The Letters of Anne Gilchrist and Walt Whitman Part 9

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.

London 26 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 Gra.s.s" 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 Gra.s.s" 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.

LETTER XXI

ANNE GILCHRIST TO WALT WHITMAN

_50 Marquis Rd.

Camden Sq.

May 14, 1874._

MY DEAREST FRIEND:

Two papers have come to hand since I last wrote, one containing the memoranda made during the war--precious records, eagerly read & treasured & reread by me.

How the busy days slip by one so like another, yet each with its own fresh & pleasant flavour & scent, as like and as different as the leaves on a tree, or the plants in the hedgerows. Days they are busy with humble enough occupations, but lit up for me not only with the light of hope, but with the half-hidden joy of one who knows she has found what she sought and laid such strong hold upon it that she fears nothing, questions nothing--no life, or death, nor in the end, in her own imperfections, flaws, shortcomings. For to be so conscious of these, and to love and understand you so, are proofs [that] the germs of all are in her, & perhaps in the warmth & joyous sunshine of your presence would grow fast.

Anyhow, distance has not baffled her, and time will not. A great deal of needlework to be done at this time of year; for my girls have not time for any at present; it is not a good contrast or the right thing after longish hours of study--much better household activity of any sort. If they would but understand this in schools & colleges for girls & young women. No healthier or more cheerful occupation as a relief from study, could be found than household work--sweeping, scrubbing, washing, ironing, cooking--in the variety of it, & equable development of the muscles, I should think equal to the most elaborate gymnastics. I know very well how I have felt, & still feel, the want of having been put to these things when a girl. Then the importance afterwards of doing them easily & well & without undue fatigue, to all who aim to give practical shape to their ardent belief in equality & fair play for all. In domestic life under one roof, at all events, it is already feasible to make the disposals without ignominious distinctions--not all the rough bodily work, never ending, leisure all to the other; but a wholesome interchange and sharing of these. Not least too among the advantages of taking an active share in these duties is the zest, the keen relish, it gives to the hours not too easily secured for reading & music. Besides, I often think that just as the Poem Nature is made up half of rude, rough realities and homely materials & processes, so it is necessary for women to construct their Poem, Home, on a groundwork of homeliest details & occupations, providing for the bodily wants & comforts of their household, and that without putting their own hands to this, their Poem will lack the vital, fresh, growing, nature-like quality that alone endures, and that of this soil will grow, with fitting preparation & culture, n.o.ble & more vigorous intellectual life in women, fit to embody itself in wider spheres afterwards--if the call comes.

This month of May that comes to you so laden with great and sorrowful & beautiful & tender memories, and that is your birth-month too, I cannot say that I think of you more than at any other time, for there is no month nor day that my thoughts do not habitually & spontaneously turn to you, refer all to you--yet I seem to come closer because of the Poems that tell me of what relates to that time; but most of all when I think of your beloved Mother, because then I often yearn, more than I know how to bear, to comfort you with love and tender care and silent companionship. May is in a sense (& a very real one) my birth-month too, for in it were your Poems first put into my hand. I wish I were _quite sure_ that you no longer suffer in your head, and that you can move about without effort or difficulty--perhaps before long there will be a paper with some paragraph about your health, for though we say to ourselves no news is good news, it is a very different thing to have the absolute affirmation of good news.

My children are all well and hearty, I am thankful to say, & working industriously. Grace means to study the best system of kindergarten teaching--I fancy she is well suited for kindergarten teaching & that it is very excellent work.

Herby is still drawing from the antique in the British Museum. I hope he 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 Ma.s.sachusetts & speak the kindling words." Then I turned over and my joy was dashed. My Darling; such patience yet needed along the tedious path!