17

A ten-year-old girl—blind, deaf, and dumb—sits before me, illuminated by the light pouring in from the tall windows here at the Perkins School for the Blind in Boston. She is at once human and spirit, a quiet angel with a presence of calm and innocence. I long to wrap her in protective arms, so vulnerable is she. Her name is Laura Bridgman, and a teacher sits with her, finger spelling on her arm when the girl becomes agitated. A bout of scarlet fever when Laura was only two years old left her in this insensate state, but her intelligence and capacity for learning are legendary. As are her tantrums, I am told.

Samuel Howe, the director, has commissioned me to make a bust—my first fully three-dimensional clay creation—that will be copied in schools for the blind across the country. I feel I am answering a calling in this work. At once I will immortalize Laura and advance my own future, and I hope to replace some of the money we lost at Brook Farm. Like Nathaniel, I had thought our investment was a good one, but we were both wrong. It did not take long for him to see that Mr. Ripley was a man of high ideals and little action, and that communal living was unsuitable for Nathaniel, as it was for many. I did not argue with Nathaniel when he decided to leave, and even supported him in his decision, though it set us further back financially.

Nathaniel does now seem to take more seriously the idea that my art might supplement our income. It seems that this progression—from flat pencil sketches, to oil paintings, to bas-relief, and now this bust—is developing my artistic talents at a fascinating rate. My bas-relief of Emerson’s deceased brother brought me the notoriety to receive this commission of a sculpture, if only my pulsing head will cooperate.

I stop and press my wrists to my temples, careful not to get plaster in my hair. I will call on Connie for mesmerism later this day, though I must not tell Nathaniel. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and will myself to continue, but the teacher at Laura’s side speaks, again halting me.

“You immortalize her well, Miss Peabody,” she says.

“Thank you. Do you think she understands what we are doing?”

“Let us see. May I have her touch you and the plaster?”

“It is still wet.”

“I will make sure she is gentle.”

I nod my approval, and the teacher spells on Laura’s arm. The girl becomes animated, and in seconds she is at my side. I am uneasy about the thought of her exploring my body, but realize she will learn something from it, and attempt to relax myself so she does not sense my wariness.

Laura’s thin fingers kiss my skin like butterfly wings, and I soon enter a state not unlike mesmerism. She first explores my hair, tugging and pulling so gently I am reminded of Josepha’s fingers in my ringlets, and then moving down my face and touching my eyes, and then her own, which she keeps covered with a cloth. She stays there awhile, so I keep my eyes closed, becoming sleepy under the pressure of her fingers. When she moves on, she does not seem to be interested in my nose or my plain mouth, but when she reaches my shoulders she spends time pressing them and kneading them before allowing her hands to travel down my arms, which I now use to reach out to my creation. She follows the curve down to my fingertips, and starts when she reaches my wet hands and the plaster cast. I stiffen, fearing that she will ruin my progress today, when her teacher begins a rapid spelling on the girl’s arm.

Laura holds her face down and to the side, as if trying to understand, and a few minutes of spelling pass before she lifts her head and smiles. She places one hand gently on the plaster cast, and the other on her own face, and seems transfixed. Tears wet her blindfold, though she smiles. I feel tears spring to my own eyes, and thank God for allowing me to share in this moment. These small, human discoveries are the essence of earthly joy, and I cannot wait to tell Nathaniel of it.

After a minute or two, Laura pulls away, and her teacher leads her to a towel to wipe the plaster from her fingers while I repair the slight disturbance she has made between the eyes of the bust. While I sit to admire my work, Laura begins to moan and cry. Her teacher raises her hand when I start to stand.

“It will be all right,” she says. “Sometimes she has fits of emotion. I can only imagine that her condition overwhelms her.”

“I understand,” I say, filled with pity for this creature so separated from the joys of the world. I would wither if I could not behold a sunset, or smell a gardenia, or hear the birds sing, or listen to a piano sonata. I am ashamed to find that I am unable to stop my own tears, and I am soon in the full clutches of a plaguesome headache. I reach for a towel to wipe my hands; it is clear that we are done for today.

Suddenly Laura rushes at me and clings to me, her little head resting on my bosom, against my pounding heart. I wrap my arms around her and place my head on hers, moved by the very clear feelings of gratitude and melancholy pulsing from this child. I attempt to convey my feelings back to her, and the physical warmth of our embrace seems to stimulate a cataract of images in my mind.

In rapid succession—almost as if I am dreaming—I feel the embraces of the Morrell children; Don Fernando’s lips on my hand; the oil on my fingers from cleaning the Magdalene portrait in Cuba; George’s clammy form at my side in his deathbed; and Nathaniel! The moment our eyes first met each other’s, his mouth on my neck in his apartment, his self swollen toward me at Brook Farm.

These impressions of physical stimulation outside of art bring on a headache like those I get when I create. Will all forms of acute sensory stimulation result in infirmity, or do I become ill because the sensations are incomplete, unrealized, and unfulfilled?

I pull away, blind from the pressure in my head that has surpassed any pain I have ever felt. I hear the teacher’s voice call for help, and then it is as if a black veil falls over the room.