Afternoons with Emily (4 page)

“There’s a fine lot he doesn’t see.”

“He’s a great one for
not
seeing, he is.”

“That one sees only what suits him.”

“There’s a name for what ails that child, and it’s not what the doctor calls it.”

“Why doesn’t she just pack her off to the orphanage and be done with it?”

“What would her grand high family be saying then, I ask you?”

I never really understood these snatches, but they made me feel uncomfortable and somehow guilty, and I would climb back up
to the nursery before Nanny Drummond woke up and missed me. But always the next day I came back down again, wandering and
looking, finding new alcoves, new rooms to explore.

In my steep tower of a house, above the basement kitchen came the elegant entrance hall. I liked the window resembling a lace
fan above the tall front door. I admired the black-and-white marble, in huge cold squares. If I ever had a friend, I imagined
we could play a giant’s game of checkers here.

Then came the stair, and behind the stair the gold dining room, with its Chinese panels of beady-eyed birds perched among
flowering branches. The birds seemed ill at ease, like me — though they spent more time there than I did.

From the entrance, the stairway rose in a graceful spiral, curving up to the second floor and the double parlors, the pride
of the house. Each parlor had four windows, three in the bay and one beside it; these were hung in heavy white silk and looped
with golden cords and tassels. Each room had a fireplace and a white marble mantel and an oval mirror in a precious golden
wreath.

Though the walls were white, the beautiful rooms overflowed with brilliant color, exploding from rugs and velvets and brocades.
And I was never quite alone. The Cabots and Curtises and Howes lived in the double parlors. They looked down on me from their
arrogance and their gold-leaf frames, awaiting the guests who never came. The silent rooms gleamed for the portraits, the
tireless clock, and me. I studied the paintings until they stopped frightening me, staring until their expressions struck
me as funny on their imperious faces.

Above the parlors were two floors of bedrooms. My mother’s door was always shut, though I knew her maid came and went, knocking
and whispering her name — then the door would be opened and closed softly. Sometimes a stern minister called there too. Now
and then I would hear my mother’s silk skirt whispering on the stairs, and the front door opening and shutting heavily as
she left the house. Her presence was an absence, even when I knew she was at home. I could feel her closed door all over the
house. I never knew where my mother went or what she did. I had no idea whom she saw or when and what she ate — if she even
ate at all. She was quite unlike anyone I had ever seen.

My father’s library was on the same floor, at the front; he let me use it on weekdays, when he was away teaching. Once, I
was sitting by his window with an enormous album of Greek gods in my lap, and it slipped out of my hands and landed with a
loud thud. My mother must have heard and came to investigate. I was surprised; I had heard she was quite ill, and I had not
seen her in weeks. She was dressed for the street in a blue velvet costume. She didn’t look ill; she was very beautiful, as
always.

“Ara, what are you doing with your father’s books?”

“He lets me read them, if I put them back in the same place exactly,” I replied. “We have a
treaty.
”

“Really? That’s rather surprising. You’re only four, aren’t you?” She went to the window and looked down at Mount Vernon Street,
dulled by an autumn rain.

“I was five
ages
ago. And I know all about words. Shall I show you?” I opened the book to a page illustrated with an engraving of Apollo,
and I began to read. “ ‘Apollo, the sun god, was the brother of Artemis, the moon goddess.’ ”

Mother broke in. “That’s fine, Ara. Now you’ll be able to amuse yourself, won’t you? Reading always helps to pass the time,
I find . . .” Her voice faded; she rustled away, and I heard her door close.

Later, Nanny Drummond told me my mother had just come back from a month in South Carolina. I would have asked her about her
trip, but I never knew she had gone away.

I was surprised that my mother thought I was still only four years old. But it did provide an explanation for a situation
that had disturbed me. Ever since I turned five I had expected to begin lessons at home with a group of cousins — probably
the freckled Lowells, who had a nice mademoiselle I had met on walks around Beacon Hill. I wanted to study properly, to spend
time with other children. But no one said anything. Perhaps it was because my distracted parents continued to think I was
still a baby of four that they had done nothing about it. I went to Father’s library and asked him when I would be starting
my lessons.

“Ara, we think you’re still not well enough to be with the other children.”

I frowned. Was he talking about my perfectly healed foot — or was the consumption that stalked this house still holding me
prisoner, separating me from the cousins? Was it that I wasn’t strong enough or was it that I was a danger? Somehow I knew
not to ask these questions of my father.

“We’ll have to find another way for you to learn.” He rubbed his eyes as if my question had made him tired.

“I can read now. Perhaps I could teach myself,” I offered, since he looked so sad.

He gave me a small smile. “That won’t be necessary. Your uncle Thomas has a better idea, Ara. You know he’s very fond of you.”

I was glad to hear this. I had met Father’s friend Thomas Bulfinch in Father’s library, and we talked about the Greek myths
he and Father were collecting. I had learned most of the stories from the engravings in Father’s art books, and he told me
new ones I had not heard.

“Is he to be my teacher?” I asked.

“No, Ara, his own teaching and research take up most of his time. But we will find you a tutor at Harvard. Meanwhile your
uncle Tom thinks you should learn penmanship.”

So twice a week Mr. Fisher came up to my nursery to teach me the strokes I use with pride today. He himself was of a formal
Spenserian mode, stiff and correct. Then Mrs. Eaton, a friendly neighbor known to be poor and “artistic,” was engaged to instruct
me in paper dolls. Even at five, I sensed these accomplishments were not an education; I was consumed with curiosity and was
eager to learn more about what lay beyond my nursery walls, our lonely house, even our beautiful street.

One afternoon in March 1849, when I was five and a half, I lay in bed, Nanny Drummond hovering over me due to my current sniffles
and fatigue. The downstairs maid, Jenny, came to tell us that Father wanted to see me. My energy picked up because this was
new and interesting. After a moment of worrying that I wasn’t well enough to get out of bed, Nanny insisted on a clean pinafore,
so I felt late when I hurried down to the library.

Father had a guest — a younger man, very tall and thin, with red hair and kind eyes. I curtsied, as Nanny Drummond had taught
me, and tipped back my head to look at him. We must have seemed an odd pair — like a stork and a mouse, chatting. He sat down
and motioned for me to come over to him.

“Hello, Ara,” he said. “My name is Mr. Harnett. I have been your father’s student at Harvard, and I am Mr. Tom Bulfinch’s
friend. I come from New York, and I have a sister five years older than you. I love her, and books, and the sea. What about
you?”

“I never met the sea.”

“But books, Ara?”

“Yes, I love to read. I read all the time.”

“Which are your favorite books?”

“Stories and myths, I think.” I went to the shelves and brought back Father’s book of mythic engravings. “I like the stories
in here.”

“Tell me one of them.”

So as best I could, I told Mr. Harnett about Apollo turning Daphne into a laurel tree. I had never had to talk in front of
people; I think I must have sounded like a little bird in the big quiet room.

“You tell it very well, Ara.” What a beautiful deep voice he had! And he was complimenting me. It made me want to talk more.

“I love reading about Greece,” I told him. “The gods just run around in the sun, playing war and doing tricks. And I like
the bright colors.”

“Now tell me about Daphne.” I felt the force of his concentration on me; he seemed interested in what I might have to say.

I studied the picture closely, although I had seen it hundreds of times before. I wanted to give this Mr. Harnett a worthy
and considered answer. “She’s not very old. Her face is scared. Do you see those little branches coming out of her arms? That
would scare me.”

“Me too.” Mr. Harnett stood all the way up and shook my hand as if I were a grown-up. Then he turned to Father, smiling. “I’ll
come every morning at nine, starting tomorrow. It will be a privilege, Dr. Chase.”

I had been feeling listless, with a lot of colds — or maybe it was the same one over and over again. Overnight, I was bounding
with energy. When Mr. Harnett arrived the next morning, I was clean and braided and eager. My nursery table was entirely empty;
nothing should intrude on whatever he was bringing to the first lesson.

“Good morning, Ara; it’s a pleasure to be here.”

I felt pleased to my toes. He genuinely seemed to be as happy as I was to begin this brand-new adventure, but he soon found
I was very slow at figures. I could not connect them with my life, never having bought or measured or compared anything. Also
I was puzzled by games, lacking the competitive spirit or any reason to compete. I was saved and made teachable, though, by
that true scholar’s gift: I was a born reader, effortless and insatiable. So all my history and geography came disguised as
poetry or novels. My father, now a full professor at Harvard, gave us the freedom of his classical library. By the time I
was seven, I must have known as much about Achilles as any Harvard freshman. I never noticed that my vocabulary was growing
at a rapid rate or that my conversations with Mr. Harnett included topics in the newspaper. More important, my little attic
became filled with colorful characters — first from this book, then from all the books that followed. From my dormer windows,
I could look out and down over Beacon Hill and all the streets and roofs and rusty chimney pots.

Thanks to Mr. Harnett, I learned English history through
Beowulf
and Scott. I studied Norse legends and geography in the sagas. My class materials were sometimes very worldly. We soon discovered
witty and wise Jane Austen. If it hadn’t been for my family reputation of being consumptive, I would have never known my tutor
and all his valuable unchildish teachings. I would have been taking traditional lessons with some cousin’s governess or mademoiselle,
but since this was not possible, Father accepted the need to educate me and did his duty brilliantly, if only by accident.

I recall one particular winter morning when I was eight. It had been snowing on and off for weeks, and the low, dark sky promised
more. From my dormers, I could see the worn snow on Joy Street and Cedar Street and Pinckney Street, soiled from the passing
carriage horses. Every chimney pot sat in its sooty circle on the snowy roofs. The view was a sad design of black and brown
and gray. Inside, though Mr. Harnett had demanded a new nursery stove, I still wore mittens and a shawl. The lamp continued
to smoke.

And in all this chill and gloom, I was more than content — I was eager and joyful! I had laid out our books and papers for
the morning’s work; we were deep into Viking studies. Mr. Harnett would sharpen our pencils when he came, using the little
pocketknife I had asked my father to buy for him at Christmas. My tutor had given me some real English watercolors, in tiny
tubes.

Our scale model of the Viking Tower at Newport was almost finished, and I had completed my assignment: a day in the life of
Eric the Yellow, a cowardly Viking who sought every way to avoid fighting. Sometimes he lost his shield; often he fell overboard.
Today, going for honey to make the mead, he had knocked over the beehive. Now his poor eyes were swollen shut from bee stings
— he couldn’t possibly fight!

I listened for the big clock on the landing. When it started striking nine, I began to recite aloud the Shakespeare sonnet
I was learning. This week’s was
“When to the sessions of sweet silent thought . . .”
And then Mr. Harnett’s deep and expressive voice joined mine —
“I summon up remembrance of things past”
— as he climbed the stairs. We recited together to the end, with a final flourish at
“All losses are restored and sorrows end.”
Then he said, “Good morning, Ara! Tell me what old Eric the Yellow has been up to!” and our class began.

That particular dark February morning was the precise moment when I realized that this companionship, this action and energy
and laughter, were all gifts from Mr. Harnett. He had brought the world over the rooftops and into my cold nursery.

From 1849 to 1852, I marked time passing by the seasons — and whatever I was studying with Mr. Harnett. After the Vikings
(who arrived here first, after all!) we spent about a year and a half on the Puritans and the Massachusetts Bay Colony.

“Here’s your chance to learn all about your remarkable family,” Mr. Harnett told me, smiling. “But we’re not in the saint
business; we’ll have to talk about their faults too.”

Thus I learned that my ancestors were brave and resolute but sometimes rigid and joyless. When we completed Boston and studied
the other colonies, I decided Jefferson and Franklin were my true non Puritan heroes — because they had humor and new ideas,
and enjoyed living. And Jefferson loved the Greeks too, all his life.

One of these years, around 1850, I became aware of some Springfield relatives: Father’s younger married sister, Aunt Helen
Chase Sloan, and her family. Aunt Helen came to stay on Mount Vernon Street for a few days. I sensed a sympathy and a gentleness
that my Latham relatives lacked. Nanny Drummond clearly adored her.