The Complete Autobiographical Writings of Nathaniel Hawthorne. Герман Мелвилл

Boston, Mass.

      TO MISS PEABODY

      Salem, Jany. 27^th, 1841—½ past 2 P.M.

      Very dearest, what a dismal sky is this that hangs over us! Thy husband doth but half live to-day—his soul lies asleep, or rather torpid. As for thee, thou hast been prating at a great rate, and has spoken many wonderful truths in to-day's conversation.

      Belovedest, thou wast very sweet and lovely in our walk yesterday morning; and it gladdens me much that Providence brought us together. Dost thou not think that there is always some especial blessing granted us, when we are to be divided for any length of time? Thou rememberest what a blissful evening came down from Heaven to us, before our last separation; insomuch that our hearts glowed with its influence, all through the ensuing week. And yesterday there came a heavenly morning, and thou camest with it like a rosy vision, which still lingers with me, and will not quite fade away, till it be time for it to brighten into reality. Surely, thou art beloved of Heaven, and all these blessings are vouchsafed for thy sake; for I do not remember that such things used to happen to me, while I was a solitary sinner. Thou bringest a rich portion to thy husband, dearest—even the blessing of thy Heavenly Father.

      Whenever I return to Salem, I feel how dark my life would be, without the light that thou shedst upon it—how cold, without the warmth of thy love. Sitting in this chamber, where my youth wasted itself in vain, I can partly estimate the change that has been wrought. It seems as it the better part of me had been born, since then. I had walked those many years in darkness, and might so have walked through life, with only a dreamy notion that there was any light in the universe, if thou hadst not kissed mine eye-lids, and given me to see. Thou, belovedest, hast always been positively happy. Not so thy husband—he has only been not miserable. Then which of us has gained the most? Thy husband, assuredly.

      When a beam of heavenly sunshine incorporates itself with a dark cloud, is not the cloud benefitted more than the sunshine? What a happy image is this!—my soul is the cloud, and thine the sunshine—but a gentler, sweeter sunshine than ever melted into any other cloud.

      Dearest wife, nothing at all has happened to me, since I left thee. It puzzles me to conceive how thou meetest with so many more events than thy husband. Thou wilt have a volume to tell me, when we meet, and wilt pour thy beloved voice into mine ears, in a stream of two hours' long. At length thou wilt pause, and say—"But what has thy life been?"—and then will thy stupid husband look back upon what he calls his life, for three or four days past, and behold a blank! Thou livest ten times as much [as] he; because thy spirit takes so much more note of things.

      I met our friend Mr. Howes in the street, yesterday, and held a brief confabulation. He did not inquire how my wife's health is. Was not this a sin against etiquette? Dearest, thy husband's stupid book seems to meet more approbation here, than the former volume did—though that was greeted more favorably than it deserved. There is a superfluity of newspaper puffs here, and a deficiency in Boston, where they are much needed. I ought to love Salem better than I do; for the people have always had a pretty generous faith in me, ever since they knew me at all. I fear I must be undeserving of their praise, else I should never get it. What an ungrateful blockhead thy husband is!

      Miss Sophia A. Peabody,

       Care of Dr. N. Peabody,

       Boston, Mass.

      TO MISS PEABODY

      54 Pinckney St., 12 o'clock A.M. Monday [1841]

      Truest Heart,

      I cannot come to thee this evening, because my friend Bridge is in town, whom I hardly have seen for years past. Alas! I know not whether I am a very faithful friend to him; for I cannot rejoice that he is here, since it will keep me from my Dove. Thou art my only reality—all other people are but shadows to me: all events and actions, in which thou dost not mingle, are but dreams.

      Do thou be good, dearest love, and when I come, tomorrow night, let me find thee magnificent. Thou didst make me very happy, yesterday forenoon—thou wast a south-west wind—or the sweetest and wholesomest wind that blows, whichever it may be. I love thee more than I can estimate; and last night I dreamed of thee. I know not exactly what; but we were happy.

      God bless thee.

      Thine ownest husband,

       Theodore de L'Aubepine.

      A Madame,

       Madame Sophie Amelie de L'Aubepine,

       Rue d'Ouest,

       à Boston.

      Miss Sophia A. Peabody,

       West-street,

       Boston.

      TO MISS PEABODY

      54 Pinckney St., March 12^th,—Sunday [1841]

      My Life,

      I have come back to thee! Thy heart gives thee no warning of my presence; yet I am here—embracing thee with all the might of my soul. Ah, forgetful Dove! How is it that thou hast had no spiritual intelligence of my advent? I am sure that if yearnings and strivings could have brought my spirit into communion with thine, thou wouldst have felt me within thy bosom.

      Thou truest-Heart, thou art conscious of me, as much as a heavenly spirit can be, though the veil of mortality. Thou has not forgotten me for a moment. I have felt thee drawing me towards thee, when I was hundreds of miles away. The farther I went, the more was I conscious of both our loves. I cannot write how much I love thee, and what deepest trust I have in thee.

      Dearest, expect me at six o'clock this afternoon. I have not the watch, as thou knowest, and so it may be a few moments before or after six. Oh, I need thee this very, very moment—my heart throbs, and so does my hand, as thou mayst see by this scribble. God bless thee! I am very well.

      Thine Ownest Husband.

      Miss Sophia A. Peabody,

       13 West-street,

       Boston.

      TO MISS PEABODY

      Salem, March 18^th, 1841

      Dearest wife, here is thy poor husband, enduring his banishment as best he may. Methinks all enormous sinners should be sent on pilgrimage to Salem, and compelled to spend a length of time there, proportioned to the enormity of their offenses. Such a punishment would be suited to sinners that do not quite deserve hanging, yet are too aggravated for the States-Prison. Oh, thy naughty husband! If it be a punishment, he well deserves to suffer a life-long infliction of it, were it only for slandering his native town so vilely. Thou must scold him well. But, belovedest, any place is strange and irksome to me, where thou art not; and where thou art, any place will be home. Here I have made a great blot, as thou seest; but, sweetest, there is, at this moment, a portrait of myself in the mirror of that inkspot. Is not that queer to think of? When it reaches thee, it will be nothing but a dull black spot; but now, when I bend over it, there I see myself, as at the bottom of a pool. Thou must not kiss the blot, for the sake of the image which it now reflects; though, if thou shouldst, it will be a talisman to call me back thither again.

      Thy husband writes thee nonsense, as his custom is. I wonder how thou managest to retain any respect for him. Trust me, he is not worthy of thee—not worthy to kiss the sole of thy shoe. For the future, thou perfectest Dove, let thy greatest condescension towards him, be merely an extension of the tip of thy forefinger, or of thy delicate little foot in its stocking. Nor let him dare to touch it without kneeling—which he will be very ready to do, because he devoutly worships thee; which is the only thing that can be said in his favor. But, think of his arrogance! At this very moment.—

      March 19th. Forenoon.—Dearest soul, thou hast irrecoverably lost the conclusion of this sentence; for I was interrupted by a visitor, and have now forgotten what I meant to say. No matter; thou wilt not care for the loss; for, now I think of it, if does not please thee to hear thy husband spoken slightingly of. Well, then thou shouldst not have married such a vulnerable person. But, to thy comfort be it said, some people have a much more exalted opinion