SOPHIECHEN.
The record for Sophia's mother goes on unfailingly: —
November 19.
My DEAREST MOTHER, — This Indian summer is very beautiful. The dulcet air and stillness are lovely. This morning we watched the opal dawn, and the stars becoming pale before it, as also the old moon, which rose between five and six o'clock, and, in the form of a boat of pure silvery-gold, floated up the sea of clear, rosy air. I am so very early a riser that the first faint light usually finds me busy.
I wish you could see how charmingly my husband's Study looks now. As we abandon our drawing-room this winter, I have hung on his walls the two Lake Como and the Loch Lomond pictures, all of which I painted expressly for him; and the little mahogany centre-table stands under the astral lamp, covered with a crimson cloth. The antique centre-table broke down one day beneath my dear husband's arms, with a mighty sound, astonishing me in my studio below the Study. He has mended it. On one of the secretaries stands the lovely Ceres, and opposite it Margaret Fuller's bronze vase. In the afternoon, when the sun fills the room and lights up the pictures, it is beautiful. Yet still more, perhaps, in the evening, when the astral enacts the sun, and pours shine upon all the objects, and shows, beneath, the noblest head in Christendom, in the ancient chair with its sculptured back [a chair said to have come over in the Mayflower, and owned by the Hawthorne family]; and whenever I look up, two stars beneath a brow of serene white radiate love and sympathy upon me. Can you think of a happier life, with its rich intellectual feasts? That downy bloom of happiness, which unfaithful and ignoble poets have persisted in declaring always vanished at the touch and wear of life, is delicate and fresh as ever, and must remain so if we remain unprofane. The sacredness, the loftiness, the ethereal delicacy of such a soul as my husband's will keep heaven about us. My thought does not yet compass him. December. For the world's eye I care nothing; but in the profound shelter of this home I would put on daily a velvet robe, and pearls in my hair, to gratify my husband's taste. This is a true wife's world. Directly after dinner my lord went to the Athenaeum; and when he returned, he sat reading Horace Walpole till he went out to the wood-house to saw and split wood. Presently I saw, hastening up the avenue, Mr. George Bradford. He stayed to tea. His beautiful character makes him perennial in interest. As my husband says, we can see nature through him straight, without refraction. My water this morning was deadly cold instead of livingly cold, and I knew the Imp must have taken it from some already drawn, instead of right from the well. The maid brought for me from Mrs. Emerson's “The Mysteries of Paris,” which I read all the evening. I have been to see E. Channing, who looked very pretty. She has a dog named Romeo, which Mrs. S. G. Ward gave them. I borrowed a book of E. about sainted women. In “The Democratic Review” was my husband's “Fire Worship.” I could not wait to read it! It is perfectly inimitable, as usual. His wit is as subtle as fire. This morning I got up by moonlight again, and sewed till Mary brought my fresh-drawn water. The moon did not set till after dawn. To-day I promenaded in the gallery with wadded dress and muff and tippet on. After tea, my lord read Jones Very's criticism upon “Hamlet.” This morning was very superb, and the sunlight played upon the white earth like the glow of rubies upon pearls. My husband was entirely satisfied with the beauty of it. He is so seldom fully satisfied with weather, things, or people, that I am always glad to find him pleased. Nothing short of perfection can content him. How can seraphs be contented with less? After breakfast, as I could not walk out on account of the snow, I concluded to housewife. My husband shoveled paths (heaps of snow being trifles to his might), and sawed and split wood, and brought me water from the well. To such uses do seraphs come when they get astray on earth. I painted till after one o'clock. There was a purple and gold sunset. After dinner to-day Mr. Hawthorne went to the village, and brought back “The Salem Gazette.” Some one had the impudence to speak of him in it as “gentle Nat Hawthorne.” I cannot conceive who could be so bold and so familiar. Gentle he surely is, but such an epithet does not comprehend him, and gives a false idea. As usual after sunset, he went out to find exercise till quite dark. Then he read aloud part of “The Tempest,” while I sewed. In the evening he told me about his early life in Raymond [Maine], and he gave me some of Mr. Bridge's famous wine. To-day my husband partly read “Two Gentlemen of Verona.” I do not like it much. What a queer mood Shakespeare must have been in, to write it. He seems to be making fun. I wrote to Mrs. Follen, and made up a budget of a paper from my husband for her “Child's Friend.” It was the incident of Mr. Raike's life, with regard to his founding of Sunday-schools, most exquisitely told, and set in a frame of precious jewels. Whatever my husband touches turns to gold in the intellectual and spiritual world. I sewed on a purple blouse for him till dusk. We have the luxury of our maid's absence, and Apollo helped me by making the fires. I warmed rice for myself, and had the happiness of toasting his bread. He read aloud “Love's Labour 's Lost,” and said that play had no foundation in nature. To-day there have been bright gleams, but no steady sunshine. Apollo boiled some potatoes for breakfast. Imagine him with that magnificent head bent over a cooking-stove, and those star-eyes watching the pot boil! In consequence, there never were such good potatoes before. For dinner we did not succeed in warming the potatoes effectually; but they were edible, and we had meat, cheese, and apples. This is Christmas Day, which I consider the most illustrious and sacred day of the year. Before sunrise, a great, dark blue cloud in the east made me suppose it was to be a dismal day; but I was quite mistaken, for it has been uncommonly beautiful. Peace has seemed brooding “with turtle wing” over the world, and no one stirs, as if all men obeyed the command of the elements, which was, “Be still, as we are.” I intended to make a fine bowl of chocolate for my husband's dinner, but he proposed to celebrate Christmas by having no cooking at all. At one o'clock we went together to the village, my husband going to the Athenaeum, and I to Mrs. Emerson's, where Mr. Thoreau was dining. On the way home I saw in the distance the form of forms approaching. We dined on preserved fruits and bread and milk, — quite elegant and very nice. What a miracle my husband is! He has the faculty of accommodating himself to all sorts of circumstances with marvelous grace of soul. In the afternoon he brought me some letters, one being from E. Hooper, with verses which she had written after reading “Fire Worship.” The motto is “Fight for your stoves!” and the measure that of “Scots wha hae.” It is very good. The maid returned. This morning we awoke to a mighty snowstorm. The trees stood white-armed all around us. In the afternoon some one knocked at the front door. I was amazed, supposing no one could overcome the roads, and thought it must be a government officer. As the door opened, I heard a voice say, “Where is the man?” It was Ellery Channing, who exclaimed, as he appeared at the Study, where we were, that it was the very time to come, — he liked the snow. He looked like a shaggy bear; but his face was quite shining, as usual. He brought some novels and reviews, which Queen Margaret [Fuller] had sent to Ellen Channing [her sister] to read. We had to leave him, while we dined, at three. He would not join us, and made his exit while we were in the dining-room. To-day as I painted the wind arose, and howled and swept about, and clouded the sun, and wearied my spirits. I was obliged to put away my palette at half past twelve o'clock, and then came up, and looked into the Study at my husband. He was writing, and I was conscience-stricken for having interrupted him. We went to walk, and a neighbor invited us to drive to town in his sleigh. I accepted, but my husband did not. The Imp sprang on, as we passed his house; and then I found that the kind old man was Mr. Jarvis of the hill. I went to the post-office, where my husband was reading a letter from Mr. Hillard. We stayed at the Athenaeum till after two, and then braved the warring winds homewards. We had no reading in the evening, for the wind was too noisy.
January 1, 1844. A quiet morning at last; the wind had howled itself dead, as if it were the breath of the Old Year, by midnight. On our way home to-day from the Athenaeum, Dr. Bartlett met us, and offere
d to take me along. On the way he spoke of George Bradford's worshiping Mr. Hawthorne. I had a fine time painting, this morning. Everything went right, and I succeeded quite to my mind. I felt sure my husband above me must also be having a propitious morning. When he came to dinner, he said he did not know as he ever felt so much like writing on any one day. Mr. Emerson called.
January 9.
BELOVED MOTHER, — I dated all the documents I sent by Plato [Mr. Emerson] a day too late. My husband will dispatch a budget to Mr. Hillard's care, containing a paper which he is to send to Mr. Griswold, editor of “Graham's Magazine.” He wrote to my husband, when he took the editorship, and requested him to contribute, telling him he intended to make the magazine of a higher character, and therefore ventured to ask, offering five dollars per page, and the liberty of drawing for the money the moment the article was published. “The Democratic Review” is so poor now that it can only offer twenty dollars for an article of what length soever, so that Mr. Hawthorne cannot well afford to give any but short stories to it; and it is besides sadly dilatory about payment. The last paper he sent to it was a real gift, as it was more than four pages; but he thought its character better suited to the grave “Democrat” than for the other publication. Why did not you send the last number? lie is quite impatient for it. I also long to read again that terrific and true picture of a cold heart. [The Bosom Serpent.] I do not know what the present production is about, even; for I have made it a law to myself never to ask him a word concerning what he is writing, because I always disliked to speak of what I was painting. He often tells me; but sometimes the story remains hidden till he reads it aloud to me, before sending it away. I can comprehend the delicacy and tricksiness of his mood when he is evolving a work of art. He waits upon the light in such a purely simple way that I do not wonder at the perfection of each of his stories. Of several sketches, first one and then another come up to be clothed upon with language, after their own will and pleasure. It is real inspiration, and few are reverent and patient enough to wait for it as he does. I think it is in this way .that he comes to be so void of extravagance in his style and material. He does not meddle with the clear, true picture that is painted on his mind. He lifts the curtain, and we see a microcosm of nature, so cunningly portrayed that truth itself seems to have been the agent of its appearance. Thus his taste is genuine — the most faultless I ever knew. Now, behold! all unforeseen, a criticism upon the genius of Nathaniel Hawthorne!
Dear mother, Louisa Hawthorne has sent me some exquisite silk flannel for little shirts, but not quite enough. It is a dollar a yard. Mrs. Emerson says that you will find it at Jacobs', on Tremont Street. I could not refuse my child the luxury of feeling such a material over its dear little bosom. I have to spend a great deal of time in darning the small craters in my stockings.
January 21. In the hope of some unoccupied carrier-pigeon's straying this way, I shall write to-day. The extreme cold freezes the ground, and my lord will not consent to my putting foot out of doors, so I remain a singing-bird in my happy cage, endeavoring by walks in the long upper entry (which is enlivened by sundry winds rushing through a broken window-pane) to make some amends for being deprived of the outward world. Yesterday I felt as if I had dieted upon diamonds and were sparkling with rainbow colors like an icicle in the sun. I painted upon Endymion. My husband blasphemes the fierce winds and extreme cold in a very picturesque manner; but the disapprobation he feels is a moral ope, not a physical discomfort. He cleaves the air like a Damascus blade, so finely attempered that he is unharmed. I never knew any person in such fine health as he is; because he is not obtusely well — he has no brute force; but every part of his frame seems in perfect diapason, like a bird's. I should be afraid of him if he were in ferocious health; but his health is heavenly. Endymion will certainly be finished this week if I remain alive, and the sun shines. [It is a picture in pale brown monochromes, of the most remarkable perfection of finish and beauty of draughtsmanship.] I shall ask Plato to carry it to Boston in his arms, unless my honorable brother Horace [Mann] will take it when he comes to lecture. It will be perfectly light, but cannot be given up to the stage-man. I do not want it shown to any person until it be framed, with a glass over it. Daggett must be made to hasten his work; but he is as obstinate and cross as a mule; yet no one can make such superlative frames. The price must be an hundred dollars independently of the frame; if it be worth one cent, it is worth that. I dearly desire that some one I know should possess it. I shall be glad some day to redeem it, for it has come out of my soul. What a record it is of these happy, hopeful days! The divine dream shining in Endymion's face, his body entranced in sleep, his soul bathed in light, every curve flowing in consummate beauty — in some way it is my life. But, for Endymion, I must look upon a small bit of gold. [Her husband would not let her sell the picture, after all.]
March 16.
MY DEAREST MOTHER, — The sumptuous boxful arrived, and the dressed beef is most acceptable, and the wafers are very nice, Mr. Hawthorne liking them exceedingly. Una went to see her father yesterday morning, the nurse declaring that she looked as nice as silver and pretty as a white rose. Great was his surprise to see his little daughter coming to him! My husband wishes father would please go to the agents for “The Democratic Review,” and tell them he is on the free list. The three last numbers have not been sent to him, they having stopped sending at the printing of “The Christmas Banquet.” Will father also look into “Graham's Magazine” for March, and see whether it contains “Earth's Holocaust,” and if so, send it to us?
August.
Directly after you left us, baby went to sleep, and slept three hours, during which time I accomplished wonders. We dined upon potatoes, corn, carrots, and whortleberry pudding, quite sumptuously. Our cook was Hyperion, whom we have engaged. He, with his eyes of light, his arched brow, and “locks of lovely splendor,” officiated even to dish-washing, with the air of one making worlds. I, with babe on arm, looked at him part of the time. No accident happened, except that a sprigged saucer “came into halves;” and I found that Hyperion, in his new office, had put the ivory handles of the knives into the water, knowing no better, and left the silver to be washed last instead of first. I dragged Una in her carriage in the avenue, and she was very happy. She woke a little after four this morning, and when I first opened my eyes upon her, her feet were “in the sky.” I laid the breakfast-table, and prepared everything for Hyperion to cook milk and boil water. At breakfast, baby sat radiant in her coach. George Prescott brought a hot Indian cake from his mother, while we were at table. Before Hyperion had quite finished his kitchen-work, Colonel Hall and his little son came to see him. The Colonel only stayed about an hour, and could not come to dinner. The unhappy lamb was boiled, together with some shelled beans and corn.
August 20. Your packet arrived last evening. I am much inclined to have the black woman. My husband says he does not want me to undertake to keep anybody who is apparently innocent, after my late sore experience. He says the old black lady is probably as bad already as she ever will be. If you find the blackey not disinclined to come to such poor folks, I will take her in September. I cannot well ask dear Mary to visit me while my Hyperion is cook and maid. He will not let me go into his kitchen, hardly; but it is no poetry to cook, and wash dishes; and I cannot let him do it for anybody but myself alone. The only way we can make money now seems to be to save it; and as he declares he can manage till September, we will remain alone till then. It is beyond words enchanting to be so. But, I assure you, his office is no sinecure. He actually does everything. And I sit upstairs, and out of doors with baby, more of a queen than ever, for I have a king to my servitor. It would cost too much to board; you know we cannot live cheaper anywhere or anyhow than thus.
Again, a letter is sent to Mrs. Caleb Foote: —
The Promised Land.
MY DEAR MARY, — You are the most satisfactory person to draw for of any one I know. [Sophia had sent one of her pictures as a present.] Y
our letter gave me the purest pleasure, for it made me feel as if I had caused two hearts to be glad, and that is worth living for, if it be done but once in a life. . . . We have passed the happiest winter, the long evenings lifted out of the common sphere by the magic of Shakespeare. Mr. Hawthorne read aloud to me all the Plays. And you must know how he reads, before you can have any idea what it was. I can truly say I never comprehended Shakespeare before; and my husband was pleased to declare that he never himself understood him so well, though he has pored over the Plays all his life. All the magnificence, the pomp, the cunning beauty, the wisdom and fine wit, and the grace were revealed to me as by a new light. Every character is unfixed from the page, and stands free in life. Meanwhile I sewed, and whenever a little garment was finished, I held it up, and won a radiant smile for it and the never-weary question (with the charming, arch glance) “Pray, who is that for?”
We breakfast about nine o'clock, because we do not dine till three; and we have no tea ceremony, because it broke our evenings too much. I break my fast upon fruit, and we lunch upon fruit, and in the evening, also, partake of that paradisaical food. Mr. Emerson, with his sunrise smile, Ellery Channing, radiating dark light, and, very rarely, Elizabeth Hoar, with spirit voice and tread, have alone varied our days from without; but we have felt no want. My sweet, intelligent maid sings at her work, with melodious note. I do not know what is in store for me; but I know well that God is in the future, and I do not fear, or lose the precious present by anticipating possible evil. I remember Father Taylor's inspired words, “Heaven is not afar. We are like phials of water in the midst of the ocean. Eternity, heaven, God, are all around us, and we are full of God. Let the thin crystal break, and it is all one.” Mr. Mann came to Concord to lecture last week. He looked happiest. What can he ask for more, having Mary for his own? Hold me ever as Your true and affectionate friend,
Delphi Complete Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne (Illustrated) Page 664
