Read Online Miss Fuller by April Bernard - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: April Bernard
Tags: General Fiction
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wouldn’t he be best living in Italy?”
“He was also American. All Americans are best living here.”
She rubbed the tabby’s head, those two almost-bald spots in front of her ears. A purr rumbled out, but then Anne clutched the cat so close she struggled and jumped free with a squawk.
“Can I go with you to see the Hawthornes?”
“I need to write to them first.”
Henry wrote the letter that day. It was another week before the reply arrived.
In that week, at a picnic, Anne decided which of the two farming brothers she preferred: It was Thomas, the elder. She said nothing to Mother or Sissy, but she did tell Dolly Allan.
“How do you know you like him best?”
“He is going to have the farm when his father dies, and Henry likes talking to him about threshers and rotation and all the advanced ideas for farming. He admires Henry and he is the only person I’ve ever seen Henry explain his pencil inventions to — the ground plumbago, you know, for printing. Henry says Thomas is a ‘coming man.’ He also likes my drawings.”
“I don’t suppose he’s at all handsome.”
“So he is! You know he is! And he smells wonderful.”
“Annie!”
“He does — like hay and burnt toast. And sometimes peppermint.”
Lenox, 18th August ’50.
My dear Henry,
Glad as we must always be to hear from you, this occasion tests even that felicity. Mrs. Hawthorne has been saddened by the death of “La Signora Ossoli,” as have I. We offer up our condoling to the crêpe and grosgrain of mourning in which all Concord doubtless has draped herself since the news of her daughter’s final fall.
However, that is “as far as it goes” — as the good pig farmer who lives down the road says. This Berkshire Hog will not go a-snuffling in the dirt to snout out scrips and scraps.
To put it plainly: Neither my wife nor I has any wish to receive, and most certainly will not read, the letter you describe. Do oblige me by disposing of it in the nearest stove. I can only wish you had not troubled to fish it out from the sea.
Do you think me harsh? No doubt you do not know the worst of what we know, of her irregular life, in Italy and before. In our days in Concord, she was merely a Transcendental heifer, and tho’ we were fond of her as one of our own and endured her posturings as those of a sister, the wide world showed her for what she truly was. There was a Jew in New York who made her his mistress, on good authority. As for Italy, you all may trick up as a legitimate, even aristocratic, marriage and family this disgraceful business, of a bastard child fathered on her by an Italian rowdy with a fantastic name, but I shall not join you. She would have done better to have gone over to Rome entirely and entered a nunnery. Foolish Ophelia.
Thrice in recent months I have been obliged to intercept letters from that woman to my wife. With her permission — and her tender heart made her give it at first with difficulty — I have destroyed them unread.
When next I hear from you, I hope it will be on a topic more inclined to foster our mutual friendship. By all means visit our hovel in the hills, provided you come empty-handed.
N. Hawthorne
“My goodness,” Anne said. “This is a shocking thing.” She handed the letter back to her brother. “I suppose he also means to be amusing. But I don’t understand. Surely Miss Fuller was their friend?”
“I don’t know,” he said miserably. “She was their friend, once — I thought they were all quite taken with one another. I often don’t understand these things. I thought she admired his writing, even to excess. Whatever could she have said, or done? I know that he is an anti-revolutionist, but I amsurprised that he would let a difference of opinion affect an old friendship.…”
“Mother says he is actually opposed to Abolition!”
“It’s not so simple,” Henry said. “Hawthorne despises slavery, just as he despises tyranny, but he also despairs. He thinks revolutions
“He was also American. All Americans are best living here.”
She rubbed the tabby’s head, those two almost-bald spots in front of her ears. A purr rumbled out, but then Anne clutched the cat so close she struggled and jumped free with a squawk.
“Can I go with you to see the Hawthornes?”
“I need to write to them first.”
Henry wrote the letter that day. It was another week before the reply arrived.
In that week, at a picnic, Anne decided which of the two farming brothers she preferred: It was Thomas, the elder. She said nothing to Mother or Sissy, but she did tell Dolly Allan.
“How do you know you like him best?”
“He is going to have the farm when his father dies, and Henry likes talking to him about threshers and rotation and all the advanced ideas for farming. He admires Henry and he is the only person I’ve ever seen Henry explain his pencil inventions to — the ground plumbago, you know, for printing. Henry says Thomas is a ‘coming man.’ He also likes my drawings.”
“I don’t suppose he’s at all handsome.”
“So he is! You know he is! And he smells wonderful.”
“Annie!”
“He does — like hay and burnt toast. And sometimes peppermint.”
Lenox, 18th August ’50.
My dear Henry,
Glad as we must always be to hear from you, this occasion tests even that felicity. Mrs. Hawthorne has been saddened by the death of “La Signora Ossoli,” as have I. We offer up our condoling to the crêpe and grosgrain of mourning in which all Concord doubtless has draped herself since the news of her daughter’s final fall.
However, that is “as far as it goes” — as the good pig farmer who lives down the road says. This Berkshire Hog will not go a-snuffling in the dirt to snout out scrips and scraps.
To put it plainly: Neither my wife nor I has any wish to receive, and most certainly will not read, the letter you describe. Do oblige me by disposing of it in the nearest stove. I can only wish you had not troubled to fish it out from the sea.
Do you think me harsh? No doubt you do not know the worst of what we know, of her irregular life, in Italy and before. In our days in Concord, she was merely a Transcendental heifer, and tho’ we were fond of her as one of our own and endured her posturings as those of a sister, the wide world showed her for what she truly was. There was a Jew in New York who made her his mistress, on good authority. As for Italy, you all may trick up as a legitimate, even aristocratic, marriage and family this disgraceful business, of a bastard child fathered on her by an Italian rowdy with a fantastic name, but I shall not join you. She would have done better to have gone over to Rome entirely and entered a nunnery. Foolish Ophelia.
Thrice in recent months I have been obliged to intercept letters from that woman to my wife. With her permission — and her tender heart made her give it at first with difficulty — I have destroyed them unread.
When next I hear from you, I hope it will be on a topic more inclined to foster our mutual friendship. By all means visit our hovel in the hills, provided you come empty-handed.
N. Hawthorne
“My goodness,” Anne said. “This is a shocking thing.” She handed the letter back to her brother. “I suppose he also means to be amusing. But I don’t understand. Surely Miss Fuller was their friend?”
“I don’t know,” he said miserably. “She was their friend, once — I thought they were all quite taken with one another. I often don’t understand these things. I thought she admired his writing, even to excess. Whatever could she have said, or done? I know that he is an anti-revolutionist, but I amsurprised that he would let a difference of opinion affect an old friendship.…”
“Mother says he is actually opposed to Abolition!”
“It’s not so simple,” Henry said. “Hawthorne despises slavery, just as he despises tyranny, but he also despairs. He thinks revolutions
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