Miss Fuller (12 page)

Our Idyll was broken that day as we discussed Mazzini’s letter, & it was made the more difficult because Mish decided to become jealous — I
saw
him decide, like a naughty boy calculating to throw a fit — of Mazzini, who is not married, & whose letter contained certain endearments addressed to myself. Why must I meet his mother? Why does he call me “his own dear lady” & “his
cigno
trombetta
” (trumpeter
swan)? Swan! Ha! I was a goose, but I was his goose, his farmyard goose, &c, &c.

That evening, in the twilight, we lingered longer than usual. We had lost much of the language with which we had begun our courtship, I noticed ruefully — we were no longer the emanations of the Divine, no longer the New Man & the New Woman — but were now only a bear & a goose. He sighed, & said something in Polish. I said, What? He said, “Does God want us in fancy clothes, all dressed up for Church? Or does He want us to come to Him naked as we were born, hair in tangles, tired & scented by the bed-clothes.”

Suspecting an allegory, I remained silent. Mish said, I will not say
explained
, that he had left the priests but not the Church. (He often visited a small Roman church in the lieu, but only when the mass was not being said, & he would leave if a priest spoke to him.)

Did you read any of my dispatches from Paris at this time, dear Sophie? Could you have guessed, amidst my ponderings on the new Europe & my
critiques
of the paintings, the costumes, the music, & the literature of my host country, that so monumental — & so very ordinary — a love affair was unfolding behind my words?

[blot] What ails this ink? 23 June

I have borrowed an extra dram of ink from the captain’s desk, as mine seems to have got stiff from salt. We are in
quiet seas, with a good wind, & all aboard are cheerful since my Nino’s recovery is assured. Today he has again been toddling about the deck, like a puppy-dog among the sailors’ legs — amazed tho’ I am by the speed with which he has regained his health, I nonetheless insisted he lie down for a nap & he sleeps within my sight.

My feet are propped up on a crate of fruit. If we wipe each lemon & orange daily with a dry cloth we can forestall the mould. The smell is heavenly, & I am sucking on an orange as I write.

I come to a difficult part of my story. From Paris we took the stage to Lyons, then a barge down the Rhône — tho’ the accommodations were rude, they were not uncomfortable. We then waited a few days in Marseilles (Rebecca had a stomach trouble there) for the packet boat, which we took on its “local” stops along the coast, first to Genoa & then at last to Rome. Rome in April was a miracle of light & joy, I felt I had come home at last & I will not tell of my visit to Mazzini’s mother in Genoa except to say that she was a grand & kind creature, & that somehow I think she guessed my secret. My secret was that I was with child, & I had never felt such joy & such fear — a bear cub, to be ours! — (Tho’ quickly I tell you, it was not to
be
.)

We left Rome for the north in late April. Altho’ my money was thin, & I had depended on the Springs’ great generosity for many of my expenses, I persuaded them to leave me in Venice — they were to travel on to Germany as I would
continue my Northern Tour of Italy. — I had written to Mish, I was so terribly anxious to see him & consult as to what we must do — in May I hurried from Milan to Geneva, & thence to Grenoble (oh! the diligences! in the late spring snows!) to meet him within France’s borders, as he could not safely leave his adopted country of exile.

Was it the strain of my journey over the Alps? Was it the shock & joy of seeing him again? The new life left me that night, as if my own self were being pumped away from me, soon the hotel bed was a lake of blood, he found me a doctor —.

I mercifully have forgotten much. In two days’ time I could walk again. As if I wanted to walk again — I was struck down by the loss of this precious thing — the loss of Motherhood itself it seemed, & this fruit of our love. I was wrung dry of love, of hope, indeed of all feeling. I thought God had left me, that I was a fallen woman. For the first & only time I wondered if I was being punished for my sins. (Oh, but in time I realized it was not a punishment — something more complicated — not a blessing, but perhaps a preparation?)

I shall never forget the day of our parting — Mish sad, almost stupefied by his sadness, holding my hand as we sat on a cold bench in a little park, Jardin de Quelque’chose — I remember the names of nothing from Grenoble, I rejoice that I will never see that horrible town again.

For some time we talked, almost idly, of the Divine. I told him how dear George Ripley had enlarged my thinking
years ago when he insisted that the Revealed Truth of the Gospels does not require a belief in the miraculous & that all of the events of Christ’s life may be explained by science. Mish was indignant in defense of miracles.

Very gently, I told him of a man I had just met in Rome — a young man, Ossoli, of good family, of his republican sympathies, of his kindness. Of what the Springs & all who had met him thought of his character & his sincerity in his addresses to me.

Mish said, “It is as I imagined for you — as I hoped. Since we cannot continue — this is what I would have wished. If he is worthy, only if he is worthy.”

“You give me away so easily, then?”

“Not easily but I will not lie — it is a relief, to know that you will be cared for. He has money? He will help you continue your work?”

“He admires me, but he cannot read a word of English. He — it is odd, it is perhaps the Italian way — he seems almost to
worship
me, as he would the Madonna or his own mother.”

“Ah. Then you must never tell him.”

How did I continue on my travels, & continue to work, after this parting? What tears & what dismal future I saw, all my golden dream of life with my Great Polish Bear sunk in a pit of tar.

I will never know how it is that the human body can continue, a soldier answering the winded horn of Necessity, tho’ the spirit has lain down to die.
& Yet within a week or two it was as Mish had predicted — travelling throughout the north of Italy without a chaperone, I spoke more to the people, my conversation improved, I was the American Lady, or more often if inaccurately, the
Inglese
, an oddity & nonetheless a personage, wherever I went. I made many a friend in the villages & cities, strangers eager to talk to me & feed me & offer me a room for the night with their families — laughing or solemn, as their education had prepared them, at the sight of a copy of my American newspaper. I think it was stranger to them that I was an American & a journalist than that I was a woman. The city sophisticates I met included Horace Greenough & Madame Arconati, the Storys, the painter Hicks & alia.

By October, I was ready to return to Rome, to see again my new ardent friend there, & to make a new chapter in my life.

I cannot write any more. I will see if my Nino is awake & take him up on deck for fresh air.

24 June

Always, always money! The men are arguing about their pay, who gets what share if the marble we carry is sold at such a price, who deserves what, who is working harder, what the late captain promised —! My poor husband, frightened by loud talk, by anything loud, retires to the cabin to brood. He is in the bunk behind me as I write — not asleep, but perfectly still & curled up like a mouse under the rug.
Nino is with the cook, & Mrs Hasty keeps them both in hand. It appears that Celesta is growing fond of one of the Italian sailors.

A
History
of
My
Life’s
Economies

I am born in 1810, the eldest of nine children, in Cambridge, Massachusetts. My ancestors are a muddle of Tories & Colonial Rebels, agitatingly always in politics as well as business & farming. My father, Timothy Fuller, was so eager never to shrink from a fight that he was known to start them with no provocation whatsoever. His marriage to my mother was a love match. It was not economically expedient, as he was a politically ambitious lawyer & she came from an altogether humbler & quieter family, the Cranes. His eventual rise to State Senator & then to Representative to the Congress of the United States cost more than these positions paid into the family coffers tho’ he continued his legal practice.

My little sister Julia’s death in 1814 (she was 2 years of age) was an emotional
expense
. I was not aware of things in terms of cost at the time. Life has been eager to educate me in such economies since. As the number of children grew, we occupied a large house in Cambridgeport & when Father went to Washington for many months of the year we lived comfortably but also sparingly. In winter Mother set our beds around the chimney at night, explaining that even sticks of wood & coals were costly so we must warm one another.

I read everything. Father had trained me from the age of 3 to read English, Greek, & Latin. Later I acquired German, Italian, French, Hebrew. I read Schiller & understood the words long before I understood the meaning. I had head-aches from the age of 5 & occasional convulsions from the age of 13 tho’ my health never impeded my studies if I remembered to take air & vigorous long walks.

At the age of 9 years I am sent to day classes at the Port School. It costs $12 for the term. I show some improvement in penmanship under the writing master, Mr Gould. From him I learn that ink from the shop is a luxury but that we can mix our own with linseed oil, chimney soot & pine spirits.

At the age of 11 I am sent to live with a family friend in Boston & attend Dr Park’s School during the week. I take top honors & do not make friends. This costs $15 for a term. I also attend dancing school, twice a week, $1 a week.

For reasons perhaps related to the cost, Father removes me from the school at Christmas & brings me home to live with Mother. In a make-shift school-room in the back parlor, I begin to teach my brothers & my sister Ellen how to read & write. At 13, I accompany Mother to my first afternoon parties. I seem to remember that two new dresses were required for each season. I do not remember the exact numbers, but estimate each dress made by a dressmaker for hire is nearly $5. Those we make at home cost considerably less. I am clever with my hands & become the family seamstress tho’ Mother is unhappy when I make myself a dress of
crimson satin which she says is unsuitable for my age. When Father comes home from Washington he forbids me to wear it in company.

In 1824 I am sent to board at Groton School in the country. For some reason I never hear the cost. It is possible that Father traded my education expenses for some political or family favor once shown the owner, Miss Prescott, as this school is in the town where Father grew up & knows everyone. In 1826, Father buys a grand “palace” on Dana Street in Cambridge. The President & Mrs John Quincy Adams come to dinner.

The baby of the family, Eddie, dies in my arms from a fever in September of 1829.

By 1831, Father’s political career is unsteady but he says that his legal practice still clears him $20 a day. Nevertheless he decides to retire & become a gentleman farmer; he sells the Dana Street house for $8,000. As the family is temporarily homeless, I am sent to live with my Uncle Abraham in his Brattle House, a mansion-cage. I have a mystical vision of the All & resolve to forget the self & selfishness. It is clear that I will need to earn money to support the family now.

Father buys a 28-acre farm in Groton. It costs too much (I never know exactly how much) & will require the employment of himself, his wife, & his now 7 children to make it prosper. I do all the sewing & work in the dairy with Mother & we save school costs by my teaching Ellen & my brothers. I look for work translating in the hopes of earning extra money.

Upon Father’s death, in 1836, we learn that the estate is worth nearly $20,000 but that most of it is tied up in the land. Mother cannot continue to run the farm by herself but with the boys & with two tenants to help, she can get by. Once the Uncles sort it all out, my portion is less than $1,500, not even enough to finance a trip I had hoped to take with friends to Europe. (I was going by a calculation offered by a knowledgeable friend, that it would cost $5 a day, with an additional “cushion” of $500 for unforeseen expenses.)

At the advice of Harriet Martineau, whom I have met through my Boston friends, I embark on a biography of Goethe. It is around this time that I first meet you, my little friend! & All your wonderful Peabody clan: Your fine mother & sisters & dozens of friends as well. Meanwhile, I have taken courage from the example of your sister Elizabeth, who hosts “Conversations” in Boston, lecture-classes for ladies, for which she charges $15 a “series” or “term.” By moving to Boston & living with an aunt, & with Elizabeth’s kind tutelage, I am able to do the same. With a combination of German tutoring & Conversation classes I acquire 25 students! About half my income I send home to Mother. Through the help of Elizabeth & of Mr Emerson, I am able to sell three literary reviews to Boston magazines. ($9!) I am “launched.”

At the same time, Mr Alcott opens his Temple School in the upper floors of a Masonic Temple in Boston. I teach
languages there in the mornings — and my other job is to record as secretary Mr Alcott’s own “Conversations on the Gospels” with the young students. It becomes clear after the first few days that for prudence’s sake I need to stop writing down what he says & what the children reply. He is a large-minded man but he seems to have a knack for making trouble.

He does, in spite of my discretion; students are withdrawn & the school is shut down after one year. I am offered another teaching post, in Providence, at the handsome annual salary of $1,000 but hope I need not take it. I certainly can support myself on my private pupils & am eager to make progress on my Goethe biography. Alas in the Greater World finances crumble; I see my first “economic slough,” & Mother & the boys need my money if they are to be tutored & go on to College. I take the job at the Greene Street School in Providence.

Boarding with the mother of a colleague & teaching in Providence, I am in exile. Providence might as well be Borneo. Letters from Mr E, Caroline, & a few other friends are my sustenance. I teach Latin, composition, elocution, natural history, ethics & the New Testament to 60 pupils. (Twice the 30 I was originally promised.) I try to celebrate my exile by taking advantage of solitude: In the evenings I work on my life of Goethe & on a translation of Eckmann’s
Conversations
With
Goethe
, which I hope to sell to a Boston publisher.