The Hawthornes In Paradise


The dream was that Hawthorne would support himself by working in the fields only a few hours each day, and only in the summer; then he could spend the winter writing stories. He and Sophia would live in a cottage to be built on some secluded spot. Having bought two shares of stock in the community at $500 eachlater he would lend Ripley $400 more—he arrived at Brook Farm in an April snowstorm. Sophia paid him a visit at the end of May. “My life—how beautiful is Brook Farm!” she wrote him on her return. ”… I do not desire to conceive of a greater felicity than living in a cottage, built on one of those lovely sites, with thee.” But Hawthorne, after working for six weeks on the manure pile—or gold mine, as the Brook Farmers called it—was already disillusioned. “It is my opinion, dearest,” he wrote on almost the same day, “that a man’s soul may be buried and perish under a dungheap or in a furrow of the field, just as well as under a pile of money.” By the middle of August he had decided to leave Brook Farm. “Thou and I must form other plans for ourselves,” he told Sophia; “for I can see few or no signs that Providence purposes to give us a home here. I am weary, weary, thrice weary of waiting so many ages. Yet what can be done? Whatever may be thy husband’s gifts, he has not hitherto shown a single one that may avail to gather gold.”

“Thy husband” and “mine own wife” were drawing closer to marriage, simply because they had exhausted their vast New England patience. “Words cannot tell,” Sophia had written, “how immensely my spirit demands thee. Sometimes I almost lose my breath in a vast heaving toward thy heart.” Hawthorne, now vegetating in Salem—while the Peabodys were in Boston, where Elizabeth had opened a bookshop—was looking desperately for any sort of literary work. In March, 1842, he went to Albany to see John Louis O’Sullivan, who was again editing the Democratic Review . On the strength of the promises that O’Sullivan was always ready to make, Hawthorne decided to wait no longer; he would try to support a wife on what he could earn as a writer. It was a bold decision for an age when American writers were miserably paid and when Poe, his principal rival, had never earned as much as $1,000 in one year.

The wedding was set for the last day of June. During a visit to the Emersons, Miss Peabody found a home for the young couple; it was the Ripley house in Concord, where the parson used to live. Hawthorne could no longer defer telling his family about the engagement, after keeping it secret for three years. Now at last it became evident that there was and had always been another obstacle to his marriage.


The final obstacle was his older sister, Ebe the hermitess. She adored her handsome brother and clung to him as her only link with the world. The stratagem she found for keeping him was to insist that their mother would die of shock if she learned that he was marrying an invalid. Hawthorne loved his mother, though he had never been able to confide in her. This time he finally took the risk. “What you tell me is not a surprise to me,” Madam Hawthorne said, ”… and Sophia Peabody is the wife of all others whom I would have chosen for you.” When Ebe had recovered from her fury at hearing the news, she wrote Sophia a frigid letter of congratulation.

Your approaching union with my brother [she said] makes it incumbent upon me to offer you the assurances of my sincere desire for your mutual happiness. With regard to my sister and myself, I hope nothing will ever occur to render your future intercourse with us other than agreeable, particularly as it need not be so frequent or so close as to require more than reciprocal good will.

There would be, in fact, no intercourse with Ebe. She retired to a farmhouse in Beverly, where she spent the rest of her long life reading in her room and walking on the shore.

Three weeks before the date set for the wedding, Sophia terrified everyone by taking to her bed. There was talk of an indefinite postponement. Fortunately a new doctor explained that it was nothing unusual for a bride to run a fever, and so another date was chosen: Saturday morning, July 9. It was a few days after Hawthorne’s thirty-eighth birthday, while Sophia was almost thirty-three. At the wedding in the parlor behind Miss Peabody’s bookshop, there were only two guests outside the immediate family. It started to rain as the bride came down the stairs, but then the sun broke through the clouds and shone directly into the parlor. Hawthorne and Sophia stepped into a carriage and were driven across the Charles River, along the old road through Cambridge and Lexington, into the Land of Eden.


And so they lived happily ever after? They lived L happily for a time, but as always it came to an end, and the lovers too. For Hawthorne after twenty years of marriage, the end was near when he went feebly pacing up and down the path his feet had worn along the hillside behind his Concord house, while he tried to plan a novel that refused to be written. For Sophia the end was a desolate widowhood without the man who, she never ceased to feel, “is my world and all the business of it.” But the marriage was happy to the end, and at the beginning of it, during their stay at the Old Manse, they enjoyed something far beyond the capacity of most lovers to experience: three years of almost unalloyed delight.