Love Letters of Nathaniel Hawthorne. Volume 2 of 2

I read Una's note, addressed to "Madame Hawthorne," then sealed it up and threw it downstairs. Doubtless, they find it a most interesting communication; and I feel a little shamefaced about meeting them.

I hear nothing from Washington as yet; nor, indeed, is it yet time to expect any definite intelligence. Meanwhile Pike and thy friend David are planning to buy us an estate, and build a house, and have even gone so far as to mark out the ground-plot of the house, in chalk, on David's hearth. I fear it will prove a castle in the air; and yet, a moderate smile of Providence would cause it to spring out of the earth, on that beautiful hillside, like a flower in the summer time. With a cottage of our own, and the surveyorship, how happy we might be! – happier than in Concord, on many accounts. The Surveyorship I think we shall have; but the cottage implies an extra thousand or fifteen hundred dollars.

I have heard of Mr. Atherton's being in Boston since thy departure; – whether Mrs. Atherton is with him I know not. Governor Fairfield, I understand, starts for Washington to-day.

God bless thee, dearest! – and blessed be our daughter, whom I love next to thee! Again, if thou feelest it good for thee, on any account, to stay longer in Boston, do not hasten home; – but whenever thou comest, my heart will open to take thee in.

Thy Lovingest Husband.TO MRS. HAWTHORNE Castle Dismal, Novr. 13th, 1845

Intimatest Friend,

I cannot settle down to work this forenoon, or do anything but write to thee – nor even that, I fear, with any good effect; for I am just as much dissatisfied with this mode of intercourse as always hitherto. It is a wretched mockery. But then it is a semblance of communication, and, thus far, better than nothing.

I got thy letter of Tuesday the same evening, while it was still warm out of thy heart; and it seemed to fill the air round about me with Nona's prattle. I do love her – that is the truth, – and almost feel it a pity to lose a single day of her development; – only thou wilt tell me, by letter or by mouth, all the pretty things that she says or does, and more over find a beauty in them which would escape my grosser perception. Thus, on the whole, I shall be a gainer by our occasional separations. Thee I miss, and without any recompense. I marvel how it is that some husbands spend years and years away from their wives, and then come home with perhaps a bag or two of gold, earned by the sacrifice of all that life. Even poverty is better – and in saying that, thou knowest how much I say.

Nothing has happened here since I wrote thee last. I suspect the intelligence of thy meditated baby is very pleasant to the grandmother and aunts; for Louisa met me at dinner, that day, with unusual cheerfulness, and observed that Thanksgiving was at hand, and that we must think of preparing. [As] for me, I already love the future little personage; and yet, somehow or other, I feel a jealousy of him or her, on Una's account, and should not choose to have the new baby better than the old one. So take care what thou dost, Phoebe Hawthorne! And now I think of it, do not thou venture into that tremendous press and squeeze, which always takes place on landing from the ferry-boat at the East Boston depot. Thou art not to be trusted in such a tumult; it will be far better to wait behind, and compel the conductor to find thee a seat. There is always the densest squeeze on Saturdays.

But I shall not expect thee back on Saturday. According to Dr. Wesselhoeft's dictum, and supposing the vaccination to have taken, that will be precisely the critical day; – if Dr. Moss be correct, the crisis comes on Monday. In either case, I hope thou wilt wait a little. There is the greatest satisfaction to me in thinking how comfortably situated thou art, with thy sister at thy elbow, and thy mother at arms' length, and thy Aesculapius within a five minutes' summons. If I (and thou too, thou lovingest one) could endure it, I should be glad that thou mightest spend the winter there; but that is too heart-chilling to think of – so thou must even come back, in a few days more, to old Castle Dismal! But I shall never feel at home here with thee. I went, the other afternoon, to look at the hill where Pike and the Chancellor have built a castle in the air for our reception. Thou hast no idea what capacities it has.

(Portion of letter missing)

TO MRS. HAWTHORNE Salem, Jany. 19th, 1846. – Tuesday

Ownest Phoebe,

The shoe arrived last evening; but on what evidence thou dost so confidently accuse me of putting it into the trunk, I cannot imagine. Thou positively didst put it there thyself. I saw thee!

Dearest, if any money comes from New York by to-day's mail, I will come to Boston on Thursday morning, to escort thee home. Otherwise, I really do not think I ought. Heaven knows, I desire it; but as it is not necessary for thy safety, and as we are so miserably poor, methinks the dollar should be reserved for indispensables. I did hope the New York money would have come to hand before now. Providence must take our matters in hand very speedily.

I hope, Phoebe, thou hast not engaged to pay Winifred's passage, either to or from Boston. She told Mrs. Dromedary that she should not have gone with thee, only that her passage would be paid. She has a cousin living at the Essex House in this city; and the Dromedary thinks she is partly engaged to go there herself. This is the secret of her willingness to remain in Salem. Dotish as she appeared, she has wit enough to be fair and false, like all her countryfolk. It will be well to investigate this matter before thou returnest; and, if she really means to leave us, perhaps thou hadst better engage a new girl in Boston forthwith.

Poor little Una's back – my heart bleeds for it. Do not come back till it is well, nor till thou thyself hast undergone thorough repairs, even though thou shouldst be compelled to hire a lodging.

Ownest, be careful not to slip down. Thou art prudent in behalf of other people, but hast little caution on thine own account. In going to the cars do not get entangled in that great rush of people who throng out of the ferry-boat. Remain behind, and Heaven will find thee a seat. Would thou wast safe home again, eating thy potatoes, and glancing sideways at me with thy look of patient resignation. Never did I miss thee so much as during this separation. But for the idea of thee, my existence would be as cold and wintry as the weather is now, and with a cloudy gloom besides, instead of the dazzling sunshine. I was driven to play cards with Louisa, last evening!

God bless thee! I have nothing more to say, that can be said.

Thine Ownest Husband.

Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,

Care of Dr. N. Peabody,

Boston, Massachusetts.

TO MRS. HAWTHORNE Salem, April 24th, 1846. – 6 P.M.

Ownest dearest,

I have this moment received the packet and thy letter, and cannot tolerate that thou shouldst not have a word from thy husband tomorrow morning. Truly, Castle Dismal has seemed darker than ever, since I returned to it; – and not only to me, but to its other inmates. Louisa spoke of the awful stillness of the house, and said she could not bear to give Una's old shoes to that little Lines child, and was going to keep them herself. I rejoiced her much, by telling her of Una's home-sickness.

Fees were tolerably good, yesterday and to-day; and I doubt we shall have enough to live on, during thy continuance in Boston – for which let us be thankful.

Bridge came to see me this afternoon, and says Mary Pray has consented to come to thee; and by this time, I hope, thou hast her. Thou canst not think what a peace I enjoy in the consideration that thou art within reach of Dr. Wesselhoeft. It is by my feelings as to thee and Una, more than on my own account, that I find I am a true believer in homeopathy.

Ownest, I love thee. I love little Una dearly too. Tell her so, and show her the place, and give her a kiss for me.

Thine Ownest Husband.

Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,

Care of Dr. N. Peabody,

Boston, Massachusetts.

TO MRS. HAWTHORNE[Salem, March 15th, 1847]

Ownest Phoebe,

Above is the note. I will not say how much beyond all money I feel indebted to Mr. Shaw for his kindness. It relieves my spirits from a great burthen, and now I feel calm and very happy.

I love thee infinitely, and need thee constantly. I long to hear Una's voice. I find that I even love Bundlebreech!!!

Ellery and I have a very pleasant time, and take immense walks every afternoon, and sit up talking till midnight. He eats like an Anaconda. Thou didst never see such an appetite.

Thou dost not tell me when thou wilt turn thy face homeward. Shouldst thou stay till next week, I will come and escort thee home. Ellery, I suppose, will go as soon as Saturday. (I shall need some money to come with. Couldst thou send me ten dollars?) In haste, in depths of love.

Thy Husband.

Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,

Care of Dr. N. Peabody,

Boston, Massachusetts.

TO MRS. HAWTHORNE Salem, March 20th, 1847. – Saturday

Ownest Wife,

Thy letter of Thursday did not reach me till this morning. Ellery goes to-day – much to my satisfaction, though we have had a good time. Thou dost not know how much I long to see thee and our children. I never felt anything like it before – it is too much to write about.

I do not think I can come on Monday before 10 ½, arriving in Boston at about 11. It is no matter about the session at Johnson's; and if thou choosest to give him notice, so be it.

Now that the days are so long, would it not do to leave Boston, on our return, at ½ past 4?

Kiss Una for me – likewise Bundlebreech.

Thy Husband.

P.S. Of course, my coming on Monday must be contingent on reasonably pleasant weather.

I shall probably go to Johnson's immediately after my arrival – before coming to West-street. I hope he will be otherwise engaged.

Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,

Care of Dr. N. Peabody,

Boston, Massachusetts

TO MRS. HAWTHORNE Salem, July 13th, 1847

Ownest Phoebe,

Greatly needed by me were thy two letters; for thou hadst never before been away from me so long without writing. And thou art still busy, every moment! I was in hopes thou wouldst have a little quiet now, with Dora to take care of the children; – but that seems fated never more to be thine. As for me, I sink down into bottomless depths of quiet: – never was such a quiet life as mine is, in this voiceless house. Thank God, there are echoes of voices in my heart, else I should die of this marble silence. Yet I am happy, and, dearest Phoebe, I wish that thou, likewise, couldst now and then stand apart from thy lot, in the same manner, and behold how fair it is. I think we are very happy – a truth that is not always so evident to me, until I step aside from our daily life. How I love thee! – how I love our children! Can it be that we are really parents! – that two beautiful lives have gushed out of our life! I am now most sensible of the wonder, and the mystery, and the happiness.

Sweetest wife, I have nothing to tell thee. My life goes on as regularly as our kitchen clock. It has no events, and therefore can have no history.

Well; when our children – these two, and three or four more are grown up, and married off, thou wilt have a little leisure, and mayst paint that Grecian picture that used to haunt thy fancy. But then our grandchildren – Una's children, and Bundlebreech's, – will be coming upon the stage. In short, after a woman has become a mother, she may find rest in Heaven, but nowhere else.

This pen is so horrible that it impedes my thought. I cannot write any more with it. Dearest, stay as long as it is good for the children and thyself. I have great joy in thinking how good it has been for Una to have this change. When thou comest back to me, it will be as the coming of an angel, and with a cherub in each hand. Indeed, it does not require absence and distance to make an angel of thee; but the divine qualities of the children do become somewhat more apparent, by occasionally getting beyond the reach of their clamor.

I think I had better not come on Saturday; but if thou wilt tell me the day of thy return, I will come in the afternoon, and escort thee back. Poor little Una! How will she bear to be caged up here again. Give her a kiss for me, and tell her I want to see her very much. I have been much affected by a little shoe of hers, which I found on the floor. Does Bundlebreech walk yet?

Thinest Husband.

Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,

Care of Dr. N. Peabody,

Boston, Massachusetts.

TO MRS. HAWTHORNE Salem, Oct. 7th, 1847

Ownest Phoebe,

Thy letter has just come. I knew the day would not pass over without one. Would that my love could transform this ugly east wind into the sweet south-west – then wouldst thou be full of pleasant air and sunshine. I want to be near thee, and rest thee.

Dearest, the things all arrived safe – not having suffered even the dollar's worth of damage to which the man restricted himself. The carpet shall not be put down till thou comest. There is no need of it, except to save thee the trouble. We are in hopes of getting an elderly woman (Hannah Lord, whom I think thou hast heard of) for a handmaiden, but this is not so certain as I could wish. Our mother and Louisa repugn at the idea of an Irish girl; and there are scarcely any others to be heard of. I should not wonder, after all, if we had to seek one in Boston. The usual price here is $1.25. I trust we shall be provided by the time thou art ready to come; but if otherwise, Mrs. Campbell is now well, and can officiate for a few days.

Duyckinck writes me that the African Cruise has come to a second edition. It is also to be published in a cheaper style, as one of the numbers of a District School Library.

The weather is so bad that I hope thou wilt not have gone to Horn pond to-day. How different these east winds are from anything that we felt in Concord. Nevertheless, I feel relieved at having left that place of many anxieties, and believe that we shall pass a happy winter here. All that I need is to have shelter, and clothes, and daily bread, for thee and Una, without the anguish of debt pressing upon me continually; – and then I would not change places with the most fortunate person in the world. What a foolish sentence that is! As if I would change places, in our worst estate, either with man or angel.

Phoebe, I think I had better not come for thee till Monday, as the weather is so unpropitious for thy visits. If that be too soon, tell me; for thou hadst better calculate on not seeing Boston again for some months; and, that being the case, it will be advisable to act as if thou wast going to make a voyage to Europe.

I find I shall love thee as thou never wast loved before. God bless our little Una. She is our daughter! What a miracle! I love mother and child so much that I can put nothing into words.

I think I shall be diligent with my pen, in this old chamber whence so many foolish stories have gone forth to the world. I have already begun to scribble something for Wiley & Putnam.

Thine Ownest Own Husband.

Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,

Care of Dr. N. Peabody,

Boston, Mass.

TO MRS. HAWTHORNESurveyor's Office, Salem, May 5th, 1848

Ownest Phoebe,

I am altogether in favor of getting the six chairs; as to the glass, I know not what to think. In fact, I must leave all other articles to thy judgment, and shall be satisfied, whatever thou dost. We can dispense with the glass better than with anything else. I rather covet the large marble-top table; but perhaps the repairs would make it otherwise than cheap.

Una behaves (as thou wouldst affirm) like an angel. We rode out to Lynn, yesterday afternoon, and had a long walk – much to her delight. I bathed her this morning; and I believe she has not shown the slightest wilfulness or waywardness, since thy departure. We have very loving times together.

I had a great mind to come to Boston, yesterday, with Una, instead of alighting at Lynn. I felt thy magnetism drawing me thither.

Thine Ownest.

If thou canst get me a book or two, I shall be glad. Kiss old Bundlebreech, and ask him if he remembers me. If thou art very desirous of it, thou mayst stay till Monday – or, indeed, a week or two longer – or ten years, if thou thinkest proper. I seem already to have been solitary at least so long.

Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,

Care of Dr. N. Peabody,

Boston, Mass.

TO MRS. HAWTHORNESurveyor's Office, [Salem,] June 19th, 1848

Only Belovedest,

I received thy letter on Saturday evening, and was more refreshed by it than if it had been a draft of ice-water – a rather inapt comparison, by the way. Thou canst have no imagination how lonely our house is. The rooms seem twice as large as before – and so awfully quiet! I wish, sometime or other, thou wouldst let me take the two children and go away for a few days, and thou remain behind. Otherwise, thou canst have no idea of what it is. I really am half afraid to be alone, and feel shy about looking across the dimly moon-lighted chamber. I expend a great deal of sentiment as often as I chance to see any garment of thine, in my rambles about the house, or any of the children's playthings. And after all, there is a strange bliss in being made sensible of the happiness of my customary life, by this blank interval.

Tell my little daughter Una that her dolly, since her departure, has been blooming like a rose – such an intense bloom, indeed, that I rather suspected her of making free with the brandy-bottle. On taxing her with it, however, she showed no signs of guilt or confusion; and I trust it was owing merely to the hot weather. The color has now subsided into quite a moderate tint, and she looks splendidly at a proper distance; though, on too close inspection, her skin appears rather coarse – not altogether unlike that of thy good Aunt B. She has contracted an unfortunate habit of squinting; and her mouth, I am sorry to say, is somewhat askew. I shall take her to task on these matters, and hope to produce a reformation. Should I fail, thou must take her in hand. Give Una a kiss, and tell her I love her dearly. The same to little Bundlebreech, who has probably forgot "faver" by this time.

Dora complains terribly of lonesomeness, and so does Aunty N. In short, we are pretty forlorn. Nevertheless, I have much joy in your all being in the country, and hope thou wilt stay as long as thou feelest it to be for the best. How I love the children! – how I love thee, best of wives! – and how I shall make thee feel it, when thou comest home! Dost thou love me?

Thine Ownest Husband.

Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,

Newton, Mass.

TO MRS. HAWTHORNE Salem, June 27th, 1848

Dearest Phoebe, when I saw thy thick letter, last night, I could not imagine what might be its contents, unless thou hadst sent a large package of the precious roses, which I should have kissed with great reverence and devotion. Thou wast naughty not to do it. But the letter truly refreshed my heart's thirst; and Una's also were very delightful. What a queer epistle was that which she dictated! It seemed as if she were writing from Paradise to comfort me on earth.

Dearest, I long for thee as thou dost for me. My love has increased infinitely since the last time we were separated. I can hardly bear to think of thy staying away yet weeks longer. I think of thee all the time. The other night, I dreamed that I was at Newton, in a room with thee, and with several other people; and thou tookst occasion to announce, that thou hadst now ceased to be my wife, and hadst taken another husband. Thou madest this intelligence known with such perfect composure and sang froid– not particularly addressing me, but the company generally – that it benumbed my thoughts and feelings, so that I had nothing to say. Thou wast perfectly decided, and I had only to submit without a word. But, hereupon, thy sister Elizabeth, who was likewise present, informed the company, that, in this state of affairs, having ceased to be thy husband, I of course became hers; and turning to me, very coolly inquired whether she or I should write to inform my mother of the new arrangement! How the children were to be divided, I know not. I only know that my heart suddenly broke loose, and I began to expostulate with thee in an infinite agony, in the midst of which I awoke; but the sense of unspeakable injury and outrage hung about me for a long time – and even yet it has not quite departed. Thou shouldst not behave so, when thou comest to me in dreams.

I had a letter from Bridge, yesterday, dated in the latter part of April. He seems to be having a very pleasant time with his wife; but I do not understand that she is, as the Germans say, "of good hope." In the beginning of the letter, he says that Mrs. Bridge will return to America this summer. In another part, he says that the ship in which he is will probably return late in the autumn; but he rather wishes that it may [be] delayed till Spring, because Mrs. Bridge desires to spend the winter in Italy.

Oh, Phoebe, I want thee much. My bosom needs thy head upon it, – thou alone art essential. Thou art the only person in the world that ever was necessary to me. Other people have occasionally been more or less agreeable; but I think I was always more at ease alone than in anybody's company, till I knew thee. And now I am only myself when thou art within my reach. Thou art an unspeakably beloved woman. How couldst thou inflict such frozen agony upon me, in that dream! Thou shouldst have caressed me and embraced me.

But do not think, much as I want thee, that I wish thee to come as long as thou judgest it good for the children to be away, and as long as thou thinkest we can afford the expense. We have a pervading happiness, that goes on whether we are present or absent in the body. Their happiness depends upon time and place; and the difference to them between town and country must be almost that of a cage or the free air, to the birds. And then it is so much better for their health.

Hast thou remembered to ask Mrs. Mann whether little Pick Mann was named out of pure gratitude and respect for the old refugee Colonel, or whether there was not a little earthly alloy – an idea of gilding an ugly name with a rich legacy?

Ownest, if I write any more, it would be only to try to express more lovings, and longings – and as they are impossible to express, I may as well close.

My only belovedest,Thy Best Beloved.

Mrs. Sophia A. Hawthorne,

West Newton.

TO MRS. HAWTHORNE Salem, July 1st, 1848

Ownest, How long is it since I heard from thee – and what an eternity since thou didst go away! It seems at least as long as the whole time that we have been married. My heart calls for thee, very loudly, and thou comest not. And I want to hear our children's voices; – it would be pleasant, even, to see little Tornado in one of her tantrums. She is a noble child. Kiss her and Bundlebreech for me, and talk to them about me, lest I be entirely forgotten.

If this had been a pleasant day, I should probably have gone to New York on Custom-House business; but it being thick and dismal, I shall give up the expedition, although it would have been a very favorable opportunity. I should have been back here on Wednesday morning; and as one of the intervening days is Sunday, and another the Fourth of July, only a single day of attendance at my office would have been lost. Best of all, it would have cost nothing.

Dora has a great deal of work to do; but she neglects nothing appertaining to my comfort. Aunty 'Ouisa has favored me with one cup of coffee, since thou wentest away, and with an occasional doughnut; but I think thy lectures on diet and regimen have produced a considerable effect.

Dearest, is thy absence so nearly over that we can now see light glimmering at the end of it? Is it half over? If not, I really do not see how I am to bear it. A month of non-existence is the utmost limit —

I am continually interrupted as I write, this being pay-day, and a very busy time. I don't know exactly what will be the amount of our fees; but I should think it would be about as good a month as the last. Thirty-five dollars, however, have already been drawn for our quarter's rent. If thou wantest any more money, as probably thou dost, write me how much, and I will send it. How much must I reserve to pay Rebecca's wages? Any surplus, I intend to apply in lessening Millet's bill.