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I have begun so many letters to you this week, but the writing of them has been impossible as their message was unspeakable. I do not feel like one at a distance expressing sympathy, but as one near at hand expressing sorrow, for in an infinitely less degree I suffer of the same hurt. A shadow has come over the sun and nothing seems worth the doing. Mr. Nevin3 had a genius for being beloved, and for taking hold upon the minds and hearts of people. I am sure I never wished any other human being so well, nor wanted the noblest success so much for anyone. I know that I shall never feel that youthful and genuine enthusiasm for any one or for any one’s work again, and I feel as though my own youth had died with the man who, even when I did not know him, meant so very much to it. His personality was to me the very exponent of song, the embodiment of all the happy privileges of art—and all of its tragic sadness. It used to seem to me as though he were quite simply a shepherd lad strayed out of Arcady into this dreary land of dullness and uniformity and shop-keeper standards. And yet there was such a tragic vein in him, and some of the stuff of martyrdom. He used sometimes to seem like a man stripped of his skin, with every nerve quivering to the torture of the air, like that other unhappy singer Marsayas, whom jealous Apollo played.
Isabelle4 wrote me of his last silent home coming. Had I known there was a possibility of seeing his face again I should have gone on from Washington. I want to remember him always, always, just as he was. I am sure you must have arranged the services yourself, for they were so eminently fitting, but I dont think I could have stood it to hear his songs when he was in so deep a sleep. I am not one of those who learn easily to kiss the cross.
The last time I saw him he said he was going away “where people who could not say unkind things anymore.” Oh I hope those people will suffer and suffer and suffer! And they will, I know it. Heaven calls the world
to account for souls like his. I think you and his
mother5 are perhaps the only two who could have nothing to regret. If
every
any one had and fulfilled a commission from God you have done it, for you
saved him and the wonder of him for us all as long as you could, otherwise he would
have lashed himself out long ago. I do believe with all my heart and mind that your
service was not only unto him but unto all men, and that he will be one of those
whose tapers burn throughout the night of time.
Dear Lady, for the last week tears and I have not been
3 strangers, but
at the bottom of my grief lies the thought of the sweetness of his sleep, of the
utterness of his peace. Oh lady, life is not so gay that one need dread to sleep!
I
have learned that already. Le sens de la
vie,6 est ce qui est difficile pour nous autres. Le sens de la morte est
facile—on la comprend comme la chauson d’me mère. When I think of him, and that is
so
so many times in the day and the night, I think also of the
blessed truth of the lines that Shelley7 wrote
to Keats8 after the world had killed him, and
that were afterward put on the Shelley tablet at Oxford9.
He has outsoared the shadow of our night;10
Envy and calumny, and hate and pain,
And that unrest which men miscall delight
Can touch him not, nor trouble him again.
I will return to Pittsburgh11 next week and
then I hope you can see me. Surely you know without my saying it that if in
collecting his papers or in preparing any biographical matter I can be of any
service to you, it will be my happiness and pride to serve you to the very utmost
capacity of my ability and my love. There are many nearer friends and longer-tried
near you to sympathize with you, but I don’t think there is
one whose love and whose sorrow is more sincere. A master of any art holds a
peculiar place in the life lives of his believers.
To them he is the expression of what seems most rare and precious in life, and when
he dies something of themselves goes out with him. I
think my sense of heaviness and loss will be less if in any way I can serve you a
little. All the love of my sad heart goes to you with this letter. With a loyalty
that shall last as long as I live, Dear Lady.