTS. M.F . OSSOLI . Similar printing was partly visible through the ink stain on the bottom page as well: DEAR SOPHIE, THE SHIP [ BLOT ] IF [ BLOT ] TOW [ BLOT ] PRAY MY NINO [ BLOT ] NOT FRIGHT [ BLOT ]. 18 JU [ BLOT ] LO [ BLOT ] M .
“Have you read it?” she asked her brother.
“No, how can you ask? It’s for Mrs. Hawthorne.”
She placed the papers carefully back in the desk. “It says ‘Concord’ — she must not have known they moved to the Berkshire hills. Did Miss Fuller write to you, ever, from Europe?”
“Once or twice. I have the last one here — I just got it out of my piles of papers yesterday.”
It was dated June of 1849. “Rome was under siege by French troops when she wrote this,” said Henry as he handed it to her.
Dear Henry,
Horace has sent me 3 of the 5 installments in Sartain’s Union Magazine of your astonishing account of hiking the woods in the north & climbing magnificent Ktaadn. It is likely he sent me all 5, tho’ I received but 3; the mail here is frightfully uneven because of the war — or, I should say, wars , as they arise across the Continent. (We have hopes yet for Poland!) I hear in your voice the voice of home, the voice of the pine-trees themselves, in these sentences — they are a thrilling testament to your deepest soul, to what you call the Wild. There is an altogether different mood here, dear Henry, the chaos of hope turned to despair & betrayal. All is going very badly with the Revolution as you know if you read my dispatches. We are under daily bombardment, & the spectre of death is everywhere. But we cannot lose faith in the rising star of Liberty, calling to the Good Wildness within us all — Wild Liberty that answers from soul to soul, that will knit us into a better, voluntary society of free men & women. I hear so little news of home — Mr E has not written once since his visit last year to England, when he did not venture south to see me, after all — & I miss you all & the peace & concord of Concord. But my spirit has found its sphere of action, its call to witness. Please, please, dear Henry, write to me & give me your news. In haste, Your sincere friend,
MF
“I didn’t write back,” said Henry. “I was cross with her about not understanding. About the Wild. She was always mis-using my words and the words of others, bending them to her own meanings.”
“Something no one else has ever done.”
“Well yes, of course — I can’t think why it irked me so.”
“It’s all right, Henry.” Anne touched the lines of writing on the page delicately. “I like her hand. It’s so grand and forceful! Not the least bit lady-like, I’m afraid.”
“She was short-sighted. I think that’s why she wrote such a large hand.”
Anne held up Henry’s letter next to the one in the desk. “A letter is a very live thing, isn’t it?”
“When I went over to see Jove, the day I came home, I meant to talk to him about the desk and the letter to Mrs. Hawthorne. Somehow I thought he might like to deliver the letter and visit the Hawthornes with me.”
“I could go! I want to see the mountains —”
“But I never even told him about this letter. It was strange. I couldn’t.”
He told Anne about Emerson’s planned “Memoirs” and also about the money that had never been sent to the Ossolis.
“Were they punishing her?” Anne asked.
“I don’t think so. They wanted her to come home. We all wanted that.”
“Indeed. I’m afraid I don’t see why.” Anne was surprised to find herself taking Miss Fuller’s part. “No one wanted her to marry an Italian, so they wouldn’t want to meet him either, would they?”
“They wanted everything to be proper — up to standard. It would be best for the child,” said Henry.
“He was an Italian child,
“Have you read it?” she asked her brother.
“No, how can you ask? It’s for Mrs. Hawthorne.”
She placed the papers carefully back in the desk. “It says ‘Concord’ — she must not have known they moved to the Berkshire hills. Did Miss Fuller write to you, ever, from Europe?”
“Once or twice. I have the last one here — I just got it out of my piles of papers yesterday.”
It was dated June of 1849. “Rome was under siege by French troops when she wrote this,” said Henry as he handed it to her.
Dear Henry,
Horace has sent me 3 of the 5 installments in Sartain’s Union Magazine of your astonishing account of hiking the woods in the north & climbing magnificent Ktaadn. It is likely he sent me all 5, tho’ I received but 3; the mail here is frightfully uneven because of the war — or, I should say, wars , as they arise across the Continent. (We have hopes yet for Poland!) I hear in your voice the voice of home, the voice of the pine-trees themselves, in these sentences — they are a thrilling testament to your deepest soul, to what you call the Wild. There is an altogether different mood here, dear Henry, the chaos of hope turned to despair & betrayal. All is going very badly with the Revolution as you know if you read my dispatches. We are under daily bombardment, & the spectre of death is everywhere. But we cannot lose faith in the rising star of Liberty, calling to the Good Wildness within us all — Wild Liberty that answers from soul to soul, that will knit us into a better, voluntary society of free men & women. I hear so little news of home — Mr E has not written once since his visit last year to England, when he did not venture south to see me, after all — & I miss you all & the peace & concord of Concord. But my spirit has found its sphere of action, its call to witness. Please, please, dear Henry, write to me & give me your news. In haste, Your sincere friend,
MF
“I didn’t write back,” said Henry. “I was cross with her about not understanding. About the Wild. She was always mis-using my words and the words of others, bending them to her own meanings.”
“Something no one else has ever done.”
“Well yes, of course — I can’t think why it irked me so.”
“It’s all right, Henry.” Anne touched the lines of writing on the page delicately. “I like her hand. It’s so grand and forceful! Not the least bit lady-like, I’m afraid.”
“She was short-sighted. I think that’s why she wrote such a large hand.”
Anne held up Henry’s letter next to the one in the desk. “A letter is a very live thing, isn’t it?”
“When I went over to see Jove, the day I came home, I meant to talk to him about the desk and the letter to Mrs. Hawthorne. Somehow I thought he might like to deliver the letter and visit the Hawthornes with me.”
“I could go! I want to see the mountains —”
“But I never even told him about this letter. It was strange. I couldn’t.”
He told Anne about Emerson’s planned “Memoirs” and also about the money that had never been sent to the Ossolis.
“Were they punishing her?” Anne asked.
“I don’t think so. They wanted her to come home. We all wanted that.”
“Indeed. I’m afraid I don’t see why.” Anne was surprised to find herself taking Miss Fuller’s part. “No one wanted her to marry an Italian, so they wouldn’t want to meet him either, would they?”
“They wanted everything to be proper — up to standard. It would be best for the child,” said Henry.
“He was an Italian child,
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