“Sincerely Your Friend”:  Nathaniel Hawthorne’s
Zenobia as Homage to Margaret Fuller’s Mariana 

                                   Death
Come, say thy sorrows in this bosom!    This
Opens her sweet white arms, and whispers Peace
Will never close against thee, and my heart,
Though cold, cannot be colder much than man’s.
               (Mariana, Summer on the Lakes 129)

It is a woman’s doom, and I have deserved it like a woman; s
let there be no pity, as, on my part, there shall be no complaint.
It is all right, now, or will shortly be so. [. . .] When you next
hear of Zenobia, her face will be behind the black veil.
                         (Zenobia, The Blithedale Romance 229, 232)

            Much has been written about the complicated friendship between Margaret Fuller and Nathaniel Hawthorne.  In “The Riddle of Margaret Fuller,” Thomas R. Mitchell posits that Hawthorne was so obsessed with understanding Fuller that some of his best fiction arose out of his attempts to unravel her life: “Few figures who have puzzled over Fuller’s complexities [ . . . ] used her life for their own purposes more than did Nathaniel Hawthorne” (6).^[1]   And in “Margaret Fuller on Hawthorne,” David B. Kesterson acknowledges that their relationship was not only “puzzling,” but lopsided: “the warm feelings of friendship” were “more ardent on Fuller’s side,” whereas Hawthorne was “not so wholly forthcoming” (65).

Certainly, this seems to be the case if we peruse what both authors have, however (in)famously, written about each other.  Upon learning about Hawthorne’s engagement to Sophia Peabody, Fuller inscribes,  “‘If ever I saw a man who combined delicate tenderness to understand the heart of a woman, with quiet depth and manliness enough to satisfy her, it is Mr. Hawthorne’” (qtd. in Kesterson 79).   She also pens that she feels “‘more like a sister to H., or rather that he might be a brother to me, than ever with any man before’” (qtd. in Chevigny 160).  Hawthorne’s scandalous Italian Notebooks entry, which his son Julian published in an attempt to revive his father’s literary status—an entry that also served to destroy Fuller’s reputation—provides us with a completely different view of their relationship.  Several years after her death, Hawthorne writes that Fuller

has not left, in the hearts and minds of those who knew her, any deep witness for her integrity and purity.  She was a great humbug; of course with much talent, and much moral reality, or else she could not have been so great a humbug. But she had stuck herself full of borrowed qualities, which she chose to provide herself with, but which had no root in her. . . . Thus there appears to have been a total collapse in poor Margaret, morally and intellectually; and tragic as her catastrophe was, Providence was, after all, kind in putting her, and her clownish husband, and their child, on board that fated ship. (qtd. in Gilbert 108) 

Despite the apparent callousness of this notebook entry and despite the uncertainties that seemed to surround their friendship, it is my opinion that Hawthorne not only treasured his relationship with Fuller, but he may also have admired her prose to such an extent that he may have modeled some of his own writing after hers—especially if we consider the similarities between Fuller’s Mariana in Summer on the Lakes (published in 1844) and Hawthorne’s Zenobia in The Blithedale Romance (published in 1852, two years after Fuller’s death). 

In “Two Nineteenth-Century Feminists: Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Relationship with Margaret Fuller,” Katherine Gilbert rightly argues that Hawthorne’s and Fuller’s friendship is largely misunderstood.  Although Hawthorne’s notebook passage did not present Fuller in a very flattering light, his tone was not malicious; instead “the passage was, on the whole, mournful and sympathetic; it only became vicious when individual lines of it were quoted out of context” (109). Gilbert goes on to explain that the intention behind Hawthorne’s words can be clarified if we contextualize that they arose out of a misinformed conversation he had with Joseph Mozier.  Apparently, Mozier falsely led Hawthorne to believe that Fuller’s husband had been “stupid and uncouth” and that prior to her death, Fuller had “lost all literary powers and did not have a manuscript with her when she drowned [. . .] because she was incapable of producing one” (107).  Gilbert argues that based on what Mozier had told him, Hawthorne was lamenting Fuller’s loss of “intellectual faculties” in his notebook entry, and only considered her “better off dead” because “he knew she would not want to live an unintellectual life” (109).  

In “Margaret Fuller: By No Means a Weak Sister,” Karen Sanders offers an additional—albeit different—take on Hawthorne’s scandalous notebook entry.  She contends that when Hawthorne wrote the Italian Notebooks, he was mentally and physically indisposed, so we should not read his words as though they are composed by “the well-considered opinion of a reasonable man” (59).   She illustrates that Hawthorne was offended with his “initial exposure to the sensuous, the passionate, the exotic nature of a romantic country” (60) and remarks that his distaste for Rome, in turn, made him unable to understand “the sensuous” Fuller who had been able to “inhale Rome” (60-61).  At one point, for instance, Hawthorne wrote that “‘peculiar lassitude and despondency’” (qtd. in Sanders 61) overcame him when he looked at the city’s art.

Gilbert likewise elucidates that Hawthorne’s notebook entry, as published by Julian, is severely out of character:

Julian consistently depicts Hawthorne as scornful of Fuller and her ideas, and his portrayal has helped formulate critical perceptions for over a century.  Julian’s descriptions of his father and his attitudes, however, were not accurate. Elizabeth Palmer Peabody, Hawthorne’s sister-in-law, was shocked by the unrecognizable portrait of Hawthorne she saw in Julian’s work, and her reaction was typical of many of Hawthorne’s acquaintances. (103) 

In fact, there is extensive textual evidence which shows that Hawthorne actually valued his relationship with Fuller.  In another notebook entry, he recalls one of their conversations:

we talked about Autumn – and about the pleasures of getting lost in the woods – and about the crows, whose voices Margaret had heard – and about the experiences of early childhood [. . .] and about the sight of mountains from a distance, and the view of their summits – and about other matters of high and low philosophy. (qtd in Gilbert 106)

When Hawthorne wrote about this interaction with Fuller, he had only been married to his beloved Sophia for one month. Gilbert observes that this is significant because by “fondly noting every detail of their discussion” during a time when his “devotion to his wife was so important” (107), the entry dispels the assumption that Hawthorne disliked Fuller. 

            There are other texts where Hawthorne’s affection for Fuller surfaces.  For instance, in a letter to Fuller, he intimates what he most wants for Sophia:

I wish to remove everything that might impede her full growth and development,— which in her case, it seems to me, is not to be brought about by care and toil, but by perfect repose and happiness . . . Besides, she has many visions of great deeds to be wrought on canvas and in marble during the coming autumn and winter; and none of these can be accomplished unless she can retain quite as much freedom from household drudgery as she enjoys at present. (qtd. in DeSalvo 17)

Here, Hawthorne’s respect for Fuller surfaces on two levels.  First, by revealing these details of his marriage, Hawthorne demonstrates that he trusts Fuller; in a sense, he opens himself up and becomes vulnerable to her.  Secondly, if we consider that Fuller is the feminist spokeswoman of her day, Hawthorne seems to be demonstrating his admiration for her philosophy.  His proclamation that he wants his wife to “grow” and to be free from “household drudgery” mirrors a message in Fuller’s influential Woman in the Nineteenth Century, where she writes, “What a woman needs is not as a woman to act or rule, but as a nature to grow, as an intellect to discern, as a soul to live freely and unimpeded” (Fuller 261).  As Kesterson points out, Hawthorne so respected Fuller’s ideology that when she published Woman in the Nineteenth Century he wrote her a letter of congratulations (72). 

Hawthorne may have been misinformed when he wrote his slanderous notebook entry about Fuller, and he may have also been in mental and physical poor health, but we also cannot forget, as Gilbert explains, that this notebook entry was private, not intended for publication (109); it should not, if anything, hold the same accountability as if he had carefully penned and intentionally published the notebook passage in a prominent newspaper for all to see. If we now closely examine the similarities between Mariana in Summer on the Lakes and Zenobia in The Blithedale Romance, perhaps we can gain an even better understanding of the influence Fuller had on Hawthorne.

Several scholars maintain that the story of Mariana is actually a thinly-disguised autobiographical account of Fuller’s life.  For instance, in “‘That Tidiness We Always Look for in a Woman’:  Fuller’s Summer on the Lakes and Romantic Aesthetics,” Stephen Adams observes that “Fuller pictures [Mariana] her idealized alter ego as an energetic, imaginative child with ‘a touch of genius and power’” (262).  Similarly, in her biography, The Life of Margaret Fuller, Madeleine B. Stern romanticizes that when Fuller wrote the story, she intentionally modeled Mariana after herself:

How amusing it would be to watch the glassy eyes of the curious reader search for Margaret beneath the fantastic character, Mariana. [. . .] None would know whether it was Margaret or Mariana who wore the bright red sash and knocked her head in anger and remorse against the fenders.  Margaret it was, but a dreaming Margaret [. . .].  How many selves there were, and what delight to rediscover the, glorify them, incorporating truth with fiction. (209)    

Over one hundred years after Fuller’s death, Stern attempts to place herself inside Fuller’s head, which, in and of itself, causes her credibility to waver, for she cannot possibly know for certain what Fuller was thinking as she penned her narrative.   

Others—with whom I tend to agree—note that the similarities between Fuller and Mariana are mere presumptions; if we are to make any autobiographical connections, we should examine how the narrator of Mariana’s tale is actually most akin to Fuller.  In Writing a Woman’s Life, Donna Dickenson explains that the narrator—“a sentimental child, who, in [her] early ill health, had been indulged in reading novels” (Fuller 122)—resembles Fuller “in appearance, background and manner, [more so than] the Spanish Creole Mariana.”  And, as Dickenson also posits, Mariana’s adult narrative is pure fiction—“a standard romance in which Mariana dies of blighted love” (93).  In “Margaret Fuller: Woman of Letters,” Joan von Mehren likewise acknowledges that Fuller’s adult life drastically diverges from her heroine, since Mariana’s adult preoccupations with loneliness and resentment “resulting from the struggle of a passionate nature with society’s norms” did not appear to afflict the adult Fuller.  In fact, in 1825, when she returned to Cambridge, her letters indicate that she “was fired with optimistic enthusiasm for her future” (25)—an attitude that completely contrasts that of the sickly Mariana, a woman with a “weight laid on her young life” (Fuller 128).  As evidence for Fuller’s positive mood, von Mehren emphasizes that in a letter to Susan Prescott, Fuller wrote that she was devoted to self-improvement via exercise and her studies; she was a woman “‘determined on distinction’” (qtd. in von Mehren 25).

The question of Fuller’s biographical influences does not stop here.  Many scholars contend that Zenobia in Hawthorne’s The Blithedale Romance is loosely based upon Fuller.  In The Achievement of Margaret Fuller, Margaret Vanderhaar Allen claims that besides their feminist sensibilities, Fuller and Zenobia resemble one another in several other ways: “Zenobia too is a superb conversationalist.  Zenobia habitually wears an exotic flower of rare beauty in her hair, as Margaret Fuller did, at least when she conducted her famous Conversations.  [. . .] Zenobia, like her prototype, met a tragic, untimely death by drowning” (19).  Gilbert notes that some scholars have even proposed that Hawthorne disregarded Fuller so highly that he had Zenobia intentionally drown herself instead of accidentally drowning in a shipwreck (the means by which she actually died) “in order to further smear her reputation” (103). 

Yet, as Susan K. H. Kurjiaka astutely observes in “Rage Turned Inward: Woman Against Herself in Hawthorne’s Fiction,” Hawthorne does not appear to have based Zenobia’s death upon Fuller’s own demise.  Instead, Zenobia’s drowning seems to have been inspired by a different real-life event: “He saw firsthand on July 9, 1845, the very ending and incident he uses as Zenobia’s death—the drowning of a melancholic young woman who is distanced from her family and alone in a seemingly unsympathetic world” (39).  He was, in fact, a member of the party who searched for the woman’s body, as he recounts in his notebooks, “‘I have never saw nor imagined a spectacle of such perfect horror’” (qtd in Kurijiaka 39). 

 Other Hawthorne scholars also point out faults with paralleling Zenobia and Fuller. In his introduction to The Blithedale Romance, Arlin Turner contends that while Zenobia does somewhat appear to resemble Fuller, we should not think that Hawthorne intentionally modeled Zenobia after his friend:  “In naming Mrs. Fuller in the novel, and in particular in saying that Priscilla resembled her, the author apparently wanted to deny the connection which he knew his readers would make between the two” (13).  Furthermore, as Mary Suzanne Schriber points out in “Justice to Zenobia,” it is useless to regard Zenobia—a fictional character, arising out of Hawthorne’s imagination—as a pure reflection of Fuller.  She quotes Henry James,

It is idle to inquire too closely whether Hawthorne had Margaret Fuller in mind in constructing the figure of [Zenobia] . . . or to compare the image at all strictly with the model. There is no strictness in the representation by novelists of persons who have struck them in real life, and there can in the nature of things be none . . . The original gives hints, but the writer does what he likes with them, and imports new elements into the picture. (qtd. in Schriber 77-78)

We should, therefore, read Hawthorne’s novel as he presents it: a work of fiction.  Even Hawthorne feared that his first-person story would be erroneously mistaken as an account of real-life events and real-life people at Brooke Farm; therefore, in his preface to the novel, he beseeches readers to not read through an autobiographical lens: “He begs it to be understood [. . .] that he has considered the institution itself as not less fairly the subject of fictitious handling than the imaginary personages whom he has introduced here.  His whole treatment of the affair is altogether incidental to the main purpose of the romance” (27). To read the novel as autobiographical is to neglect the larger themes that Hawthorne wished readers to draw from it.  

All biographical considerations aside, if we take into account the striking similarities between Fuller’s Mariana and Hawthorne’s Zenobia, I would like to propose that Hawthorne may have actually fashioned Zenobia after Mariana as a sort of homage to Fuller’s prose, which suggests that he not only revered Fuller, the woman, but more importantly Fuller, the writer.^[2]   Not only do the plots of their narratives reflect each other—two strong-willed and outspoken women live in communal situations (Mariana at boarding school, Zenobia at Blithedale), eventually fall in love with weaker-spirited men (“sweet, but indolent” Sylvain (Fuller 126) and “self-distrustful” Hollingsworth (Hawthorne 246)), and die of broken hearts when the men ultimately reject them—but the details used to characterize each heroine are so analogous that they appear to be more than mere coincidence.

Of Mariana’s nature, Fuller’s narrator recalls that Mariana was a “passionate, but nobly-tempered child” (124).  Similarly, Hawthorne’s narrator, Coverdale, describes Zenobia as “passionate, self-willed and imperious” but with a “warm and generous nature” (199).  Both heroines also had imperial qualities: prior to being betrayed by her classmates, Mariana “had ruled, like a queen, in the midst of her companions” (121); likewise, Zenobia “had as much native pride as any queen would have known what to do with” (41).  In addition, both heroines exhibited comparable strains of moodiness.  While Mariana had “a vein of haughty caprice in her character; a love for solitude, which made her at times wish to retire entirely,” she also displayed “the same habit and power of excitement that is described in the spinning dervishes of the East” (119).  Zenobia, too, was temperamental: “In her quiet moods, she seemed rather indolent; but when really in earnest, particularly if there were a spice of bitter feeling, she grew alive, to her fingertips” (43).   Moreover, both heroines were non-conformists: Mariana did not obey the rigid “restraints and narrow routine” of the boarding school (119); instead she embraced personal freedom in the flamboyant way she dressed “always [with] some sash twisted about her, some drapery, something odd” (119).  Zenobia too did not conform to what was expected of her; as a woman in the nineteenth-century, she spoke out against domestic restrictions:  “‘it may be that some of us who wear the petticoat will go a-field, and leave the weaker brethren to take our places in the kitchen’” (44). 

 Consider, also, the resemblance between the feminine ornaments that both heroines donned—Mariana’s rouged cheeks and Zenobia’s flower—to colorfully stand out from everyone else with an air of arrogant non-conformity.  Of Mariana’s daily application of rouge, Fuller’s narrator expresses, “When stared and jeered at, she at first said she did it because she thought it made her look prettier; but, after a while, she became quite petulant about it,—would make no reply to any joke, but merely kept on doing it” (120).  Likewise, the exotic flower Zenobia wore in her hair was “more indicative of the pride and pomp which had a luxuriant growth in [her] character than if a great diamond had sparkled in her hair” (43).  Interestingly, neither heroine wears her accessory for the purpose of beauty, but rather to make a bold statement about feminine individuality.

Besides their ornamentation, it is also significant that both Zenobia and Mariana had a similar gift for acting and story-telling.  Fuller’s narrator notes that for Mariana “a vent [. . .] was found in private theatricals [. . .] and for a time, she ruled masterly and shone triumphant” (119-20).  And with her zealous story-telling, Mariana was able to emotionally move her listeners: “she would declaim verse of others or her own; act many parts with strange catch-words and burdens that seemed to act with mystical power on her own fancy, sometimes stimulating her to convulse the hearer with laughter, sometimes to melt him with tears” (119).   In The Blithedale Romance, Zenobia likewise stirred others with her theatrics; Coverdale recalls that Zenobia “was fond of giving [. . .] readings from Shakespeare, and often with a depth of tragic power, or breadth of comic effect, that made one feel it an intolerable wrong to the world that she did not at once go upon the stage” (124).  As if to emphasis her story-telling prowess, Hawthorne devotes several pages to Zenobia’s theatrical telling of “The Silvery Veil,” a narrative loosely-based on her sister Priscilla’s life as the mystical, future-seeing Veiled Lady, a narrative which also so effectively captures the audience that “for an instant her auditors held their breath, half expecting [. . .] that the magician would start up through the floor, and carry off our poor little friend, before our eyes” (133-34).  As evidenced by their story-telling, both heroines, then, exhibited similar talents for influencing those they come in contact with, for retaining some sort of magical power over them, at least temporarily.

And, of course, ultimately, both heroines died of broken hearts when rejected by the men they loved.  Not only were these men unable to save them and carry them off into marital bliss, but, in fact, both heroines’ wills were too strong to sustain their relationships.  Mariana married Sylvain, “the kind, but preoccupied husband. [. . . who] was off continually with his male companions, on excursions or affairs of pleasure” (128), a husband who loved her “lightly” and who “cared not to explore the little secret paths whence that fragrance [of her nature] was collected” (126).  But Mariana required more to fulfill her needs.  She needed someone to whom she could “open her heart, to tell the thoughts of her mind” (127-28).  It is this inequality of souls, this inability to relate to someone, this hollow loneliness, which ultimately prompted her death. Although Sylvain nursed her when she initially fell ill, he ceased caring for her when she began to grow better, assuming that she could “rise into health and recover the tone of her spirits” (128) on her own.  Of Mariana, Fuller’s narrator states, “Such women as Mariana are often lost, unless they meet some man of sufficiently great soul to prize them” (131).

 Likewise, in The Blithedale Romance, Zenobia fell deeply in love with Hollingsworth, a man who rejected her for her weak sister, Priscilla (“there has seldom been seen so depressed and sad a figure as this young girl’s” (53)).  This rejection could possibly signify that Hollingsworth wanted a female companion he could control, someone who would unquestionably follow him, as Priscilla did, when he said, “come” (225).   Perhaps, Zenobia, a fervent woman who “had life’s summer all before her, and a hundred varieties of brilliant success,” was too strong-willed for Hollingsworth; and as Coverdale observes, “‘There would have been nothing to satisfy her heart’” (244).  In any case, Coverdale’s comments on Zenobia’s unfortunate end also serve to illuminate Mariana’s deplorable fate, as well as socially critique the ill-fated situation of women in the nineteenth-century:

It was a woeful thought, that a woman of Zenobia’s [or Mariana’s] diversified capacity should have fancied herself irretrievably defeated on the broad battle-field of life [. . .] merely because Love had gone against her.  It is nonsense, and a miserable wrong,—the result, like so many others, of masculine egotism,—that the success or failure of woman’s existence should be made to depend wholly on the affections, and on one species of affection, while man has such a multitude of other chances. (245)

In Woman in the Nineteenth Century, Fuller comments upon similar social limitations that men place upon women.  She writes that men “strive, by lectures on some model-woman of bride-like beauty and gentleness [. . .] to mark out with precision the limits of woman’s sphere, and woman’s mission, to prevent other than the rightful shepherd from climbing the wall, or the flock from using any chance to go astray” (257).  Women should, according to this male vision, have no other mission besides maintaining their beautiful and gentle natures (they should resemble Priscilla, a woman who is “‘blown about like a leaf” with “no free will’” (Hawthorne 183)).  The men, the “rightful shepherds,” are the only members of society allowed to “climb the wall” and socially advance.  These shepherds, therefore, must keep their “flock” (their women) from going astray by corralling them under their watchful eyes.  In the end, both Summer on the Lakes and The Blithedale Romance appear to be lamenting the social situation of women in the nineteenth-century.  When strong-willed women, such as Mariana and Zenobia, (to use Fuller’s metaphor) climb over the wall, they are ultimately rejected by men.  Since men dominate the social realm, these women are, in a sense, socially outcast.  The patriarchal constraints are so inflexible that even the strongest women, if not literally, then metaphorically, die.  The only way women can “fit” into society is if they embrace the passive roles prescribed by men. 

As evidenced by the glaring likenesses between Mariana’s and Zenobia’s characters and experiences, it is possible that Hawthorne could have modeled his text after Fuller’s.  In Nathaniel Hawthorne in His Times, Louise DeSalvo quotes James R. Mellow as saying that  The Blithedale Romance is so concerned with women’s rights that ‘it could easily have been written by one of the professed champions of women’s rights’” (113).  When we hear this, how can we not instantly think of Fuller, author of the influential Woman in the Nineteenth Century?  Although we may never know Hawthorne’s inspiration for Zenobia for certain, we can be sure of one thing:  because Hawthorne’s narrative is so analogous to Fuller’s in its feminist themes and characteristics, we know that his sensibilities were akin to hers, which, in turn, suggests a degree of admiration on his behalf. Gilbert explains,

Hawthorne did come to respect and value Fuller, both as a friend and as a philosopher. Many of her attitudes were also Hawthorne’s and could be seen in most of Hawthorne’s works. [. . . Their] attitudes and lives converged, and the damage caused by Julian’s skewed memoirs must be undone to show the true relation of Hawthorne’s feminist attitudes to his life and works. (110) 

In a letter to Fuller, Hawthorne once wrote, “There is nobody to whom I would more willingly speak my mind, because I can be certain of being thoroughly understood” (Hawthorne Letters 106).  What better way to willingly “speak his mind” in the aftermath of Fuller’s death, than to pay homage to her in literature?   When, in The Blithedale Romance, Coverdale asks, “What girl had ever laughed as Zenobia did? What girl had ever spoken in her mellow tones?” (71), we must answer, Mariana—a girl born on the page several years earlier, a girl, perhaps, emulated in the prose of a sincere friend.

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