A Death in Utopia (23 page)

Mr. Platt cleared his throat and spat into the snow. He wasn't a man to show his feelings, but there was sadness in his face. "Fanny Gray was a fine strong woman," he muttered. "She helped my Hetty
with the pigs one time when they got out of their pen. She helped." He cleared his throat again and picked up the bag. "I'll get some of the men together and we can walk around the pond and see what we can find."

They turned to retrace their steps back to the Farm. The clouds were starting to cover the sun and the wind was picking up. Even the birds had fallen silent and retreated to their nests. It might be a long time before they found anything more.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Charlotte Looks Back

November 1, 1843. – One Year Later

Dried leaves were scuttling across the brown lawn—dead, dying. Charlotte hated November. It reminded her of that dreadful day at Cow Island Pond more than a year ago. She had been in a haze for the rest of the day after they found Fanny's satchel. George Ripley and most of the men and boys went back to the pond with Abner Platt to search around the edges. They found a body caught in the rushes along the edge of the water, but it wasn't Fanny. It was a black African woman clutching a baby in her arms. Her arms were so tight around the baby they couldn't pry him out; the elbows wouldn't bend. So they were buried together in one coffin. It was probably the most respectful way.

It wasn't until two days later when the ice was half gone from the pond that the men found Fanny. The freezing water had preserved her body perfectly. People said she looked exactly the same as she had when she was alive. Charlotte thought she looked younger, even happier somehow. She looked peaceful. Had Fanny ever felt so peaceful before?

The sheriff came out to the Farm of course and talked to the Ripleys and to Charlotte. Sophia showed him the letter Fanny had left and Charlotte tried to tell him about what she and Daniel had been doing. How they had tried to discover what had happened and how the search had finally led to Fanny. He wanted to talk to Daniel too, and when the inquest came, the Ripleys and Daniel and Charlotte all gave testimony. The final verdict was that it was "death by misadventure" for Fanny and for Lily Lawrence and her baby. The judge said he saw no reason for changing the verdict on Winslow Hopewell's death. That too remained "death by misadventure". That was really what it was.

"Misadventure"—what a strange word. When Charlotte was young she had thought adventures were glorious. She had visions of knights in shining armor mounted on milk white steeds or discoverers sailing across the ocean to find new lands. Adventures in storybooks never go awry. Foolish accidents like wandering into a frozen pond in the snow or meeting an angry woman with a hoe don't appear in storybooks.

A memorial service was held at Brook Farm for Fanny and for Lily. Two of Fanny's brothers were there. One of them said a few, more than a few, eloquent words about how much he and his brothers had appreciated the loving care Fanny had taken of them after their mother died. He spoke so well that Charlotte thought Fanny must have been wrong about none of them paying any attention to her. Then Tabitha Whitelaw spoke about how hard Fanny had worked to save runaway African slaves. She also talked about Lily Lawrence and her husband and how they had struggled to reach the freedom they longed for.

After the service, the brothers took Fanny's coffin back to Port Augusta to be buried in their family plot. The Reverend John Carter took the coffin holding Lily and her baby back to the Dedham Church and gave them a decent burial. Abigail and Charlotte, as well as several other people from Brook Farm, walked over to Dedham to see them laid to rest.

On the morning of that funeral the sun was shining and the snow had almost disappeared, making the day seem more like early spring than the beginning of winter. They walked along the muddy road, not saying much until Abigail startled Charlotte by asking, "Do you think I ought to tell Thomas Hopewell that he has a grandson?"

Charlotte drew her breath in surprise. That had never occurred to her, although once it was said, the idea seemed natural. She thought of Thomas Hopewell sitting alone in his grand house night after night. Sophia Ripley had told Charlotte she and her husband had visited the Reverend Thomas Hopewell and he found it consoling that the death of his son was almost accidental and not the result of any vicious criminal. Charlotte wasn't sure she would find much consolation in that, but it seemed to help the Reverend Hopewell. Wouldn't he be glad to know that some spark of his son remained? Why shouldn't Abigail and Timothy go to live with him and carry on the family name? But what if he still rejected Quakers? What if he rejected Abigail and only wanted Timothy?

"That's a big question, Abigail," she finally answered. "Is that what you want to do? Do you think it would be best for Timothy?"

Abigail pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders and walked along silently for a few minutes. "I don't know. I just don't know," she muttered. "Does Timothy have a right to know the truth? We talked about that, Winslow and I, on the last day I saw him. He said
he could persuade his father to recognize our marriage and he said we could have another wedding—a "real" wedding—and everything would be all right. But I think he expected that I would stop being a Quaker and join his church. I'm not sure I want that. I don't believe Timothy should grow up to believe in war, maybe to go to war."

"America won't go to war, Abigail," Charlotte assured her. "We've won our independence and we have a country far away from Europe and all its wars. You don't have to worry about that. Think how happy Reverend Hopewell would be to find out he has a grandson."

"Would he be happy? Well, he'd be happy about Timothy, I'm sure. Who wouldn't be happy to have such a fine boy? But would he accept me? Would he just snatch Timothy away and make him his own? He is Winslow's father, but he is also a selfish old man. He only loves people who do just as he says." Her steps grew quicker and her skirts swung around her as she walked so briskly Charlotte had to hurry to keep up. She was frowning now as though she were looking Thomas Hopewell in the eye and not liking what she found. Then she stopped abruptly. "I will wait on it," she said. "I will wait for the spirit to speak to my condition. Then I will know what is right to do."

The next few weeks were odd. Everyone went about their usual activities, but it felt as though they were walking on eggshells, tiptoeing so as not to upset anyone. People took care to be nice to one another. Fred and the other students organized a concert for New Year's Day and everyone sang hymns and listened to readings by members and guests. Margaret Fuller was there and when her turn came she read a poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson about berrying. Had Mr. Emerson thought of Brook Farm when he wrote it? One
thing they did well was to pick berries and make use of the blueberries, blackberries and raspberries found in the woods around the Farm. It had been one of Fanny's special pleasures. Was that why the poem was chosen?

Berrying

"May be true what I had heard,

Earth's a howling wilderness

Truculent with fraud and force,"

Said I, strolling through the pastures,

And along the riverside.

Caught among the blackberry vines,

Feeding on the Ethiops sweet,

Pleasant fancies overtook me:

I said, "What influence me preferred

Elect to dreams thus beautiful?"

The vines replied, "And didst thou deem

No wisdom to our berries went?"

Winter is always a somber time in Massachusetts, but at least they weren't isolated on some rural farm when the snow came and kept everyone indoors. Charlotte continued teaching the children as they grew and learned. She was pleased by the way the small ones who had known none of their letters when they started in the autumn had learned them all by the time January came. Timothy of course learned everything very quickly and was reading Aesop's fables by himself, but even little Johnny Parsons was able to get through the shorter ones without many stumbles.

Almost every Sunday all through that long winter Daniel managed to get out to the Farm. He and Charlotte spent hours in the parlor talking about his job and his plans. His article about Winslow
Hopewell's death had impressed Mr. Cabot, so he now worked regularly for the
Evening Transcript
. When he was first taken on the staff she teased him by asking how an "ignorant immigrant" could write about the ins-and-outs of Boston, but after a few months he knew more about Boston than she did despite her three years head start on living in the city. Then it was his turn to call her an "ignorant immigrant". Sophia Ripley was shocked one afternoon when she overheard him say that, but to Daniel and Charlotte it was a badge of honor to have learned so much about their new country and to feel at home in it.

Spring finally came. The bite went out of the wind and once again it was a pleasure to walk through the woods. Daniel and Charlotte walked over to Cow Island Pond one afternoon in March and stood at the edge thinking about Fanny, and about Lily too, and of the way lives could be snuffed out so quickly.

Everything was different than it had been in the fall. There were fewer people at the Farm. Leaves were coming out on the trees around the pond, but Charlotte wondered how the crops would do with fewer people to plant and harvest them. Fanny had wanted so much for the Community to survive, but even she had not survived the long cold winter.

Daniel was still looking at the gray-blue water of the pond. "I am going to write a poem about all this," he said. "Then I will have it to remember when I leave."

Leave? The word cut into Charlotte's mind. He had not mentioned leaving. He looked at her and she could see worry in his eyes. "Horace Greeley has asked me to go to New York City and work for his new newspaper
The Tribune,"
he said. "I can't miss this chance. Have you ever thought of leaving?"

No, she had not thought of such a thing. But as he talked she started thinking. So many people were going. Mr. Ripley was talking about turning the Community into a Phalanx—a very different kind of place where people were organized into rigid groups and each group had its task. Charlotte wasn't sure she would like a community like that. She hesitated and Daniel spoke again.

"We could go to New York together, two ignorant immigrants in a new city. My pay will be better there and I've been saving money every week since I started working for Mr. Cabot."

"That money was so you could send for your mother and sisters," Charlotte reminded him. "Anyway, I don't need your pay. I have been taking care of myself for ever since I left home. If I go to New York, I'll pay my own way."

They left it at that and walked back to the Hive. A few days after Easter, Daniel left for New York. He loved his work with the
New York Tribune
and wrote letters every week about what he was doing in the city. He went to plays and to concerts. He even heard the famous violinist, Ole Bull, at his first concert in America. Ellen teased Charlotte about all the letters. She claimed Jonas Gerritson was growing weary dragging all the mail up to the Farm and his horse was wearing out. She also said that for all the money Charlotte spent on postage she could live for a year in New York and not have to write letters.

Abigail had not yet decided whether to tell Thomas Hopewell the truth about Timothy, who was growing and learning every day. He was a happy boy and Abigail and Charlotte agreed he would grow up to be a great man. Abigail wanted him to become the patriot who would finally end slavery in America. She and Tabitha Whitelaw had been working hard to prepare the ground for that change.
Sometimes Charlotte could see traces of sadness about Abigail, perhaps when she thought of lost plans and dreams, but most of the time she was serene, moving around the house in her white dress like a beautiful statue come to life. Charlotte believed that the spirit, whatever she meant by that, had spoken to her condition and she was at peace.

So many people were moving and changing. Margaret Fuller had gone to New York to work for Horace Greeley's newspaper, just as Daniel was. She wrote often to Sophia Ripley and early in October she had sent a letter to Charlotte. In her letter, Miss Fuller described a new school opening in the city to teach the children of the Free Blacks in the city. The director of the school was looking for teachers who would be willing to teach the young children. Miss Fuller urged Charlotte to apply.

Charlotte wrote to tell Daniel about Miss Fuller's suggestion and he responded enthusiastically. He said that despite how much he enjoyed his job, he found himself often alone in New York and missed having her to talk to. He even sent her one of his poems:

Sad the bird that sings alone,

Flies to wilds, unseen to languish,

Pours, unheard, the ceaseless moan,

And wastes on desert air its anguish!

Charlotte smiled to think he was becoming so poetical, but she carried that little poem with her everywhere and read it over whenever she was alone. Another winter was arriving, but she could hope that this year the season would bring new lives for them instead of sorrow.

AFTERWARD

The Death of a Dream: After Brook Farm

Weep not that the world changes – did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep. – William Cullen Bryant "Mutation"

The Brook Farm experiment lasted less than seven years. George Ripley struggled with constant financial problems. Farming was not practical because the distance to markets made it impossible to sell enough produce. Although the school was very successful, other industries faltered because too few experienced working people were attracted to the community. Eventually Ripley tried to transform the community into a Phalanx, a rigid social group program in which people were assigned to work at specific tasks. The young, idiosyncratic rebels who had been the original members gradually drifted away. Several later became important figures in 19th century American society. And for most of them the Brook Farm experience was an important defining experience in their lives. Several later published memoirs of the community, but George Ripley never recorded his account of the experience.