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LETTER XV 21
WALT WHITMAN TO ANNE GILCHRIST
I must write friend once more at
Since I last wrote, clouds have darkened over me, and still remain.
On the night of 3d January last I was paralyzed, left side, and have remained so since. Feb. 19 I lost a dear dear sister, who died in St. Louis leaving two young daughters. May 23d, my dear inexpressibly beloved mother died in Camden, N. J. I was just able to get from Washington to her dying bed & sit there. I thought I was bearing it all stoutly, but I find it affecting the progress of my recovery since and now. I am still feeble, palsied & have spells of great distress in the head. But there are points more favourable.
I am up & dressed every day, sleep & eat middling well & do not change much yet, in flesh & face, only look very old.
Though I can move slowly very short distances, I walk with difficulty & have to stay in the house nearly all the time. As I write to-day, I feel that I shall probably get well – though I may not.
Many times during the past year have I thought of you & your children. Many times indeed have I been going to write, but did not. I have just been reading over again several of this & last year’s letters from you & looking at the pictures sent in the one of Jan. 24, ’72. (Your letters of Jan. 24, June 3 & July 14, of last year and of Jan. 31, and May 20, this year, with certainly one other, maybe two) all came safe. Do not think hard of me for not writing in reply. If you could look into my spirit & emotion you would be entirely satisfied & at peace. I am at present temporarily here at Camden, on the Delaware river, opposite Philadelphia, at the house of my brother, and I am occupying, as I write, the rooms wherein my mother died. You must not be unhappy about me, as I am as comfortably situated as can be – & many things – indeed every thing – in my case might be so much worse. Though my plans are not definite, my intention as far as anything is on getting stronger, and after the hot season passes, to get back to Washington for the fall & winter.
My post office address continues at Washington. I send my love to Percy & all your dear children.
The enclosed ring I have just taken from my finger, & send to you, with my love.
LETTER XVI
ANNE GILCHRIST TO WALT WHITMAN
Earls ColneSept. 4, 1873.
I am entirely satisfied & at peace, my Beloved – no words can say how divine a peace.
Pain and joy struggle together in me (but joy getting the mastery, because its portion is eternal). O the precious letter, bearing to me the living touch of your hand, vibrating through & through me as I feel the pressure of the ring that pressed your flesh – & now will press mine so long as I draw breath. My Darling! take comfort & strength & joy from me that you have made so rich & strong. Perhaps it will yet be given us to see each other, to travel the last stage of this journey side by side, hand in hand – so completing the preparation for the fresh start on the greater journey; me loving and blessing her you mourn, now for your dear sake – then growing to know & love her in full unison with you.
I hope you will soon get to the sea – as soon as you are strong enough, that is – & if you could have all needful care & comfort & a dear friend with you there. For I believe you would get on faster away from Camden – & that it tends so to keep the wound open & quivering to be where the blow fell on you – where every object speaks of her last hours & is laden with heart-stirring associations; though I realize, dearest Friend, that in the midst of the poignant sorrow come immortal sweet moments – communings, rapt anticipations. But these would come the same in nature’s great soothing arms by the seashore, with her reviving, invigorating breath playing freely over you. If only you could get just strong enough prudently to undertake the journey. When my eyes first open in the morning, often such tender thoughts, yearning ineffably, pitying, sorrowful, sweet thoughts flow into my breast that longs & longs to pillow on itself the suffering head (with white hair more beautiful to me than the silvery clouds which always make me think of it.) My hands want to be so helpful, tending, soothing, serving my whole frame to support his stricken side – O to comfort his heart – to diffuse round him such warm sunshine of love, helping time & the inborn vigour of each organ that the disease could not withstand the influences, but healthful life begin to flow again through every part. My children send their love, their earnest sympathy. Do not feel anyways called on to write except when inwardly impelled. Your silence is not dumb to me now – will never again cloud or pain, or be misconstrued by me. I can feast & feast, & still have wherewithal to satisfy myself with the sweet & precious words that have now come & with the feel of my ring, only send any old paper that comes to hand (never mind whether there is anything to read in it or not) just as a sign that the breath of love & hope these poor words try to bear to you, has reached you. And just one word literally that, dearest, when you begin to feel you are really getting on – to make me so joyful with the news.
Good-bye, dearest Friend,
Anne Gilchrist.
Back again in Marquis Road.
LETTER XVII
ANNE GILCHRIST TO WALT WHITMAN
50 Marquis Rd.Camden Sq.Nov. 3, ’73 London
My Dearest Friend:
All the papers have reached me – 3 separate packets (with the handwriting on them that makes my heart give a glad bound). I look through them full of interest & curiosity, wanting to realize as I do, in things small as well as things large, my Land of Promise – the land where I hope to plant down my children – so strong in the faith that they, & perhaps still more those that come after them will bless me for that (consciously or unconsciously, it doesn’t matter which) I should set out with a cheerful heart on that errand if I knew the first breath I drew on American soil would be my last in life. I searched hopeful for a few words telling of improvement in your health in the last paper. But perhaps it does not follow from there being no much mention that there is no progress. May you be steadily though ever so slowly gaining ground, my Darling! Now that I understand the nature of the malady (a deficient flow of blood to the brain, if it has been rightly explained to me) I realize that recovery must be very gradual: as the coming on of it must have been slow & insidious. And perhaps that, & also even from before the war time with its tremendous strain, emotional & physical, is part of the price paid for the greatness of the Poems & for their immortal destiny – the rapt exaltation the intensity of joy & sorrow & struggle – all that went to give them their life-giving power. For I have felt many times in reading them as if the light and heat of their sacred fire must needs have consumed the vital energies of him in whose breast it was generated, faster then even the most splendid physique could renew itself. For our sakes, for humanity’s sake, you suffer now, I do not doubt it, every bit as much as the soldier’s wounds are for his country’s sake. The more precious, the more tenderly cherished, the more drawing the hearts that understand with ineffable yearnings, for this.
My children all continue well in the main, I am thankful to say, though Beatrice (the eldest girl) looks paler than I could wish and is working her brains too much and the rest of her too little just at present, with the hope of getting through the Apothecaries Hall exam. in Arts next Sept., which involves a good bit of Latin and mathematics. This is all women can do in England toward getting into the medical profession & as the Apoth. Hall certificate is accepted for the preliminary studies at Paris & Zurich, I make no doubt it is also at Philadelphia & New York; so that she would be able to enter on medical studies, the virtual preliminary work, when we come. For she continues steadfastly desirous to win her way into that field of usefulness, & I believe is well fitted to work there, with her grave, earnest, thoughtful, feeling nature & strong bodily frame. She is able to enjoy your Poems & the vistas; broods over them a great deal. Percy is bending his energies now to mastering the processes that go to the production of the very best quality of copper such as is used for telegraph wires &c. No easy matter, copper being the most difficult, in a metallurgical point of view, of all the metals to deal with & the Company in whose employ he is having hitherto been unsuccessful in this branch. His looks, too, do not quite satisfy me – it is partly rather too long hours of work – but still more not getting a good meal till the end of it. It is so hard to make the young believe that the stomach shares the fatigue of the rest of the body and that there is not nervous energy enough left for it to do all its principal work to perfection after a long, exhausting day. But I hope now I, or rather his own experience and I together, have convinced him in time, and he promises me faithfully to arrange for a good meal in the middle of the day however much grudging the time. My little artist Herby is still chiefly working from the antique, but tries his hand at home occasionally with oils & to life & has made an oil sketch of me which, though imperfect in drawing &c., gives far more the real character & expression of my face than the photographs. Have you heard, I wonder, of William Rossetti’s approaching marriage? It is to take place early in the New Year. The lady is Lucy Brown, daughter of one of our most eminent artists (he was the friend who first put into my hand the “Selections” from your Poems). Lucy is a very sweet-tempered, cultivated, lovable woman, well fitted, I should say, to make William Rossetti happy. They are to continue in the old home, Euston Sq., with Mrs. Rossetti & the sisters, who are one and all fond of Lucy. I am glad he is going to be married for I think he is a man capable both of giving and receiving a large measure of domestic happiness. I hope the dear little girls at St. Louis are well. And you, my Darling, O surely the sun is piercing through the dark clouds once more and strength & health and gladness returning. O fill yourself with happy thoughts for you have filled others with joy & strength & will do so for countless generations, & from these hearts flows back, and will ever flow, a steady current of love & the beautiful fruits of love.
When you next send me a paper, if you feel that you are getting on ever so little, dearest friend, just a dash under the word London. I have looked back at all your old addresses & I see you never do put any lines, so I shall know it was not done absently but really means you are better. And how that line will gladden my eyes, Darling!
Love from us all. Good-bye.
Anne Gilchrist.
LETTER XVIII
ANNE GILCHRIST TO WALT WHITMAN
50 Marquis Rd.Camden Sq., N. W.Dec. 8, 1873.
My Dearest Friend:
The papers with Prof. Young’s speech came safely & I read it, my hand in yours, happy and full of interest. Are you getting on, my Darling? When I know that you no longer suffer from distressing sensations in the head & can move without such effort and difficulty, a hymn of thankfulness will go up from my heart. Perhaps this week I shall get the paper with the line on it that is to tell me so much – or at least that you are well on your way towards it. And what shall I tell you about? The quiet tenor of our daily lives here? but that is very restricted, though, I trust, as far as it goes, good & healthful. O the thoughts and hopes that leap from across the ocean & the years! But they hide themselves away when I want to put them into words. Do not think I live in dreams. I know very well it is strictly in proportion as the present & the past have been busy shaping & preparing the materials of a beautiful future, that it really will be beautiful when it comes to exist as a present, seeing how it needs must be entirely a growth from all that has preceded it & that there are no sudden creations of flowers of happiness in men & women any more than in the fields. But if the buds lie ready folded, ah, what the sunshine will do! What fills me with such deep joy in your poems is the sense of the large complete acceptiveness – the full & perfect faith in humanity – in every individual unit of humanity– thus for the first time uttered. That alone satisfies the sense of justice in the soul, responds to what its own nature compels it to believe of the Infinite Source of all. That too includes within its scope the lot as well as the man. His infinite, undying self must achieve and fulfil itself out of any & all experiences. Why, if it takes such ages & such vicissitudes to compact a bit of rock – fierce heat, & icy cold, storms, deluges, crushing pressure & slow subsidences, as if it were like a handful of grass & all sunshine – what would it do for a man!
Dec. 18.
The longed-for paper has come to hand. O it is a slow struggle back to health, my Darling! I believe in the main it is good news that is come – and there is the little stroke I wanted so on the address. But for all that, I feel troubled & conscious – for I believe you have been a great deal worse since you wrote – and that you have still such a steep, steep hill to climb.
Perhaps if my hand were in yours, dear Walt, you would get along faster. Dearer and sweeter that lot than even to have been your bride in the full flush & strength and glory of your youth. I turn my face to the westward sky before I lie down to sleep, deep & steadfast within me the silent aspiration that every year, every month & week, may help something to prepare and make fitter me and mine to be your comfort and joy. We are full of imperfections, short-comings but half developed, but half “possessing our own souls.” But we grow, we learn, we strive – that is the best of us. I think in the sunshine of your presence we shall grow fast – I too, my years notwithstanding. May the New Year lead you out into the sunshine again – shed out of its days health & strength, so that you tread the earth in gladness again. This with love from us all. Good-bye, dearest Friend.
Anne Gilchrist.
Herby was at a Conversation last night where were many distinguished men & beautiful women. Among the works of art displayed on the walls was a fine photograph of you.
19th, afternoon.
And now a later post has brought me the other No. of the Graphic with your own writing in it – so full of life and spirit, so fresh & cheerful & vivid, dear Friend, it seems to scatter all anxious sad thoughts to the winds. And are you then really back at Washington, I wonder, or have you only visited it in spirit, & written the recollection of former evenings?
I shall have none but cheerful thoughts now. I shall reread it carefully – read it to the young folk at tea to-night.
LETTER XIX
ANNE GILCHRIST TO WALT WHITMAN
50 Marquis Rd.Camden Sq.London26 Feb., 1874.
My Dearest Friend:
Glad am I when the time comes round for writing to you again – though I can’t please myself with my letters, poor little echoes that they are of the loving, hoping, far-journeying thoughts so busy within. It has been a happy time since I received the paper with the joyful news you were back at Washington, well on your way to recovery, able partially to resume work – scenting from afar the fresh breeze & sunshine of perfect health – by this time, not from afar, perhaps. The thought of that makes dull days bright & bright days glorious to me too. I note in the New York Graphic that a new edition of “Leaves of Grass” was called for – sign truly that America is not so very slowly & now absorbing the precious food she needs above all else? Perhaps, dear Friend, even during your lifetime will begin to come the proof you will alone accept – that “your country absorbs you as affectionately as you have absorbed it.” I have had two great pleasures since I last wrote you. One is that Herby has read with a large measure of responsive delight “Leaves of Grass” quite through, so that he now sees you with his own eyes & has in his heart the living, growing germs of a loving admiration that will grow with his growth & strengthen every fibre of good in him. Also he read & took much pride in my “letters,” now shown him for the first time. Percy has had a fortnight’s holiday with us, and looks better in health, though still not altogether as I could wish. He says he is getting such good experience he would not care just yet to change his post even for better pay. Music is his greatest pleasure – he seems to get more enjoyment out of that than out of literature, & is acquiring some practical skill.
To-day (Feb. 25th) is my birthday, dearest Friend – a day my children always make very bright & happy to me: and on it they make me promise to “do nothing but what I like all day.” So I shall spend it with you – partly in finishing this letter, partly reading in the book that is so dear to me – for that is indeed my soul coming into the presence of your soul – filled by it with strength & warmth & joy. In discouraged moods, when oppressed with the consciousness of my own limitations, failures, lack of many beautiful gifts, I say to myself, “What sort of a bird with unfledged wings are you that would mate with an eagle? Can your eyes look the sun in the face like his? Can you sustain your long, lifelong flights upward? Can you rest in dizzy rocks overhanging dark, tempestuous abysses? Is your heart like his, a great glowing sun of Love?” Then I answer, “Give me Time.” I can bide my time – a long, long growing & unfolding time. That he draws me with such power, that my soul has found the meaning of itself in him – the object of all its deep, deathless aspirations in comradeship with him, means, if life is not a mockery clean ended by death, that the germs are in me, that through cleaving & loving & ever striving up & on I shall grow like him – like but different – the correlative – what his soul needs & desires; and if when I reach America he is not so drawn towards me, – if seeing how often I disappoint myself, needs must that he too is disappointed, still I can hold bravely, lovingly on to this inextinguishable faith & hope – with the added joy of his presence, sometimes winning from him more & more a dear friendship, yielding him some joy & comfort – for he too turns with hope, with yearning, towards me – bids me be “satisfied & at peace!” So I am, so I will be, my darling. Surely, surely, sooner or later I shall justify that hope, satisfy that yearning. This is what I say to myself & to you this 46th birthday. Have I said it over & over again? That is because it is the undercurrent of my whole life. The Tribune with Proctor’s “Lecture on the Sun” (& a great deal besides that interests me) came safe. A masterly lecture. And two days ago came the Philadelphia paper with Prof. Morton’s speech – deeply interesting. And as I read these things, the feeling that they have come from, & been read by, you turns them into Poems for me.
Good-bye, my dearest Friend.
Anne Gilchrist.
W. Rossetti’s marriage is to be the end of next month. Had a pleasant chat with Mr. Conway, who took supper with us a week or two ago.
LETTER XX
ANNE GILCHRIST TO WALT WHITMAN
March 9th, 1874.
With full heart, with eyes wet with tears of joy & I know not what other deep emotion – pain of yearning pity blent with the sense of grandeur – dearest Friend, have I read and reread the great, sacred Poem just come to me.22 O august Columbus! whose sorrows, sufferings, struggles are more to be envied than any triumph of conquering warrior – as I see him in your poem his figure merges into yours, brother of Columbus. Completer of his work, discoverer of the spiritual, the ideal America – you too have sailed over stormy seas to your goal – surrounded with mocking disbelievers – you too have paid the great price of health – our Columbus.
Your accents pierce me through & through.
Your loving Annie.
