RETURNING HOME
It would be pleasant to record that the benefits derived from this
happy outing on the Isle of Wight proved permanent, but unfortunately
that was not the case. Had Clara returned to America in the autumn,
it might have been better, but she went back to London for the winter
determined to brave its fogs. She had discovered, with many of her
countrymen, that it is a mistake to expect relief from cold weather
by going to a warm climate. The people who live in warm climates do
not know how to prepare for the cold. In London they knew at least the
value of a fire. To London she went, and the results were depressing.
Her throat and chest were affected badly by the London fogs. All the
gains of previous months seemed to have been lost, and she was as far
from well as she was at the end of the Franco-Prussian War. At this
time she wrote to Mrs. Vassall, who had returned from Washington and
was living in Worcester:
LONDON, July 11, 1873
EUSTON ROAD
DEAREST FANNIE:
Your dear good letter and that of your “Bear” came a few days ago. It
is funny to be interviewed at that distance, and I am glad that you
got no worse reports than you did. I don’t think I am so homesick as
it would seem, but I am weak, and little things seem such a burden to
me that it hinders me from doing many things that would make me more
at ease if they could be done. However, one must be patient; it is not
a month yet that I was in my bed most of the day, and now I can go
about town, and even once have been _out_ of town, but not for a long
trip.
It is kind of you all to offer to come to help me, but I believe I
shall be able to get over my difficulties without giving so much
trouble to any one. By “getting over them,” I mean measurably over
them. I cannot say that I even hope to be strong again as I was before
this last illness. I cannot tell, but it would be a wonder to me if
sufficient nervous strength returns to permit any degree of _real_
usefulness. The greatest trouble I meet now is to bear the little
burdens of contact with the persons and things around me, and not
show too plainly that I have not strength and composure to bear them
calmly; in short, to “hold my horses,” You, dear Fannie, will know
what that means, and how to the weak the grasshopper becomes a burden.
I am glad you have found a physician who has some strength for you,
if it is really so; but I must confess that my previously small share
of confidence in medical aid and wisdom has not increased by the last
year’s experience.
I hear of you in the most trying heat at home. It is just warm in
England some days, but to-day, for instance, ladies are generally
clothed in wool suits and a shawl. I went out just now for a few
minutes with Mamie, while our rooms were put in order, and came back
because I was too cold, and it is never very bright in London. I
suppose this has its due influence on one’s nervous system, and I
would have been glad at any time within the last month to be made
ready and go over to France or Germany. I think it would be better,
but I could not get strong enough to _get ready_ and go. You wonder
what “getting ready” means. It seems to you that it requires little
preparation to put up a bag or small trunk of things and cross the
Channel, and so it does, but it is summer, and I have several trunks
of mainly woolen things for this cool climate. My little strength
since I have been in Europe has made it necessary to have them, of
course, unpacked, and in a state of utter confusion, for some trunks
I have not had my hand in for months and months, but to others I
constantly go, and in haste. The _moths_ in London are like flies in
abundance. It wouldn’t mend my nerves to know I had gone off traveling
and left all I have to be devoured, and I have been made worse several
times by simply attempting to get a dress or some little article from
a trunk. My weak chest will not admit of the least labor of the arms
yet. Let Mamie do it? Mamie is only a weak little girl, and until
lately could not have packed her own trunk without harm to herself. So
I wait for strength as an army waits for quartermaster and commissary
supplies before it can march. I made one little trial or two, to see
what I could do. Papa Holmes (with whose family I went to Italy) came
one day to ask me if I could go to Liverpool where he was going, and
over into Wales, and pass a week. It was about the time Colonel Hinton
was going to sail, and I thought, with so many good friends on the
road, I might try it. So I went as far as Stratford-on-Avon, but I
grew so tired I gave out and let the party go on and I came home. It
wasn’t much of a journey,--only a few hours,--but I found it quite
sufficient.
It is really quite astonishing what those sleeping fellows tell, and
how they look us all through! I don’t think I am so homesick, if that
is the term they give it, but no one knows--only those who have tried
it--what the depressing atmosphere of London may be to one who is not
strong, and more especially to one who feels he is never to leave it,
as I expected last winter. I think I could have faced the prospect
of the dark river with a stouter heart if I had been strengthened
by a few glimpses of sunlight sometimes, but I waited such months
watching my little window panes for a patch of sky over which one
could discover that a cloud _moved_, but the surface was never light
and thin enough for this. It was as immovable as a sheet of zinc; one
felt himself already in a metallic coffin, only waiting to be closed
in a little snugger, and have the screws turned down. But I have
tried to be cheerful and as full of life and fun as I could be, with
so little ability to speak as I have had, and it _may_ be that you
and your Mamma Sally’s sleeping men see deeper and get nearer to the
reality than those about me, or than perhaps even I am well aware of.
It is possible I have at times succeeded in cheating myself a little;
all the better if it is so. I should be glad to be spared the trial
of going on to the continent of Europe again. I am _so tired_ of it,
I never want to see it again, but it may be best, and then _Mamie
ought_ not to leave Europe without going there. I should be sorry to
embark her for America having seen only poor smoky old London. If
some one of our friends had been coming over, with whom I could have
sent her to journey some, I should have been very glad of it. I can
perhaps arrange it from here, but up to the present moment I have not
been able to find the right opportunity. I thank you very much, dear
Fannie, for all your interest and care, and hope I may never find a
chance to repay it in the same manner.
Afternoon
Mr. Sheldon has just drawn a letter out of his pocket and, looking
very wise, announced to me that he had just commenced a correspondence
with a very pleasant lady of Worcester and, showing the envelope,
_I_ judged the correspondence had been commenced with the lady’s
_husband_. But I read it, and became convinced that it was from the
lady herself. He informed me that he had replied at the earliest
moment, and it happened to be just when they had succeeded in pushing
me off for my trip, so he had an opportunity to talk large, but he had
scarce time to answer until I was back, and he waited a day or two to
see if he might show your letter to me.
I hope Ber will have had an opportunity to hear direct from me, as I
gave his Boston address to Colonel Hinton, who promised to see him if
he could find him. I have seen no one who was going to Worcester or
I would have sent him to you. As for me, I shall try to go home this
autumn, I suppose. America will at all events be as well as here,
and has a greater range of climate with easier travel. As for the
prospects of a full recovery of my original health (i.e., previous to
last winter) I cannot decide yet. I may, when once out of this climate
and atmosphere in which I have fallen, recover at once and fully;
and I may never be able to throw off the effects of such prolonged
prostration. My own opinion inclines strongly to the latter. I do not
think any one need come to see me home; I should be sorry to give that
trouble to any one, and will do my best to get on by myself. And now,
with a kiss and great love to all, and the best to your own dear self,
I am as ever
Yours
CLARA
To Fannie’s husband, Bernard Barton Vassall, the “Ber” or “Bear” of her
playful letters, she had already written:
5 HEUSEN ST., WANSEY ST.
WALWORTH ROAD, LONDON, April 8, 1873
MY DEAR GOOD BOY BER:
I cannot tell you how good and kind it was of you to hasten to write
me as soon as you knew I had need of a word of sympathy; neither can
I tell how it did me good and made me better and stronger. I was so
weak and ill that day. It came at night with one from your mother,
and they were the first words of sympathy that had come to me from
the old home. I almost hesitate to tell you how long I held them
in my hands. I looked at them till they were damp with fever and
perspiration before I opened them and kept saying softly to myself,
“There’s something good for me in there; there are good kind words
and sympathy.” I waited still and held them close till I got a little
accustomed to them, and then I got raised up a little in my hot bed
and read them all through and through, and Mamie read them all to
me again. How they helped me on after that worst and weakest and
hardest of all the days I have passed in all this illness! It seemed
providential that they should come just then. It was not my cough
that was holding me so low at that moment. I don’t know if in all I
have written your mother, I have ever told her _how_ I got a part
of my illness. I had two physicians, one daily and one consulting
occasionally. He came one day in early March, and recommended me to
be taken out of bed and bathed in water each day, put back awhile,
then taken up and dressed. I could not stand alone, but this was done
two days. I had only my cough then, but the third morning after the
bathing and “gaping” I couldn’t straighten a limb. It proved to be
inflammatory rheumatism from my body to my toes; then in two weeks a
relapse and a rheumatic fever set in, which was at its height when
your letters arrived. But the port wine broke the fever and I am
nearly past the effects of the rheumatism, have little or no pain,
and my cough is not dangerous now, I am sure; I sleep pretty well for
me, and I eat good substantial food. Now, if I can hold fast to all
these improvements, I cannot think it will be necessary for any person
to leave home and business to come to me. I could not be come _for_
at present, for I should not dare attempt the voyage yet, and I hope
to be able to get along by myself, especially as it is almost summer
now. But, dear Ber, I think every moment how good and kind it was of
you to say you _would_ come if I needed you, and if I should “go to
the bad” again, I fear I shall need you. If such a miserable state of
things comes, I will telegraph, and you will all consult, and do what
seems best to you to do. You know much better than I what would be
well to do, and, if it must be done, you will do it. Doesn’t the State
want to send you over to make some investigations? In that case it
wouldn’t seem such waste of ammunition on small game as to come just
to look after poor miserable me, who never amount to anything anywhere.
But, Ber, I _shall never have done_ thinking how quick and kind you
were in writing me, and what strength and purpose I felt in every line
of your letter, and it strengthens me still. You saw so clearly how I
needed a strong arm near me; all about me is _so weak_. I have managed
everything since my illness, for myself, and all around me, from my
banking business and correspondence to my butcher and grocer, the
airing of my linen, and the arranging of the chairs in my room. There
is no mind or will or thought that can go one inch beyond me, when I
stop. There is no hand that has enough magnetic force to take away one
nervous twinge, not a hand that does not take magnetism from me even
now, and days when I am weakest, I cannot let a hand be laid upon me,
to rub, or even comb my hair. I feel the loss of strength directly and
fall into nervous perspiration. I tell you all this because I read
between the lines of your dear letter that you half divined the case,
and I may as well confess it. I believe I can bring myself up out of
this weakness, and then I will come home to thank you, and be “put in
my little bed.” Won’t you write me again soon, now you know how it
does me good?
Dear Fannie offers her “Bear” to me,--what a good Bearess she is,
isn’t she? Now, dear Ber, with a great big kiss, and I can’t say that
there aren’t a few other little things dropped along with it, here, my
good boy, is my good-bye.
From Your Old Sick Auntie
CLARA
Ber, you must hold your good mother steady and not let her get
alarmed. It will never do for her to come all this way on such an
errand. In any case it would be _too hard_ for her.
Though neither medicine nor the climate availed to help her, she found
some measure of relief in a cheerful spirit. Of her system of mental
therapeutics she wrote to her niece Mamie Barton, Mrs. John Stafford:
Auntie wants to write Mamie a little letter. She is more sorry than
she can tell that she has such a stupid illness that forbids her to be
company for any one.
Auntie does not feel less social for this and, although it is hard
and painful, she will not feel despondent a moment, but hopeful and
cheerful for the present and future, if the circumstances immediately
about her do not combine to depress her to a degree which she _cannot_
control. If she had a headache or a nervous head which a noise would
disturb or make ache, there would be some good reason for all about
her to keep quiet, and leave her to her rest and reflections; but she
has nothing of this, and never has. Her head is strong physically.
(She will not refer to its mental qualities.) And as she has nothing
to do all night but to rest and reflect, she does not need special
opportunity for these during the day. If she were all alone, she
would not get lonely or nervous on account of the quiet and silence
about her. She has had great experiences in this and is accustomed
to it. But when she feels herself imposing a dull dead silence on
all persons about her, those whom she loves most dearly and for
whose hourly comfort and happiness she would sacrifice anything in
reason and see her dear little girls gliding about without speaking a
sentence,--never sees a laugh or scarce a smile,--it makes her feel
herself such a restriction, such a detractor from their happiness
and leaves her such a prey to sad reflections and makes her feel the
misfortune of her illness so deeply that at times it seems impossible
to bear it. She grows more and more depressed every minute and the
poor strained nerves refuse longer control, and, in spite of all her
womanly determination, break into tears and groans. This would make me
very ill in time. Mamie doesn’t want this of all things, Auntie knows,
and she writes this poor little letter to explain to her the causes
and the results, and tell her how to avoid the one and improve the
other.
Just, then, throw away the old-time, never-to-be-departed-from notion,
handed down from nobody knows where, that all ill or ailing persons
are to be treated the same, and that mainly like a dead person,
surrounded by dumb watchers, and dim tapers, waiting to be buried,
and remember that one whose heart is cheery and one whose mind is
active, but whose mouth is closed to speech, might like to borrow
the use of the mouths of those around them--might and must want,
most of all, some one to talk for them--to say the nonsense and make
the fun they cannot say and make for themselves. And that nothing
so much as a good funny time a day would so shorten and deaden the
pain that must be borne in either case. Now, if the two dear good
little girls could only bring themselves to have the same chatty day
that Auntie knows they would have if they were in their own room by
themselves, laughing, singing, doing nonsense, and, in short, feeling
themselves perfectly free to enjoy themselves as I always know they
do when by themselves, Auntie would be more grateful to them than for
anything else they could do for her. And she has faith in the good
understanding of her dear Mamie, to believe that she still sees the
real state of the case as she could _not_ see it before. And she knows
that once she sees it, that big lump of Benevolence just on the top
of her head, will not permit her to do anything but have a good jolly
time in spite of her disagreeable old Auntie who can’t just now help a
bit to make it, but who needs it more than ever, and most of all.
Mamie needn’t work on that old puzzling dress unless she _greatly
desires_ to.
Now, with great love, and great hopes, and sincere commiseration,
Auntie closes this her first epistle to the daughter of David and
waiting to hear her cry out in a “loud voice,” she remains as usual
OLD DOLOROUS
The summer, however, did her some good. She was able to get out and do
a little sight-seeing, her longest journey being to Stratford-on-Avon.
Early in October she sailed for home on the steamship Parthia.
Only a few weeks before she had believed that she had but a short time
to live, or that if she lived it must be as a hopeless and permanent
invalid; but with even the beginning of a restoration to health she
recalled her determination to introduce in America the Red Cross,
under whose auspices she had labored on the battle-fields of Europe.
She knew that America had no knowledge of, or interest in, the Red
Cross. She had good reason to question whether it would be possible for
her immediately to stir up any great enthusiasm for it. But she was
determined to live and bring this to pass.
As usual on trans-Atlantic voyages, there was a concert in the cabin
of the Parthia. Clara Barton, returning to America as the heroine
of two wars, was asked to participate. She made her contribution to
the evening’s entertainment in a poem which she wrote on shipboard,
in which she expressed her ardent desire and her solicitude. She was
going back to America after a long absence. Was there anything for her
to do when she got here? For daily bread she had no concern and no
need for concern. Her modest income was adequate for her still more
modest needs. Even while traveling abroad she had found no occasion to
encroach upon her principal, and her expenses at home were certain to
leave her each year a little margin between income and outgo. But there
had entered into her soul a vision of the contribution which she might
be permitted to make to America and the world by securing America’s
adhesion to the international treaty which included the recognition of
the Red Cross. Would America listen to her when she pleaded for this?
Had it room for her and her mission?
HAVE YE ROOM?
Five days from New York--five days did he say?
Only five days from the glistening bay,
That four years ago I sailed tearfully o’er
Watching the sunny light fade from the shore!
As the kerchiefs had faded along the dense pier,
And the God bless you’s died on the listening ear.
Tearfully, prayerfully, sailing away,
Past the green islands, and out of the bay,
Recalling in pain they who sorrowed and wept,
More painfully still the brave who had slept;
Tearfully, prayerfully sailing away
In search of the strength that went out in the fray.
It were easy to search for the gems of the sea,
The jewels and gold hid in mountain and lea,
The thin veins of silver that line the green sod,
But health is of wisdom, and strength is of God.
Four wearisome years in lands strange and old,
Watching the changes that over them rolled,
How the calm shadows lay in the valley of rest,
And the black war cloud gathered from out of the west;
How lancer and _tireur_ dashed o’er the plain
And the smiles fled the face of sweet Alsace-Lorraine.
And helmet and turban lay soaked in the rain
And the masterless dog lapped the wounds of the slain.
Fair sons and brave husbands there lingered not one,
And the far childless widow prayed--Thy will be done.
How the old nations groaned on their unstable beds,
As the great car of progress rolled over their heads,
Uprooting old forms, time-honored of sages
Sowing new truths for the incoming ages.
Republics have sprung on the steps of the throne,
Kingdoms have crumbled, empires have grown;
Princes and prelates have listened their doom,
And ermine and gold-decked the refugee’s tomb.
Strange sights for strange eyes as the old cities burn,
And battle and siege follow each in their turn.
I have heard the faint note of the last sentry’s call,
And seen the white flag flutter out o’er the wall;
I have bound up death wounds lying dark and alone,
And the language that blessed me was strange and unknown.
The homeless and famished clung wild with despair,
And the noble and gentle have cherished me there.
Still trustingly,--loyally: loving and true,
Anxious and glad, I am coming to you.
Have ye place, each beloved one, a place in your prayer,
Have ye _room_, my dear countrymen, room for me there?
How the strength rose and fell in those perilous years!
What torture it made of my hopes and my fears,
When I joyed in its rise or wept for its fall,
It was never myself that I thought of at all.
But if only once more I might tread the loved land,
And toil for its weal with my heart, and my hand;
Have ye place, each beloved one, a place in your prayer,
Have ye _work_, my brave countrymen, work for me there?
Plow on, old Parthia, steady and true,
Each plunge of thy prow brings them nearer to view;
Brings me nearer the days that shall settle the doubt
If they’ve kept me within--or have left me without.
For my feeble hands failed while care rested on all,
And trouble and grief wrapped them round like a pall.
Who shall say that the storms have not scattered my sheaves,
Or the winter winds buried the fallen autumn leaves,
Or the gaping seas closed without anger or frown,
And the freighted ships crowd where the lone wreck went down?
_Have_ ye place, each beloved one, a place in your prayer,
Have ye _room_, my dear countrymen, room for me there?
STEAMSHIP PARTHIA, MID-ATLANTIC
_October 8, 1873_