The Whale by Mark Beauregard Read Free Book Online Page A

comforting him, silently exchanging gentle caresses and doleful looks.
    Herman began formulating an apology to Robert in his mind. He had been too preoccupied to notice his cousin’s difficulties, or to notice Robert at all, really; his family always hovered just at the edge of Herman’s attention—at least until a pot came flying at his head.
    He thought about what Robert had said, about the example of their fathers—Herman remembered his own father’s death well, because he had been with him through the delirium of his last night. Is that what I’m doing now, Herman thought, running from bad to worse like my father? But no, not all debt was the same: his father’s debt had been a problem—Herman’s debt would be a solution.
    Half an hour passed before it seemed safe to return to the kitchen for dinner. When they did, they discovered that the oatmeal had been cleaned from the walls and floor, and the pot was once again hanging from the rack above the stove, spotless. On the table, in Robert’s handwriting, they found an itemized bill for every day they had stayed at Broad Hall and every meal they had eaten.

Chapter 5
Hawthorne’s Package
    Herman woke early and slipped out of bed, while Lizzie snored into her pillow. They had written a letter to Lizzie’s father immediately, requesting a loan against her inheritance in order to buy a house in the Berkshires, spelling out the reasons why this idea made sense; but the letter had lain on the bedside table for three days now, waiting to be posted. Lizzie was still too overwhelmed by the enormity of the idea to act on it, and Herman felt absolutely mad every time he saw Judge Shaw’s name on the envelope.
Dollars
, he thought. Every time he saw Robert, he thought
dollars
. Every time he saw his hopeless manuscript on Robert’s desk, he thought
dollars
. The only thought he had now that didn’t immediately spiral into money was
Hawthorne
.
    He splashed water on his face from a basin near the window. He was looking out at the surprisingly clear blue skies overhead when his eye wandered to the little mirror on his bedside table and, in the reflection, he saw a strange envelope lying on the floor near the bedroom door. He tiptoed over and picked it up. It was addressed to him, in handwriting he did not recognize. He opened it and unfolded a sheet of ivory-hued stationery. The penmanship seemed hasty, the letters thin and spidery in some places and blotchy and dark in others.
    August 21, 1850
    Lenox
    My dear Melville,
    A peddler passed this way late this afternoon, selling from his cart wreathes of laurel, diamonds, golden crowns and various magical appurtenances, quite reasonably priced, but I sent him away disappointed, saying that I would trade all of his shiny baubles for a few volumes of prose, which would be worth far more in the end. Unfortunately, he had no items of prose and no similar salesman freighted with novels has yet appeared in Lenox, so I have asked Duyckinck to send me some volumes from New York and asked him further to send them by way of Pittsfield, in the hope that you might bring them on a visit to me, should it not prove too much an inconvenience. I must also compound the impertinence by requesting, moreover, if you would not mind, that you pick up a package that is awaiting us at the apothecary’s in Pittsfield, under my name. It will cost about $1.50, which I will repay when you come.
    Incidentally, I wanted to tell you something, a coincidence which I neglected to mention at the more appropriate time when we met on Monument Mountain, but which I find too curious not to relate; namely, that my father was a mariner—but wait! I have not said all—and that he died of a fever in Surinam! Perhaps this coincidence is not noteworthy to you, since you, no doubt, are acquainted with many more mariners than I, and succumbing to fevers in tropical climes must be counted a hazard of the profession.