LETTER LXI

ANNE GILCHRIST TO WALT WHITMAN

_12 Well Road Hampstead May 8th, '82._

MY DEAREST FRIEND:

Herby went to David Bognes[38] about a week ago: he himself was out, but H. saw the head man, who reported that the sale of "Leaves of Gra.s.s" was progressing satisfactorily. I hope you have received, or will receive, tangible proof of the same. Bognes is a young publisher, but, I believe from what I hear, a man to be relied on. His father was the publisher of my husband's first literary venture & behaved honourably. Herby brought away for me a copy of the new edition. I like the type like that of '73, & the pale green leaf it is folded in so to speak. I find a few new friends to love--perhaps I have not yet found them all out. But you must not expect me to take kindly to any changes in the t.i.tles or arrangement of the old beloved friends. I love them too dearly--every word & _look_ of them--for that. For instance, I want "Walt Whitman" instead of "Myself" at the top of the page. Also my own longing is always for a chronological arrangement, if change at all there is to be; for that at once makes biography of the best kind. What deaths, dear Friend! As for me, my heart is already gone over to the other side of the river, so that sometimes I feel a kind of rejoicing in the swelling of the ranks of the great company there. Darwin, with his splendid day's work here gently closed; Rossetti, whose brilliant genius had got entangled in a premature physical decay, so that _his_ day's work was over too! In a letter to me, William, who was the best, most faithful & loving of brothers to him, says, "I doubt whether he would ever have regained that energy of body & concentration of mental resource which could have enabled him to resume work at his full & wonted power. Without these faculties at ready command my dear Gabriel would not have been himself." Edward Carpenter's father, too, is gone, but he at a ripe age without disease--sank gently.

The photographs I enclose are but poor suggestions--please give one to Mrs. Whitman with my love, or if you prefer to keep both, I will send her others. Does the idea ever come into your head, dear Friend, of spending a little time this summer or autumn in your English home at Hampstead?

Herby is well and working happily. So is Grace. Little grandson & his parents away in Worcestershire.

It is indescribably lovely spring weather here just now. A carpenter near us has a sky-lark in a cage which sings as jubilantly as if it were mounting into the sky, & is so tame that when he takes it out of the cage to wash its little claws, which are apt to get choked up with earth, in warm water, it breaks out singing in his hand! Love from us all, dearest Friend. Good-bye.

ANNE GILCHRIST.

Affectionate greetings to your brother & sister & Hattie & Jessie.

Do you ever see Mr. Marvin? If so, give our love, we hope to see him one day.

LETTER LXII

ANNE GILCHRIST TO WALT WHITMAN

_Keats Corner Well Rd., Hampstead, London Nov. 24, '82._

DEAREST FRIEND:

You have long ere this, I hope, received Herby's letter telling of the safe arrival of the precious copy of "Specimen Days," with the portraits: it makes me very proud. Your father had a fine face too--there is something in it that takes hold of me & that seems to be a kind of natural background or substratum to the radiant sweetness of that other sacred & beloved face completing your parentage. I like heartily too the new portraits of you: they are all wanted as different aspects: but the two that remain my favourites are the portrait taken about 30 without coat of any kind, and the one you sent me in '69 next to those I love these two latest--& in some respects better, because they are the Walt I saw & had such happy hours with. The second copy of book & my lending one, has come safe--too--and the card that told of your attack of illness, & the welcome news of your recovery in the Paper; & I have been fretting with impatience at my own dumbness--but tied to as many hours a day writing as I could possibly manage, at my little book now (last night)--finished, all but proofs, so that I can take my pleasure in "Specimen Days" at last; but before doing that must have a few words with you, dearest Friend. First a gossip. Do you remember Maggie Lesley? She came to see us on her way to Paris, where she is working all alone & very earnestly to get through training as an artist--then going to start in a studio of her own in Philadelphia. She, like my mother's sister, are to me fine, lovable samples of American women--in whom, I mean, I detect, like the distinctive aroma of a flower, something special--that is American--a decisive new quality to old-world perceptions. Herby is working away still chiefly at the Consuelo picture--has got a very beautiful model to-day sitting to him. His summer work was down in Warwickshire, making sketches--& very charming ones they are, of George Eliot's native scenes--one of a garden-nook--up steep, old, worn stone steps bordered with flowers that is enticing--it will make a lovely background for a figure picture.--Giddy's voice is growing in richness & strength--& she works with all her heart, hoping one day to be a real artist vocally--in church & oratorio music.

She will not have power or dramatic ability for opera--nor can I wish that she had; there are so many thorns with the roses in that path. I fear you will be a loser by Bogne's bankruptcy. Did I tell you that among our friends one of your warmest admirers is Henry Holmes, the great violinist (equal [to] Joachim some think--we among them). Per. & wife & little grandson all well. My love to brother & sister & to Hattie [&] Jessie.

Good-bye, dear Walt. I hope to write more & better soon.

ANNE GILCHRIST.

Greetings to the Staffords.

LETTER LXIII

ANNE GILCHRIST TO WALT WHITMAN

_12 Well Rd.

Hampstead Jan. 27, '83._

It is not for want of thinking of you, dear Walt, that I write but seldom: for indeed my thoughts are chiefly occupied with you & your other self--your Poems--& with struggles to say a few words that I think want saying about them; that might help some to their birthright who now stand off, either ignorant or misapprehending.

We all go on much as usual.

_Feb. 13._ I wonder if you will like a true story of Lady Dilke that I heard the other day--I do: It was before her marriage. She was a handsome young heiress, a daring horsewoman, fond of hunting. There was a man, weakly & of good position, who had behaved very basely & cruelly to a young girl in her neighbourhood, & when (as is the case in England) half the county was a.s.sembled on the hunting field, Lady D. faced him & said in a voice that could be heard afar, "Sir you are a black-guard, & if these gentlemen had the right spirit in them they would horsewhip you." He looked at her with effrontery & made a mocking bow. "But," she continued, "since they won't, I will"--and she cut him across the face with her riding whip; upon which he turned and rode off the field, like a dog with his tail between his legs, & reappeared in that neighbourhood no more. She was a woman much beloved--died at the birth of her first child (from too much chloroform having been given her). Her husband was heart-broken. I see you, too, are having floods. With us it pours five days out of seven, & so in Germany & France. We have made the acquaintance of Arabella Buckley, who has just written an interesting article about Darwin, whom she knew well, for the _Century_. She says his was the most entirely beautiful & perfect nature she ever came in contact with. How I wish we could have a glimpse of each other, dear Friend--half an hour talk--nay, a good long look & a hand-shake. Herby is overhead painting in his studio--such a pleasant room. How is John Burroughs? We owe him a letter & thanks for a good art. on Carlyle. Love to you, dearest friend.

Hearty remembrances to your brother & sister & Hattie & Jessie.

A. G.

LETTER LXIV

HERBERT H. GILCHRIST TO WALT WHITMAN

_Keats Corner Well Road, Hampstead, London, England April 29th, '83._

MY DEAR WALT:

Your card to hand last night, with its sad account of dear Mrs. Stafford's health; but what the doctor says is cheering. I wonder, though, what the doctor would call good weather--mild spring, I suppose.

Very glad, my dear old Walt, to see your strong familiar handwriting again; it does one good, it's so individual that it is next to seeing you.

Right glad to hear of your good health--had an idea that you were not so well again this winter. John Burroughs was very violent against my intaglio; on the other hand, Alma Tadema--our great painter here--liked it very much. I take violent criticism pretty philosophically, now that I see how unreliable it nearly always is. John Burroughs has got a fixed idea about your personality, and that is that the top of your head is a foot high and any portrait that doesn't develop the "dome" is no portrait.--Curious what eyes a man may have for everything except a picture. I finished lately a life-size portrait of James Simmons, J.P., a hunting (fox) squire of the old school--such a fine old fellow. My portrait represents him standing firmly, in a scarlet hunting-coat well stained with many a wet chase, his great whip tucked under his arm whilst b.u.t.toning on his left glove, white buckskin trousers in shade relieving the scarlet coat, black velvet hunting cap, dark rich blue background to qualify and cool the scarlet. I wish you could see it. Then I have painted a subject "The Good Gray Poet's Gift." I have long meant to build up something of you from my studies, adding colour. You play a prominent part in this picture--seated at table bending over a nosegay of flowers, poetizing, before presenting them to mother. I am standing up bending over the tea-pot, with the kettle, filling it up; opposite you sits Giddy; out of the window a pretty view of Cannon place, Hampstead. Mater thinks it a pretty picture and a good likeness of you, just as you used to sit at tea with us at 1729 N. 22nd St. Now I am going out for a stroll on Hampstead Heath. Have just come in from a long ramble over the Heaths--a lovely soft spring day, innumerable birds in full song. I think J. B. is right when he says that your birds are more plaintive than ours--it's nature's way of compensating us for a loss of sunshine: what would England be without the merry lark, the very embodiment of cheeriness. Are not the Carlyle & Emerson letters interesting? It seems to me to be one of the most beautiful and pathetic things in literature, C's fondness for E. But all Englishmen, I must tell you, are not grumblers like Carlyle; he stands quite alone in that quality--look at Darwin!

I should be grateful for another postcard. With all love,

HERB. GILCHRIST.

LETTER LXV

ANNE GILCHRIST TO WALT WHITMAN

_Keats Corner Hampstead May 6, '83._

DEAREST FRIEND:

I feel as if this beautiful spring morning here in England must send you greetings through me. Our sunny little mound of garden, which runs down toward the south, is fragrant with hyacinths and wall-flowers (beautiful, tawny, reddish, yellow fellows laden with rich perfume)--and at the bottom is a big old cherry tree--one ma.s.s of snowy blossom; in a neighbour's gay garden & beyond is a distant glimpse of some tall elms just putting on their first tender green: our little breakfast room where I always sit of a morning opens with gla.s.s doors into this garden. Herby is gone with the "Sunday Tramps," of whom he is a member, for a ten or fifteen-mile walk.