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January 6, 1845
Feast of the Epiphany
My dear Maitimo,
How I wish we could be celebrating Ladies’ Christmas with me on the sofa and your father cooking. Of course, as is his custom, we had a procession of his cunning figures before we burned the holly sprigs. As the twins ate all the paint off Melchior & Balthazar years ago, as you know, he has contrived to dye the wood with natural pigments, in the hopes that they shall be less tempting to little mouths. I presume such mouths will belong next to my grandchildren, as you know your little mother has grown tired of bringing children into the world. Seven perfect sons is a bounty, for me.
Do not show this letter to Indis, lest she find me indiscreet!
The house feels empty in your absence. I miss your gay laughter and Maglor’s songs. Do give him a great warm hug for me, though you are grown boys and will soon be too shy to give anyone affection but the ladies you wish to make your wives.
The days are yet very short, as they will be also for you, and the snow is heavy. Your father was right to send you back early, as much as it tore at me. You and Maglor and Fingon would have been caught in the drifts of the storm had you left a day later.
Fingon seems a very dear and sweet boy. Anaire instills good manners in her children, though in features they recollect their father. If you have an opportunity, do thank Fingon’s parents for permitting us to keep him over the holy days. I know how much I miss you at Michaelmas, my Michael-boy, and that is not nearly as splendid a time as Christmas!
I am too dull to do much painting or sculpting during these winter days, and as such, I am piecing a new quilt for your father. It is done, in part, in turkey-red, though I did not tell him that. He thinks the name is an ugly one for a fine color.
Your smallest brothers are tugging at my elbows and being very naughty so I must go and attend them. I told them I should whip them if they interrupted me today—I have felt so cross—but even when I am cross they know I am teasing.
I wish I could press a dozen kisses to your cheeks.
Mother
January 20, 1845
Dearest Mother,
Maglor and I were most grateful for your letters and read them over & over again by the fireside. If I can make my penmanship half as beautiful as yours, I shall be happy. I fear it is a little spidery and my schoolmasters do not praise me for it.
Grandfather and Indis do not celebrate Nollaig na mBan. I think she must not know of it, being English. Nonetheless, we had a pleasant King’s day and Maglor ate so much cake I was sure he would be sick, but he was not. I wish I had his appetite, but perhaps all the eating is necessary to his musical prowess. If I can find a way to ask my tutor this question without sounding very stupid I shall.
I miss you all very much, though I do not begrudge you the desire to scold the twins when they are boisterous. I likely riled them too much with my games & now they expect to be entertained thusly each day.
Your quilts are so very beautiful, Mother. Of course Athair doesn’t want to call the color turkey-red, or anything suggesting the barnyard. All the colors under your needle should be called by flower names…calendula gold, rose red, violet & the paler hepatica.
Each time I see Fingon he praises your cooking and our games and everything that made his stay such a pleasant one. Thank you so much for welcoming him. I do not think I could be brave enough to choose Christmas away from you, so I must bow to Fingon’s superior courage.
But you would not want me to stay away, would you, Mother?
Already my masters have me reading heavy books and I am doing my best to see the beauty in them. I love Shakespeare just as much as ever, though Julius Cæsar tears at my heart more than Hamlet did. There is something so terribly brutal about the Romans; their gods seem heavier than the Greeks’, and their emperors are too ambitious for love or peace or languid poetry. I sound like an echo of Maglor, don’t I? He’d say it better.
I return all your kisses and give you a very warm hug.
With most devoted affection, your son,
M.N.M.F.
March 12, 1846
My Dear Maitimo,
You drove Caranthir quite mad with the little puzzle box you sent for his birthday—and I do not say it to chide you! He is a child who loves madness as much as some (you, for instance) loved quiet and repose. How strange to think that you are now acclimated to the extraordinary bustle of New York, when you used to daydream for hours, or play solitary baby games at my feet before Maglor was born!
Indeed, I was on the verge of writing you about Caranthir, and I suppose I may as well speak my mind through my pen. Your father is constantly at his wits’ end with him. The two of them are like a bull and a bulldog (I will not say which is which, lest this letter be found & read), in a house where the bulldog really ought not beleaguer the bull!
What am I do, Maitimo? They will never understand each other. Are they too alike, or too unlike? Celegorm is not always content to obey your father’s commands, either, but he loves to be out of doors so much that there is less chance for conflict. But Caranthir will glower at the supper table, and he will ask his questions before he obeys. They never come to blows—you know I should not allow that—but your father devises odd and elaborate punishments that seem designed to bring your brother to tears.
I told him I do not think this is quite the way, but he assures me that if there is no effect there can be no change. Of course, he does not apply the same rule to Curufin!
Do advise. I trust you more at near eighteen than I trust men twice your age.
This is a short letter. I’m rather short of temper. Please forgive me.
Lovingly,
Mother
March 30, 1846
Dear Mother,
Pray don’t fear to write to me on any subject. I read whatever you wish to say to me with love & interest. My only caution is that I will prove unequal to the requirement of wisdom—only you are my mother, and you are too kind to believe it.
Caranthir is a darling. He wants to be useful, I know he does. I would venture to say that he deems it very important to understand what use is…for himself & for words and actions. Athair, as you know, is so clear-minded that he does not often perceive a need for explanation. Explanation is all Caranthir wants! I can well imagine that they find themselves at frequent loggerheads.
Athair’s punishments do have effect. I haven’t forgotten a one! (Near) eighteen or not, I’m still your child. That renders me ill-equipped to critique his methods—or yours. Yet, I hate to think of Caranthir’s tears. He isn’t a crybaby as I was, so he must be very vexed to come to the point of weeping.
Since Caranthir is not intractable, perhaps you could take him aside and answer the questions that Athair finds so impudent? If he would like to write to me with any in mind, I’ll do my best, but please review my answers as there might well be a rebellious streak in me that will lead him further astray.
I shall fast this week especially for reconciliation between all my beloved family at Formenos.
Devotedly,
Maedhros
April 18, 1847
Darling bairn—yes, still, for all your great age!
Your father thinks it a trifle silly for me to write when, in a few weeks’ time, you shall be among us again. Yet every moment since our parting I’ve been wretched. You are so tall, Maitimo—so tall and so shockingly handsome, and your mind has formed so well under the influence of your schoolmasters, the society of your grandparents, and not least…not least your own gifts of intuition & good sense.
A mother’s prayer begins simply, when her baby is a rosy lump in her arms, and it goes something like this:
Dear God, let me be everything to this child.
And yet that prayer does not remain simple—it cannot! Just as I begin with a sketch and end with a painting or figure, so, too, do I cover my impoverished pride (that desire to be everything) with the knowledge that it is you, my son, who is become all to me. Your smiles…your thoughts…what would I be without the insight and wit and charms of my tallest baby? I am soft and teary just with the memory of your hand in mine. It used to fit under my fingers. My thumb was an ugly giant beside yours. And now your hand can dwarf mine, and yet, mystery of mysteries, it is both strong and graceful, like the best art.
Know that I will be finished with my silly weeping by the time you read this. But if there are spots on the ink, think of them as little coins of the most maternal currency that can ever be.
I shall count the days till we are together again.
Mamaí
“I am sorry,” he said, lifting her up in the air though he himself bent to press his cheek against her collar. “I did not write.”
When she had her footing again, she dragged his head down by gentle handfuls of copper and kissed the crown of it.
“You are here,” she said. “And so you did not have to.”