The Whale (25 page)

“Fort Stanwix,” Jeanie repeated. “I don't believe we covered that battle at my school.”

“You may have forgotten it,” said Maria, “but you are an American because of it.”

“I suppose it's a courageous name, then, Mrs. Melville. Of course, it's nothing like Hope.”

Maria narrowed her eyes. As far as she knew, the prospect of naming Lizzie's baby Hope had never been mentioned outside the family, so now she was certain that Herman was dallying with this impertinent young girl and telling her all their secrets. “It's better than hope, Miss Field—it's victory!”

Dudley sauntered up. “What hope do we have of victory?” he asked.

“None that I can tell,” said Herman. He excused himself with an abrupt bow and walked to the table where Mrs. Sedgwick was guarding the army of crystal champagne coupes. He toasted the dowager matron and drank a glass; and at last he did begin to feel drunk, which was one more thing he had to worry about when Hawthorne arrived.

The front door opened, and Catharine came in again, escorting an extremely well-dressed middle-aged lady, who was smiling rather artificially. Her long yellow scarf coiled around and around her neck so many times that her head seemed to emerge directly from it, with no connection whatsoever to the rest of her body; and so many feathers festooned her hat that it seemed her head might take flight.

Catharine struck a spoon several times against a wine glass to call for quiet. “Dear friends,” she said, “may I present our new neighbor, Mrs. Theodora James.”

The guests clapped. Mrs. James began speaking before the applause had ceased, in a clear voice with a highborn English accent. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am honored to be in your company. I have been given a message to deliver from my husband. He says that he deeply regrets missing this opportunity to make your acquaintance, but he has, this very afternoon, begun writing a new novel, and he simply cannot be torn away from it for anything in the world; but he greatly looks forward to making your acquaintance on another day, and he knows that the writers among you will understand. Thank you.” Mrs. James took a glass of champagne and raised it; and, without awaiting return salutations, sipped and nodded at Mrs. Sedgwick. The room had gone completely silent, and everyone gawped as she bustled across the parlor. She sat down between Augusta Melville and Eliza Fields, as coolly as if she were at home. Mrs. James turned to Augusta and said, “Who is the best silversmith in this area, would you say?”

The other guests went back to chatting in their groups; though now every one of them talked in hushed, excited voices about the extraordinary cheek of Mr. and Mrs. G.P.R. James.

Holmes joined Herman at the champagne, and said, “This James fellow can't stop scribbling long enough to have a glass of wine. Gives writing a bad name.”

Melville heard Holmes's words without comprehending their meaning, so lost was he in his own despairing thoughts. Oh, why could he not control himself the least little bit? What was this mutiny in his heart? His love for Hawthorne had become the most horrible thing he could imagine. He could not even enjoy the triumph and expectation of having his new book in print, since he feared that its only true audience might refuse to read it. In fact, his sole object this
evening was to delay Hawthorne's departure from the Berkshires long enough so that he could present him a copy of
Moby Dick
in person.

He took another glass of champagne and wandered toward the hearth. Herman had the impression that someone was saying something to him, but he zeroed in on the fire, with unwavering steps, taking a place next to Ellery Channing and James Fields, who were arguing about some new Indian war that had broken out in California. Herman pretended to listen to them, and he achieved a momentary numbness, with the jabber of the entire party combining with the crackle of the fire to form a meditative hiss and babble in his ears.

A blast of cold air swirled across the room and a welcoming chorus ended his transitory calm. He felt it even before he turned around: Hawthorne! As with Mrs. James before him, Catharine quieted the crowd by tinkling a glass and welcoming Mr. Hawthorne—who, unlike Mrs. James, seemed mortified to be the center of attention.

“Thank you for inviting me,” he said quietly. “My wife regrets that she could not be here, but she wished that I would assure you of how much she has enjoyed the company of everyone in Lenox during our sojourn here—as I have—and how warmly she will remember our time among you—as I will.”

This speech met with “Hear! Hear!” and raised glasses. A group gathered around Hawthorne, who stood still only with the greatest effort, judging by the panic in his eyes. Someone handed him a glass of champagne, and he held it up almost defensively.

Where, Herman thought, is that easy, funny, brilliant Hawthorne that I have known in private? How can two such opposed people exist in one man's breast—the gregarious, genial man of letters, and the petrified wallflower disdainful of all company? He walked slowly toward Hawthorne. Who is this man who can display such warm, loving feelings one moment and such glacial disregard the next? What is your secret, Hawthorne? Do I know it already?

Herman gulped down his champagne and deposited his glass on the table at his mother's elbow, utterly ignoring something his mother was saying. He slipped around the cluster of bodies encircling Hawthorne. Dr. Holmes was delivering a benediction when Herman caught Hawthorne's eye and held it.

Holmes was saying, “. . . and I anticipate seeing you five times as often, after you've established your new home. Boston is spitting distance from West Newton, and I expect you to spit on Boston as often as I do.” He raised his glass, and the group followed, with the lone exception being Hawthorne himself, who seemed transfixed by Herman's stare.

Jeanie stepped into the silence after Holmes's toast and said, “Mr. Hawthorne, I wonder if I could ask you something that has been puzzling me about your latest romance.”

“Of course,” said the flustered Hawthorne.

“It's rather an idiotic question.” She fluttered her eyelashes coquettishly. “I would be embarrassed. Might I steal you for just a moment alone?”

Hawthorne uncomprehendingly allowed Jeanie to take his arm, and she led him a few paces away to the piano. She made a little nod of her head to Herman, and then she positioned herself between Hawthorne and the rest of the party.

Herman approached. He felt all the alcohol he had drunk come rushing into his tongue, which slithered along the insides of his teeth.

“Hawthorne, I must sincerely apologize to you. Please—”

“No,” Hawthorne said, with passion. “It is I who owe you the apology, Melville. It was I—” He stopped abruptly and looked at Jeanie. “What question did you mean to ask me, Miss Field?”

“You have answered it. Thank you, Mr. Hawthorne.” Jeanie turned her back and withdrew a step.

Hawthorne continued in a whisper, “I know I led you to believe things that were not true. Or that I wished not to admit.” Perspiration appeared on his forehead. “That is to say, I have behaved horribly, Melville. You must forgive me! I have handled everything so badly—with you, with everyone.”

Herman could not believe what he was hearing; yet, he did not quite understand it, either. He tried to console himself and Hawthorne at the same time by saying, “It isn't easy to know what to do.”

“I have been the source of much torment for you, and I'm sorry.”

“But if you feel this way, why are you moving to West Newton? What has happened?”

Jeanie was loudly asking Charles Sedgwick about a certain kind of cheese and shuffling back toward Herman, signaling with her hand behind her back that their moment to talk privately was coming to an end. Herman moved closer to Hawthorne and whispered with great urgency.

“Please delay your move until I can come to Lenox and give you a copy of
Moby Dick
. It would mean the world to me to give it to you personally.”

“When?”

“Bentley has shipped copies from London, and the Harpers are printing the American edition right now. I don't know which will come first, but perhaps a week. Ten days at the latest.”

Hawthorne considered. “All right.” This concession, combined with Hawthorne's miraculous apology, lifted Herman's spirits so much that he almost felt human again, and even oddly sober.

Sarah Morewood broke into their tête-à-tête. “Mr. Hawthorne, my brother says that you have a new children's book coming out.”

Herman withdrew and practically floated back to the fireside. He did not notice that he stepped on his sister Helen's foot, or that
he bumped Channing's arm, causing him to spill champagne, or that he knocked over the fireplace tools when he leaned against the mantel. He became aware of himself again only when Jeanie snapped her fingers in front of his nose and handed him yet another glass of champagne.

“You're welcome,” she said.

Catharine persuaded Melville to favor them with a sea shanty. He asked Jeanie to accompany him on the piano, and they huddled near the instrument for a brief discussion of possible tunes, while the rest of the guests whispered privately among themselves and with a great deal of delight about the affair that Herman and Miss Field were so obviously having and how scandalous it was, with Melville's baby still barely arrived in the world and Lizzie home sick. Herman's mother thought she would die. Jeanie sat down at the piano and played quickly through the chords of a song, then nodded.

“Sea shanties work best,” Herman announced, “as call-and-response songs.” He barely knew what he was saying. “Work songs. So we are going to put you all to work.” Everyone groaned. “Come now. We'll never make it around the Cape of Good Hope with that sort of attitude!” He taught them the melody to “Haul Away, Joe,” and talked them through a verse and a refrain for practice, instructing them when to sing their “haul away, Joes.” He did so with such warmth and enthusiasm, and the group so enjoyed disapproving of his scandalous behavior that they actually managed a rousing chorus.

Jeanie pounded out the chords in earnest. Melville sang as if he truly were leading a shipboard work detail.

Louis was the king of France

Before the revolution

Away, haul away, we'll haul away, Joe!

But then he got his head chopped off

Which spoiled his constitution

Away, haul away, we'll haul away, Joe!

Once I was in Ireland

Digging turf and pratties

Away, haul away, we'll haul away, Joe!

And now I'm on a Yankee ship

Hauling sheets and natties

Away, haul away, we'll haul away, Joe!

To me, way, haul away

We'll heave and hang together

Away, haul away, we'll haul away Joe!”

The song had dozens of standard verses, and a nearly infinite number of possibilities for someone like Herman, who could rhyme couplets off the top of his head; and he led the singing for some minutes, remembering verses haphazardly and improvising when his memory failed, until he sensed that their enthusiasm was flagging. He nodded to Jeanie, who built loudly toward a finish, which he improvised as a final farewell for Hawthorne:

Hawthorne was a famous man

Lived in a Berkshire village

Away, haul away, we'll haul away, Joe!

With his ink and with his pen

He plundered and he pillaged!

Away, haul away, we'll haul away, Joe!

To me, way, haul away

We'll heave and hang together

Away, haul away, we'll haul away Joe!

With the final chord, everyone cheered and held up their glasses and searched the room for the famous plundering and pillaging author. Only Herman had noticed, early on in the song—during the first flush of everyone's pleasure—that Hawthorne had slipped quietly away, into the night.

Ten days later, Herman sat in a cold, drafty passenger car with three other travelers on the Hudson and Berkshire Railway, clattering toward Lenox. His soul felt like a torpedoed man-of-war, blasted and timbered. As Herman had requested, the moment the first shipment of
The Whale
had arrived from London, Evert Duyckinck had sent a messenger boy with half a dozen copies by train from New York to Pittsfield, at no small expense. Coincidentally, on the very same day, the Harper and Brothers American edition of
Moby Dick
had come out, and Herman had commandeered presentation copies of the Harper's version, as well; so now the box of books that sat beside him as he journeyed toward Lenox and his meeting with Hawthorne contained six fresh-off-the-boat copies of
The Whale
, the English version, and six fresh-off-the-press copies of
Moby Dick
. These two editions were supposed to be identical in every way except for their titles; however, upon closer inspection, Melville had found a number of pages missing from the English edition, including the very last page—the epilogue—which made sense of the rest of the novel. Without that final page, without the survival of the main character, Ishmael, no narrator would exist to tell the tale, and the conceit of the narrative would collapse. Herman had nearly torn his beard out when he'd discovered the error, stamping and swearing and cursing Bentley, as if Captain Ahab had taken control of his body. Finally, he had calmed down enough to compose a letter to Bentley explaining the mistake and begging him to withdraw the copies he had
already sent out to reviewers, but he feared it was too late. Could the English magazines be alerted before their reviews appeared? How quickly could the bungled copies be replaced, and at how much expense, and who would ultimately pay for it? A printing error that sabotaged the entire work! It was difficult to believe and even harder to swallow.

He sat on the train brooding over this disaster, his mind blank with despair. He would simply have to hope that the mistake could be corrected before reviews of the misbegotten version destroyed its prospects utterly. Harper's, at least, had produced a faithful version of his manuscript, so American reviewers would have the chance to evaluate
Moby Dick
as Herman had intended it. Perhaps that would be enough, since the American market would matter more in the long run; but Herman felt as if he had been rammed by this misshapen and hideous
Whale
, and now his soul lay shivered, hull up in the waters of eternity, waiting to sink.

If nothing else, Herman told himself by way of consolation, I will at least be able to give Hawthorne the correct version. He held the copy of
Moby Dick
that he had selected for Nathaniel, the best example of the lot, with crisp, uncut pages, a flawless cover, and that true last page. Oh, how could they have left off the last page? he thought. It was a trick so cruel that only God or the devil could have contrived it, and Herman entertained the possibility that heaven and hell had called an armistice just long enough to collaborate against him.

By the time the train approached Lenox, the afternoon had turned ashen gray, and the day seemed to share Herman's exhaustion. His love for Hawthorne and the energy he had squandered on it for so long, day and night, had worn him down to a state of nervous fatigue, which seemed permanent to him now. He felt Captain Ahab charging madly through the pages of
Moby Dick
, raving and ripping, a howling
caricature of pain—his love turned inside out. Had it been worth it? Oh, Hawthorne, why could you not have talked to me more, and more openly, instead of damning me alone to my pages?

Though Hawthorne was moving only the relatively short distance to West Newton, he might as well have been going to the moon. Herman only ever traveled to the Boston area these days to visit the Shaws, and he could imagine no excuse that might take him to the suburbs during a stay with his in-laws. And Hawthorne had demonstrated with painful clarity, again and again, that he would be making no special efforts to visit Herman or even communicate with him. This was farewell, and as a parting concession from the Fates, Melville would be allowed to present Hawthorne with all of his love and obsession and despair bound in leather. Hawthorne would carry away Herman's soul, set in type, and Herman would be left out in the Berkshires, loveless, with his botched English copies of
The Whale
. Under the circumstances, Herman almost did not want to see Hawthorne again, but this meeting was now the only thing he had left.

The train pulled into the Lenox station and huffed to a stop. Herman left his box of books with the Lenox stationmaster, taking with him only the
Moby Dick
he would give to Hawthorne, and walked up Main Street toward the Curtis Hotel. He tipped his hat to the few people he met on the street. The town seemed so different now from the sunnier aspect it wore in summer, when happy vacationers overwhelmed the locals; today, the breeze was frigid, and low clouds threatened rain, or snow; and Herman met only gray old-timers shuffling along, huddled into their coats.

Herman had sent a messenger to precede him into Lenox—it was a luxury he could not really afford just now, but he needed the peace of mind that came with this expedience more than he needed the money—a messenger who had arranged for Hawthorne to meet him at
the Curtis. Herman could not face another visit to Hawthorne's cottage with Sophia and their children, and he could think of nowhere better for a rendezvous than the grandest hotel in the center of town. It would be mostly empty now, with the holiday season over, and no Lenoxite with a home of his own would eat dinner at a hotel. He hoped they would have some solitude, right out in the open.

He arrived and stood outside for a moment, looking up at the hotel's three stories of rough, red clay bricks. Shiny black shutters framed every window. He wondered if Hawthorne was already inside—but this prospect caused him no palpitations of the heart now, no sweating of the palms, no nervous tics. He was exhausted; and he dared not allow himself to hope for anything from their meeting, to wonder what Hawthorne had meant by apologizing so heatedly at Catharine Sedgwick's party. He was grateful simply to have the opportunity to present his book to Nathaniel, and that's all he expected from this afternoon—if, indeed, Hawthorne appeared at all. He reminded himself that Hawthorne had disappointed him many times in the past, and Hawthorne's hypervigilant conscience could conceivably keep him at home with Sophia again today; or, for all Herman knew, he might have silently recanted his vow to wait for
Moby Dick
and already moved to West Newton. No, Herman could not afford to hope. He walked up the stone steps and a valet opened the door and escorted him to the dining room.

Melville ordered a coffee with whiskey and settled into a table near a window with a view of downtown. The table linens were real linen, the coffee cup, when it arrived, was actual china, the silverware was genuine silver, and the coffee and whiskey were both first-rate. The ghoulish specter of the cost of all this finery emerged from the steam of his drink, but he exorcised it immediately by saying out loud, “Who steals my purse steals trash,” and he took out his wallet and
placed it on the table. If anything merited a trip to the poorhouse, this occasion did. He sipped his expensive coffee and watched the sun set.

 • • • 

Half a dozen diners had wandered in and taken tables by the time Hawthorne arrived, just after dark; and despite his earlier despair and exhaustion, Herman felt a jolt of energy just from seeing Nathaniel's tall, elegant figure in his black double-breasted frock coat striding across the dining room. Hawthorne slung his satchel off his shoulder and threaded hastily between tables, upsetting an empty chair so that it teetered. His cheeks were red from the cold, and he seemed somewhat out of breath, as if he had been hurrying, which pleased Herman. His wavy brown hair fanned out like a lion's mane, windblown and lustrous. Herman stood to greet him, and Nathaniel shook his hand warmly and swept into his seat. The waiter came immediately, and Hawthorne asked for “whatever my friend is having,” and the last of Herman's weariness lifted. Hawthorne seemed entirely present: he seemed almost the same as when they had first met, eyes twinkling and cheery, and Herman cautioned himself to take some care with his own heart, even as he fell helplessly once again into those luminous brown eyes.

“Do you know,” Hawthorne said, “I have lived here for nearly two years and never dined in this hotel? It's quite splendid, isn't it?”

“It is now,” Herman said. He could not help himself. He blushed and looked down into his empty cup.

“If I had known about this place,” said Hawthorne, “I might have come here often and sent myself to the almshouse. Perhaps it's better if this memory is the only one I take from it.”

Herman wished he could ask about that night they had spent drinking in Hawthorne's cottage, about how it had ended, about his feelings now, but he dared not. Hawthorne's reaction was clear—he was moving away—but his presence across the table indicated that
the matter remained far from simple. Oh, Nathaniel, he thought, would I love you less if you spoke more openly?

He held out the copy of
Moby Dick
—as far as he knew, the first American copy available—and Hawthorne took it, passing his hand sensuously several times over the front cover, caressing the spine with his fingertips.

“New books feel special,” said Hawthorne. “They're like babies born into the skin of old men.” He turned it over and hefted it several times and then reached into his satchel and withdrew a copy of his
Wonder Book
, a slender tome that had also just been published, which he handed to Herman. “I don't pretend it can compete with your whale,” he said, “but I thought it would please you.” Herman took the book, and Hawthorne opened it even while it lay in Herman's hands, so their fingers touched. Hawthorne flipped the pages until he found a particular passage. “Here,” he said, and he pointed to a line a couple of hundred pages in. “A little tribute.”

Herman read aloud: “On the hither side of Pittsfield sits Herman Melville, shaping out the gigantic conception of his ‘White Whale,' while the gigantic shape of Greylock looms upon him from his study window.” Herman had to read the sentence three more times, silently to himself, before he could believe it; and even then, he turned the book over and read the spine and the cover, trying to convince himself that it was real. He felt his eyes welling: Hawthorne had mentioned him in a book! He set
A Wonder Book
aside and opened
Moby Dick
in Hawthorne's hands. He used a butter knife to cut the opening pages apart and pointed to the dedication.

Now Hawthorne read aloud: “In token of my admiration for his genius, this book is inscribed to Nathaniel Hawthorne.” Hawthorne fell back into his seat; and now it was Hawthorne's turn to read the sentence several times and reheft the volume in his hands. “After all
I made you endure!” The tear in Hawthorne's eye did not quite crest onto his cheek before he wiped it away.

Herman was acutely aware that the other diners were now staring at them, surreptitiously, gawking over their menus and cups and talking behind their hands—two men crying over books! He caught the amused eye of one of the waiters, who must have recognized Hawthorne as a local resident; and for once Herman felt protective of Nathaniel's reputation, even while two big happy teardrops rolled down his cheeks. But if Hawthorne noticed the effect they were having on those around them, he seemed not to care. The waiter came while they were both wiping their eyes, and Hawthorne ordered a bottle of their best champagne.

“Had it not been for you,” said Herman, “I could never have written this book. Not as it is. It is your book as much as mine.”

“Be careful—I may ask for a share of the royalties.” Hawthorne busily cut the pages and opened randomly to chapters here and there, scanning paragraphs and nodding appreciatively. “Don't worry,” said Hawthorne. “I will also read it in order.”

The waiter came back with champagne, and the uncorking of it caused even more of a stir among the other diners. Hawthorne and Melville made a pact with their eyes to ignore everyone, and they ordered a luxurious meal of roasted beef, potatoes with gravy, carrots, and biscuits, and a bottle of Bordeaux to follow the champagne.

“Have you had any reviews yet?” asked Hawthorne. Herman said that he had not but feared the worst because of the mistake in the English edition, which he explained morosely. Hawthorne said, “The American reviews will be out before anyone here reads the English magazines. The mistake will become known, and it will reflect badly on Bentley, when all is said and done, not on
Moby Dick
.”

“I wish I could be as optimistic. But I feel almost as if the spirit of Moby Dick himself is rising up to sabotage me. Have you heard about the sinking of the
Ann Alexander
?” Duyckinck had sent Herman the newspaper article about it, and now Herman related the story of the ship, stove and sunk in the South Pacific by an enraged sperm whale. “The incident happened on the very day in August that I sent my final pages to New York to be typeset,” said Herman. “And the first news of it appeared in the papers four days before my book was published in England. The crew survived but the whale escaped with two harpoons in its head. It is a powerful coincidence.”

“So you think your novel conjured this ferocious living whale?”

Herman felt genuinely superstitious about the incident. “Whales destroy whaleboats all the time—whaleboats being the tiny rowboats that the crew lower from the ship to give chase to their prey—but rarely does a whale attack an entire ship, much less sink it.”

“Like the
Essex
.”

“And like my
Pequod
, the account of which you hold in your hand—which, though fictional, has anticipated the real-life attack on the
Ann Alexander
. It is a story that should not have been told, perhaps—in the same way that the Hebrew name of God should never be uttered, lest it unleash an irresistible fury.”