will get into the Academy this summer. He is going to spend his holidays
with his brother in South Wales--and we as usual at Colne, but that will
not be till August.
Did I tell you William Rossetti and his bride were spending their
honeymoon at Naples? & have found it bitterly cold there, I learn. Mr. &
Mrs. Conway & their children are well. Eustace is coming to spend the
afternoon with Herby to-morrow.
Good-bye, my dearest Friend.
ANNIE GILCHRIST.
LETTER XXII
ANNE GILCHRIST TO WALT WHITMAN
_50 Marquis Rd.
Camden Sq.
July 4, 1874._
MY DEAREST FRIEND:
Are you well and happy, and enjoying this beautiful summer? London is, in
one sense, a sort of big prison at this time of year: but still at a wide
open window, with the blue sky opening to me & a soft breeze blowing in &
the Book that is so dear--my life-giving treasure--open on my lap, I have
very happy times. No one hundreds of years hence will find deeper joy in
these poems than I--breathe the fresh, sweet, exhilarating air of them,
bathe in it, drink in what nourishes & delights the whole being, body,
intellect & soul, more than I. Nor could you, when writing them, have
desired to come nearer to a human being & be more to them forever &
forever than you are & will be to me. O I take the hand you stretch out
each day--I put mine into it with a sense of utter fulfilment: I ask
nothing more of time and of eternity but to live and grow up to that
companionship that includes all.
6th. This very morning has come the answer to my question. First I only
saw the Poem--read it so elate--soared with it to joyous heights, said to
myself: "He is so well again, he is able to take the journey into
Massachusetts & speak the kindling words." Then I turned over and my joy
was dashed. My Darling; such patience yet needed along the tedious path!
Oh, it makes me long, with passionate longings, with yearnings I know not
how to bear, to come, to be your loving, cheerful companion, the one to
take such care, to do all for you--to beguile the time, to give you of my
health as you have done to tens of thousands. I do not doubt, either, but
that you will get well. I feel sure, sure, it will be given me to see you;
and perhaps a very slow, gradual recovery is safest--is the only way in
this as in other matters to thoroughness; & a very speedy rally would be
specious, treacherous, in the end, leading you to do what you were not yet
fit for. I believe if I could only make you conscious of the love, the
enfolding love, my heart breathes out toward you it would do you physical
good; many-sided love--Mother's love that cherishes, that delights so in
personal service, that sees in sickness & suffering such dear appeals to
an answering, limitless tenderness--wife's love--ah, you draw that from me
too, resistlessly--I have no choice--comrade's love, so happy in sharing
all, pain, sorrow, toil, effort, enjoyments, thoughts, hopes, aims,
struggles, disappointment, beliefs, aspirations. Child's love, too, that
trusts utterly, confides unquestioningly. Not more spontaneously, & wholly
without effort or volition on my part, does the sunlight flow into my eyes
when I open them in the morning than does the sense of your existence
enter like bright light into my awaking soul. And then I send to you
thoughts--tender, caressing thoughts--that would fain nestle so close--ah,
if you could feel them, take them in, let them lie in your breast, each
morning.
My children are all well, dear Friend. Herbert is going to spend his
holidays with his brother in Wales--& we shall all go to Colne as usual
the end of this month & remain there through August and September; so if
you think of it, address any paper you may send [to] Earls Colne,
Halstead, because I should get it a day sooner. But it does not signify if
you forget & send it here; it will be forwarded all right. Beatrice has
just got through one of the Govern. Exams. in elementary mathematics; and
I hope Herby has got into the Academy, but do not know for certain yet. He
works away zealously and with great delight in his work. William Rossetti
and his wife are coming to dine with us Wednesday--they look so well and
happy, it does one good to see them. The Conways are going to Ostend, I
think, for their holiday, & when they come back [are] going to move into a
larger house. I heard an American lady, Miss Whitman, sing at a concert
the other day, who delighted me, fascinated me--I longed to kiss her after
each song, though some of them were poor enough Verdi stuff--but she
contrived to impart genuineness & beauty to them. I hope you will hear her
when she returns to America, which will be soon, I believe.
Good-bye, dearest Friend. Beatrice, Herby & Grace join their love with
mine. I had the sweet little Bridal Poem all safe, & by the bye I liked
that Springfield paper very much.
Your loving ANNIE.
LETTER XXIII
ANNE GILCHRIST TO WALT WHITMAN
_Earls Colne
Sept. 3, 1874._
MY DEAREST FRIEND:
The change down here has refreshed me more than usual and I find my Mother
still wonderful for her years (the 89th), able to get out daily in her
Bath chair for two or three hours--to enjoy our being with her, and
suffering little or no pain from rheumatism now. I hope you have had as
glorious a summer & harvest as we have, and that you are able to be much
out of doors and absorb the health-giving influences, dear Friend. Such
mornings! So fresh and invigourating. I have been before breakfast mostly
in a beautiful garden (the old Priory garden) with my beloved Poems and
the dew-laden flowers and liquid light and sweet, fresh air; & the sparkle
of the pond & delicious greenness of the meadows beyond & rustling trees,
and had a joyful time with you, my Darling--sometimes with thoughts that
lay hold on "the solid prizes of the Universe," sometimes so busy building
up a home in America, thinking, dreaming, hoping, loving, groping among
dim shadows, straining wistful eyes into the dim distance--then to my
poems again--ah! not groping then, but hand in hand with you, breathing
the air you breathe, with eyes ardently fixed in the same direction your
eyes look, heart beating strong with the same hopes, aspirations, yours
beats with. It does not need to be American to love America and to believe
in the great future of humanity there; it is curious to be human, still
more English to do that. I love & believe in & understand her in & through
you: but was always drawn towards her, always a believer, though in a
vaguer way, that a new glorious day for men & women was dawning there, and
recognized a new, distinctive American quality, very congenial to me, even
in American virtues, which you not perhaps rate highly or retard as
decisively national, not adequately or commandingly so, at any rate. Did I
ever tell you the cousin of mine[23] who owns the priory here fought for
two years in the Secession war in the army of the Potomac when Burnside &
McClellan were at the head? John Cowardine was Major in a Cavalry
regiment--was at Vicksburg, Frederickburg, &c. Never wounded, or but
slightly--had a good deal of outpost duty, being just the right sort of a
man for that, & has letters of approval from his generals of which he is
not a little proud. Before that fought under the Stars & Stripes in Mexico
& has had a curiously adventurous career, which he commenced by running
away from a military college, where he was being prepared for a cadetship,
& enlisting as a private--getting out of that by & bye and working his way
before the mast as a sailor--then mining in California--then in Australia,
riding steeplechases, keeper of the Melrose hounds, market gardening,
hotel keeping, then on his way back to California, cast ashore on one of
the Navigator Islands, where he remained for six months, the only white
man among savages, who were friendly & made much of him--now, come into a
good estate, married to a woman who seems to suit him well & is healthy,
cheerful rich & handsome, he has fallen into indifferent health &
considerable depression of spirits. Perhaps he finds the atmosphere of
Squirearchical gentility very stagnant, the bed of roses
stifling--perhaps, too, the severe privations he has at different times
undergone have injured him. I often think he was perhaps one of those
your eyes rested on with pride & admiration--"handsome, tan-faced, dressed
in blue." He is the very ideal of a soldier in appearance & bearing--has
now some fine children, of whom he is very fond.
It was just this time of year I received the precious letter and ring that
put peace and joy, and yet such pain of yearning, into my heart--pain for
you, my Darling. O sorrowing helpless love that waits, and must wait,
useless, afar off, while you suffer. But trying every day of my life to
grow fitter, more capable of being your comfort and joy and true
comrade--never to cease trying this side death or the other--rejoicing in
my children more than I ever rejoiced in them before, now that in and
through you I for the first time see and understand humanity (myself
included)--its divine nature, its possibilities, nay, its certainties. How
I do long for you to see my children, dear Friend, and for them to see and
love you as they will love you, and all their nature unfold and grow more
vigorously and joyously under your influence. Gracie, of whom you have
photographs, grows fast,--is such a fine, blooming girl. I hope soon to
send you one of Beatrice too. They have been enjoying their visit here and
are now gone home. Gracie for school, Beatrice for the examination at
Apoth. Hall she is hoping to get through. Then she is coming here to be
with my Mother, & I going back to London. We mean now one or other of us
always to be with my Mother here. Herby has had such a happy time with his
brother in Wales--& is looking as brown as a nut & full of health &
life--he had a swim in the sea every day. He did succeed in getting into
the Academy, & will begin work there Oct. 1st! Be sure, dear Friend, if
there is a word about your health in any paper to send it me--that is what
I search for so eagerly--to have the joyful news you are getting on--but
even if it is but so very very slowly, still I would rather know the
truth? I do not like thinking of you mistakenly. I want to send you the
thoughts, the yearnings, that belong to you, the cherishing love that
enfolds you most tenderly of all when you suffer. O if I could send it!
and the cheerful companionship, beguiling the time while strength creeps
back. I hope your little nieces at St. Louis are well.
Good-bye, my dearest Friend. Herby, the only one here with me, would like
to join his love with mine.
ANNIE GILCHRIST.
I go back the beginning of October.
_Sep. 14th._
LETTER XXIV
ANNE GILCHRIST TO WALT WHITMAN
_50 Marquis Rd.
Camden Sq. London
Dec. 9, 1874._
MY DEAREST FRIEND:
It did me much good to get your Poem--beautiful, earnest, eloquent words
from the soul whose dear companionship mine seeks with persistent
longing--wrestling with distance & time. It seems to me, too, from your
having spoken the Poem yourself I may conclude you have made fair
progress. What I would fain know is whether you have recovered the use of
the left side so far as to get about pretty freely and to have as much
open-air life as you need & like; and also whether you have quite ceased
to suffer distressing sensations in the head. If you can say yes to the
first question, will you in sign of it put a dash under the word _London_,
and if yes to the second under _England_, when you next send me a paper?
Unless indeed the paper itself contain a notice of your health. But if it
does not, that would be an easy way of gladdening me with good news, if
good news there is. I wish I could send you good letters, dearest Friend,
making myself the vehicle of what is stirring around me in life & thought
that would interest you; for there is plenty. But that is very hard to
do--though I watch, hear, read eagerly, full of interest. Everything stirs
in me a cloud of questions, makes me want to see its relationship to what
I hold already. I am forever brooding, pondering, sifting, testing--but
that is not the bent of mind that enables one to reproduce one's
impressions in compact & lively form. So please, dear Friend, be
indulgent, as indeed I know you will be, of these poor letters of mine
with their details of my children & their iterated and reiterated
expressions of the love and hope and aspiration you have called into life
within me--take them not for what they are, but for all they have to stand
for. Beatrice is at Colne (having got well through the exam. we were
anxious about in the autumn) and is a very great comfort to my Mother--as
I well knew she would be; for a more affectionate, devoted, care-taking
nature does not breathe--with a strong active mental life of her own too.
So, though missing her sorely, I am well satisfied she should be there;
and the country life and rest are doing her a world of good. My artist boy
is working away cheerily at the R. Academy, his heart in his work. Percy
is coming to spend Xmas with us--he, too, continues well content with his
work and in good health. Gracie is blooming. The Rossettis have had a
heavy affliction this first year of their married life in the premature
death of her only brother--a young man of considerable promise--barely 20.
The Conways are well. I feel more completely myself than I have done since
my illness--so you see, dear friend, if it has taken me quite four years
to recover the lost ground, one must not be discouraged if two do not
accomplish it in your case. I hope your little nieces[24] at St. Louis are
well--and the brothers you are with, and that you have many dear friends
round you at Camden.
I think my thoughts fly to you on strongest and most joyous wings when I
am out walking in the clear, cold, elastic air I enjoy so much.
Good-bye, my dearest Friend.
ANNIE GILCHRIST.
A cheerful Christmas, a New Year of which each day brings its share of
restorative influence, be yours.
LETTER XXV
ANNE GILCHRIST TO WALT WHITMAN
_50 Marquis Rd.
Camden Sq.
Dec. 30, 1874._
I see, my dearest Friend, I must not look for those dashes under the words
I thought were going to convey a joyful confirmation of my hopes. I see
how the dark clouds linger. Full of pain & indignation. I read the
paragraph--but fuller still of yearning tenderness & trust and hope. I
believe, my dear love, that what you need to help on your recovery is a
woman's tender, cherishing love and care, and that in that warm, genial
atmosphere the spring of life will be quickened once more and flow full
and strong through all its channels as of old, gradually, not quickly,
even so. I dare say: but with plenty of patience; with utmost intelligent
care of all conditions favourable to health, of diet, of abundant oxygen
in the rooms you inhabit, of as much outdoor life as possible, of happy,
cheerful companionship, & all the homely everyday domestic joys which are
so helpful in their influences. America is doing what nations in all times
have done towards that which is profoundly new & great, that which
discredits their old ideals and offers them strange fruits & flowers from
another world than that they have been content to dwell in all their
lives. But for all that I do not believe the precious seed is lying
dormant even now--everywhere a few in whose hearts it is treasured &
yields a noble growth. Since it is America that has produced you nourished
your soul and body, she is silently, unnoticed, producing men & women who
will justify you, who will understand the meaning of all and respond with
a love that will quicken & exalt humanity as Christ's influence once did.
Still it is inscrutable to me that the heart of America is not now
passionately drawn toward the great heart that beats & glows in these
Poems--that "Drum Taps," at any rate, are not as dear to her as the memory
of her dead heroes, sons, brothers, husbands. It must be that they really
do not reach the hands of the American people at large--that the
professedly literary, cultivated class asking for nothing better than the
pretty sing-song sentimentalities which "join them in their nonsense," or
else slavishly prostrating their judgments before the models of the past
(so perfect for their day, so wholly inadequate for ours), raise their
voices so loud in newspapers & magazines as to prevent or everywhere check
the circulation.
_Jan. 1._ The New Year has come in bleakly & keenly to the inner as well
as to the outer sense, with the papers full of the details of the dark
fate of the emigrant ship & of the terrible railway accidents. Percy was
not able to join us at Xmas (through business) but I am expecting him
to-night. My mother bears up against the cold wonderfully--& even
continues to go out in her chair. Bee's letters are very bright &
cheerful--she & indeed all my children enjoy the cold much, provided they
have plenty of out-door exercise--above all skating, which they are now
enjoying. I too like it, but am so haunted by the thought of the increased
misery it brings to our hundreds of thousands of ill-fed, ill-clothed,
ill-housed. I trust the family circle round you & your nieces at St. Louis
& all near & dear to you are well, and that you have felt the warm grasp
of many loving friends this wintry, cloudy time, my dearest--and that
there may breathe out of these poor words a warm, bright glow of love and
hope & unrestricted trust in the future.
A. GILCHRIST.
LETTER XXVI
ANNE GILCHRIST TO WALT WHITMAN
_Earls Colne, Halstead
Feb. 21, 1875._
MY DEAREST FRIEND:
I have run down to Colne for a glimpse of my dear Bee, whom I had not seen
for five months, and of my Mother; & now I am alone with the latter,
Beatrice taking my place at home with her brother & sister for a week or
two. A wonderful evergreen my Mother continues; still able to face the
keen winds & the frost daily in her Bath chair--well swathed, of course in
eiderdown & flannels. Beatrice takes beautiful care of her & is happy &
content with her life here, loving the country as dearly as I do & having
time enough for study & reading, as well as for domestic activities, to
keep her mind as busy as her body. How I do long for you to see my
children, dearest Friend. I wonder if you are surrounded with any in your
brother's home--young, growing, blossoming plants that gladden you. And I
wonder if the winter, which I hear is so severe in America this year,
tries you--whether you can yet move briskly enough to keep up the
circulation--and whether you have as many dear friends round you as you
had at Washington. In my walks I keep thinking of these things. Write me a
little letter once more, it would do me such good. No one of all your
friends so easy as I to write to because none to whom any & every little
detail is so welcome, so precious--lifting a tiny corner of the great vast
of space between us, giving me for a moment to feel the friendly grasp of
your hand--I that long for it so. Two years are over since your illness
began, or seemed to begin, dearest friend--so slow & stealthy in its
approaches, so slow & stealthy in its retreat--may the spring that is
coming (the birds have already caught sight of it, cold & brown & bare as
the landscape still is)--may it but come laden with healing,
strengthening, refreshing influences--so that you begin to feel again the
joyous freedom of health, warbling once more a song of joy for lilac time.
True, I know indeed, my dearest, that anyhow you are content, not grudging
the price paid for your life work, but even some way or other the richer
for paying it--garnering precious equivalents for pain & privation of
health in your inmost soul. I cannot choose but believe this
earnestly--the resplendent faith that there is not "one cause nor result
lamentable, at last, in the Universe" which glows throughout the Poems is
for me an exhaustless source of strength & comfort.--I see every now &
then & like the more each time the Conways. I am half afraid Mr. Conway
works too incessantly--that is, does not like well enough the
indispensable supplement of close mental work--plenty of air & exercise,
&c.,--hates walking, & indeed it is not to be wondered at in great, smoky
London (I shall be fond enough & proud enough of it too when I am over the
Atlantic). Unless one has a real passion for open air & the sense of sky
overhead, like me. I hear Mr. Conway is coming to America for six months
in October.
_Feb. 25_--I kept my letter till to-day that I might have the happiness of
speaking to you on my birthday. See me this evening in the bright,
cheerful parlour of our cottage, which stands just in the middle of the
old village (it has been a village & jogged on through all change at its
own sober, sleepy pace this 800 years)--my mother in her arm chair by the
fire; I chatting with her & working or playing to her when she is awake; &
with the Poems I love beside me, reading, musing, wondering while she
dozes. Ah, shall I ever attain to the Ideal that burst upon me with such
splendour of light & joy in those Poems in 1869--so filling, so possessing
me, I seemed as if I had by one bound attained to that ideal--as if I were
already a very twin of the soul from whom they emanated. But now I know
that divine foretaste indicated what was possible for me, not what was
accomplished--I know the slow growth--the standstill winters that follow
the growing joyous springs & ripening summers. I believe it will take more
lives than this one to reach that mountain on which I was transfigured
again, never to descend more, but to start thence for new heights, fresh
glories. Ah, dear friend, will you be able to have patience with me, for
me?
Good-bye, my dearest.
ANNE GILCHRIST.
LETTER XXVII
ANNE GILCHRIST TO WALT WHITMAN
_50 Marquis Rd., Camden Sq.
London,
May 18, 1875._
MY DEAREST FRIEND: