My cousins, the Emersons, represented affluence, in my childish mind. Their house was a square wooden one, set among trees, mostly pines and chestnuts. There was a solemn, gravelike quality to it. I remember going down alone on errands, and always had a feeling of awe upon approaching it. I think this was because the trees were so close to the house that the grass would not grow and everything was damp around it. The door was always open, and Mr. Emerson generally came into the hall when anyone approached. This was a wonderful relief to me, as I was terrified by the women and servants. The inside gave me the impression of wealth and spaciousness. It may have been the reflection of the talk I heard at home, but it seemed very impressive and august.
No amount of grown-up talk could make me fear Mr. Emerson, however, or feel the slightest embarrassment in his presence. He seemed, like my grandmother, to be a perfect example of serenity. He received me as an equal and entertained me as if I were a young prince. He had reached that extreme height of simplicity where he could be interesting to a boy, and, while I preferred him to any of the others, I was quite sure he did not count for as much.
Mr. Emerson’s study was to the right of the hall. There was a large fireplace, and what were to me magnificent red-velvet chairs on either side. There must have been hangings of the same material, as I got the feeling of crimson everywhere. From the floor to the ceiling, the walls were lined with books—books that had been read and reread until the bindings were very much worn.
Of my early memories of Mr. Emerson, two are most vivid. The first in his garden, where he often took me, walking slowly about and telling me of each flower and plant as if it were a particular friend. I never read his Days that I do not visualize him in his “pleached garden,” showing me his pear trees.
The second memory is of Thanksgiving time. Every year on this day there was a gathering of the clan at the Emersons. There were the Thayers, Jacksons, Emersons, Simmonses, Bradfords, and Ripleys, but no others. The dinner was the traditional New England affair, the table heaped with food; and the conversation consisted of the usual family gossip. I remember there was always a discussion among the women as to whether one said Mr. Emerson or Cousin Waldo.
As soon as dessert was served and the nuts and fruit brought on, there was a little ceremony that was invariably performed. Mr. Emerson would look down from the head of the table and, pretending not to see me, say:
“Where is that little boy who likes figs?”
This was my cue to march up to him, and, taking me on his knee, he would pop into my mouth, one by one, these delightful and expensive fruits, until I could not contain another one. Of course, my mother protested all the time, but he paid not the slightest attention.
After dinner, in the evening, we played all sorts of games such as dumb crambo, and then everyone had to perform. It was a pet theory of Mr. Emerson’s that everyone should learn self-expression, and he demanded a recitation from the children of four and five up to those of the marriageable age. There was absolutely no way to get out of this.
Despite the protests of the women, Mr. Emerson would have his after-dinner cigar. In fact, he almost always got his way, although he was never dictatorial. Sometimes it was with a gentle remark. When his wife asked him if she could have a spiritualistic meeting in the front parlor, he answered her with Hotspur’s words: