_Brook Farm_, Aug. 13th, 1841
Dearest unutterably, Mrs. Ripley is going to Boston this morning, to
Miss Slade's wedding; so I sit down to write a word to thee, not
knowing whither to direct it. My heart searches for thee, but wanders
about vaguely, and is strangely dissatisfied. Where art thou? I fear
that thou didst spend yesterday in the unmitigated east wind of the
seacoast. Perhaps thou art shivering, at this moment.
Dearest, I would that I were with thee. It seems as if all evil things
had more power over thee, when I am away. Then thou art exposed to
noxious winds, and to pestilence, and to death-like weariness; and,
moreover, nobody knows how to take care of thee but thy husband.
Everybody else thinks it of importance that thou shouldst paint and
sculpture; but it would be no trouble to me, if thou shouldst never
touch clay or canvas again. It is not what thou dost, but what thou
art, that I concern myself about. And if thy mighty works are to be
wrought only by the anguish of thy head, and weariness of thy frame,
and sinking of thy heart, then do I never desire to see another. And
this should be the feeling of all thy friends. Especially ought it to
be thine, for thy husband's sake.
Belovedest, I am very well, and not at all weary; for yesterday's rain
gave us a holyday; and moreover the labors of the farm are not as
pressing as they have been. And--joyful thought!--in a little more
than a fortnight, thy husband will be free from his bondage--free to
think of his Dove--free to enjoy Nature--free to think and feel! I do
think that a greater weight will then be removed from me, than when
Christian's burthen fell off at the foot of the cross. Even my
Custom-House experience was not such a thraldom and weariness; my mind
and heart were freer. Oh, belovedest, labor is the curse of the world,
and nobody can meddle with it, without becoming proportionably
brutified. Dost thou think it a praiseworthy matter, that I have spent
five golden months in providing food for cows and horses? Dearest, it
is not so. Thank God, my soul is not utterly buried under a dung-heap.
I shall yet retain it, somewhat defiled, to be sure, but not utterly
unsusceptible of purification.
Farewell now, truest wife. It is time that this letter were sealed.
Love me; for I love thee infinitely, and pray for thee, and rejoice in
thee, and am troubled for thee--for I know not where thou art, nor how
thou dost.