_Brook Farm_, Sept. 22d, 1841--P.M.
Dearest love, here is thy husband again, slowly adapting himself to
the life of this queer community, whence he seems to have been absent
half a life time--so utterly has he grown apart from the spirit and
manners of the place. Thou knowest not how much I wanted thee, to give
me a home-feeling in the spot--to keep a feeling of coldness and
strangeness from creeping into my heart and making me shiver.
Nevertheless, I was most kindly received; and the fields and woods
looked very pleasant, in the bright sunshine of the day before
yesterday. I had a friendlier disposition towards the farm, now that I
am no longer obliged to toil in its stubborn furrows. Yesterday and
to-day, however, the weather has been intolerable--cold, chill,
sullen, so that it is impossible to be on kindly terms with Mother
Nature. Would I were with thee, mine own warmest and truest-hearted
wife!
Belovedest, I doubt whether I shall succeed in writing another
volume of Grandfather's Library, while I remain at the farm. I have
not the sense of perfect seclusion, which has always been essential to
my power of producing anything. It is true, nobody intrudes into my
room; but still I cannot be quiet. Nothing here is settled--everything
is but beginning to arrange itself--and though thy husband would seem
to have little to do with aught beside his own thoughts, still he
cannot but partake of the ferment around him. My mind will not be
abstracted. I must observe, and think, and feel, and content myself
with catching glimpses of things which may be wrought out hereafter.
Perhaps it will be quite as well that I find myself unable to set
seriously about literary occupation for the present. It will be good
to have a longer interval between my labor of the body and that of the
mind. I shall work to the better purpose, after the beginning of
November. Meantime, I shall see these people and their enterprise
under a new point of view, and perhaps be able to determine whether
thou and I have any call to cast in our lot among them.
Sweetest, our letters have not yet been brought from the Post Office;
so that I have known nothing of thee since our parting. Surely we were
very happy--and never had I so much peace and joy as in brooding
over thine image, as thou wast revealed to me in our last interview. I
love thee with all the heart I have--and more. Now farewell, most
dear. Mrs. Ripley is to be the bearer of this letter; and I reserve
the last page for tomorrow morning. Perhaps I shall have a blessed
word from thee, ere then.
Septr. 23d--Before breakfast.--Sweetest wife, thou hast not written
to me. Nevertheless, I do not conclude thee to be sick, but will
believe that thou hast been busy in creating Laura Bridgman. What a
faithful and attentive husband thou hast! For once he has anticipated
thee in writing.
Belovedest, I do wish the weather would put off this sulky mood. Had
it not been for the warmth and brightness of Monday, when I arrived
here, I should have supposed that all sunshine had left Brook Farm
forever. I have no disposition to take long walks, in such a state of
the sky; nor have I any buoyancy of spirit. Thy husband is a very dull
person, just at this time. I suspect he wants thee. It is his purpose,
I believe, either to walk or ride to Boston, about the end of next
week, and give thee a kiss--after which he will return quietly and
contentedly to the farm. Oh, what joy, when he will again see thee
every day!
We had some tableaux last night. They were very stupid, (as, indeed,
was the case with all I have ever seen) but do not thou tell Mrs.
Ripley so. She is a good woman, and I like her better than I did--her
husband keeps his old place in my judgment. Farewell, thou gentlest
Dove--thou perfectest woman--