Читать книгу Elizabeth Gilbert and Her Work for the Blind - Frances Martin - Страница 16

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"Joy and woe are woven fine,

A clothing for the soul divine."—Blake.

By the autumn of 1842 the removal from Oxford to Chichester had been accomplished. The Bishop and his family were installed in the palace, which was to be their home for twenty-eight years. A new life was beginning for Bessie, and one which, when the inevitable pain of parting from old friends was over, she learnt to love very dearly. She had a keen imaginative delight in the beauties of nature. She loved to hear of clouds and sunset; of sunrise and the dawn, of green fields, of hills and valleys. She loved the outer air, flowers, and the song of birds; and she had passed the first sixteen years of her life in a house in the High Street, Oxford. She was very proud of the architectural beauty of Oxford, and always thought it a distinction to belong to Oxford; but her whole heart was soon in the home at Chichester.

The Bishop's palace has a beautiful old-fashioned garden, of which the city wall forms the west and part of the southern boundary. A sloping mound leads from the garden to within a few feet of the top of the wall, and there is a green walk around the summit. There are grassy plots, umbrageous trees, flowering shrubs, roses, roses everywhere; and there are birds that sing all the long day in the spring-time. The black-cap was a special favourite of Bessie's and of the Bishop's. A garden door in the palace opens upon a straight gravel walk, with a southern aspect, leading towards the western boundary wall. On the southern side of the walk lies the garden, on the north a bank of lilacs, laburnums, and shrubs. Here Bessie could walk alone; she needed no companion, no guide. It was a new pleasure to her, and one of which she never grew weary. The song of birds, the hum of insects, the rustle of the trees, all made the garden a fairy palace of delight. A sister remembers how one summer morning at three o'clock she found Bessie standing at her bedside begging her to get up and dress, and go with her to the garden "to hear the birds waking up." Her father always gave a shilling to whoever saw the first swallow, and Bessie was delighted when the shilling had been earned.

The hall of the palace is a confusing place; there are many doors, passages, rooms opening into and leading from it There was always a moment of hesitation before Bessie opened the garden door or found the turning which she wanted; but she quickly accommodated herself to all other eccentricities in one of the most puzzling of old-fashioned houses.

She spent less time in the schoolroom at Chichester than she had done at Oxford; she was indeed soon emancipated from the schoolroom altogether. She was much with her mother in the pleasant morning-room adjoining the bed and dressing rooms used by her parents. A steep spiral staircase, without a rail of any kind, with half a stair cut away at intervals for convenience of access to a cupboard or a small room, led from her father's dressing-room to rooms above. One of these with a western window so darkened by trees that no sunlight and very little daylight entered, was assigned to Bessie and one sister, whilst another sister was close at hand in another small room. The Bishop made a window to the south in Bessie's room, which greatly improved it, admitting light and air and all the sweet garden sounds and scents. The drawing-room is on the first floor near the morning-room. You ascend to it by a few broad stairs. A passage on the same floor leads to the private chapel attached to the palace, where Bessie knelt daily in prayer. The dining-room on the ground floor, the best room in the house, with its oak panels and fine painted ceiling, was a great pleasure to her. Some years later, when her work made it necessary that she should have a private sitting-room, two rooms were assigned to her in the centre of the house, one of which had been the schoolroom. Access to these is gained by a long passage barely high enough to allow a full-grown person to stand erect at the highest part, near the bedroom door; and sloping on the other side to the floor and outer wall of the palace. Windows in the steep roof look north into West Street. Bessie's rooms were close to the angle formed by the centre and west wing of the palace, and had windows facing south.

Up and down the narrow steep stairs and along the passages to the drawing-room, the morning-room, the dining-room, the chapel, the fragile form of the blind girl was seen to pass with unerring accuracy. She never stumbled or fell at Chichester any more than she had done at Oxford. Indeed, Oxford was useful throughout life, as no difficulties could be greater than those she had learnt to surmount in her childhood.

Scarce a stone's throw from the palace is the cathedral, where the seat of the Bishop's blind daughter is still pointed out. Bessie had a personal pleasure, a pride and delight in the beauty of the cathedral, spoke of it, as she did of any venerated object, with lowered tones; knew its history and form, the plan of the building, the salient architectural features, and all the best points of view.

The Rev. Carey H. Borrer, Rector of Hurst Pierpoint, and Treasurer of Chichester Cathedral, writes as follows of the impression produced at this time:

My first introduction to Bessie Gilbert was when the Bishop had just taken possession of the palace at Chichester. I had been staying at Lavington with Archdeacon Manning (now the Cardinal), and we went together to sleep at the deanery (Dean Chandler's), and we all went to dine at the palace. Bessie was then very young, very slight and fragile looking, dressed as usual in white muslin, and with her dark spectacles immediately attracted my attention. In the evening she went to the piano, and sang very sweetly and with much pathos several familiar Scotch songs. I asked her if she knew certain others, mostly Jacobite songs, with which I was familiar from hearing my very dear friend William Harris (fellow of All Souls', a devoted lover of Prince Charlie) sing them. She at once warmed up and sang some of them. Others she did not know, and was glad to hear something about them. Under that gentle aspect there came out a heart full of fire and earnestness, which showed itself in her interest for suffering and heroism, and afterwards found field for its energy in her untiring efforts for the blind.

Whenever we met there was always a warm shaking of the hand, and a feeling of sympathy of tastes between us.

I had not seen much of persons suffering from blindness, and I was struck by her simple way of saying "I have not seen him," or "I should like to see it"—something like Zacharias "asking" for a writing-table.

No one could be with Bessie Gilbert without feeling chastened by the presence of a true, pure, warm-hearted, earnest Christian girl.

I breakfasted at the palace the next morning after service at the private chapel, and I was delighted at the Bishop's calling on one of the younger girls to say grace. Mrs. Gilbert told me they took it in turns. I should like to have heard Bessie's grace to her Heavenly Father.

Very soon new friends gathered round the sisterhood; but at first the change, so far as society was concerned, was keenly felt by them. There were no Fellows of B.N.C. to come in with torn gowns to be mended, and talk of Catalani and Grisi; no more dinners in the Hall, none of the intellectual activity of university life. They had also far less of the company of a father greatly beloved by all his children. Official business at Chichester was much heavier than it had been at Oxford, and absorbed more of his time.

The Archdeacon of Chichester at that time was the Rev. E. H. (now Cardinal) Manning. He was a frequent visitor at the palace, where a room was set apart for him. As years passed on, the anxiety of his friends with regard to his views increased. At last there came a day in 1851 when he and Bishop Gilbert had a long talk with Bishop Wilberforce at Lavington, and Archdeacon Manning returned to pay his last visit to the palace. He wrote a day or two later to announce his decision to join the Church of Rome. As he stood in the hall on this last visit he saw Bessie enter from her favourite garden walk. She was as usual puzzled by the doors, and hesitated a moment before coming to a decision. The archdeacon saw this, and stepping forward took her by the hand: "I believe you cannot find the way," he said. In speaking of this she would add, in that gentle, solemn manner she had when she was deeply moved, "I only said 'thank you,' but I thought is it I that cannot find my way?"

In 1844 an event of great interest to girls in and out of the schoolroom took place. A German governess, Fraülein D., replaced the English lady who had for so long been a member of the household. German became at once the most fascinating of all subjects of study for young and old; and the Fraülein, with her open mind and, from the point of view of those days, her advanced views, speedily acquired great influence over Bessie.

Fraülein D. describes the charm of the family circle at the palace, in which the two prominent figures were the Bishop and his blind daughter. Bessie had at this time a very tenacious memory. No matter how long the reading of a book had been suspended, she could always repeat every word of the last sentence. She was easily affected by any sad events that were narrated, and would weep over them. Her parents, sisters, and brothers had taken such pains to include her in all that was going forward, and to make her and keep her one of themselves, that she would say, "Oh yes, I see," and "How beautiful," when you talked to her.

She was very particular about her dress, quite as much so as any of her sisters, and specially scrupulous in the matter of gloves. Her hands were small, white, delicately beautiful, and very feeble. She liked to have such accurately fitting gloves that the time she took to put them on was a joke in the family.

Three of the sisters were at Culham when the Fraülein arrived, and many bright letters passed between Bessie at Chichester and her own "special" sister Mary at Culham. Bessie tells Mary how her brother Robert had returned from the Continent, having learnt "a great many German words and some French;" how he had grown fonder of music, and could allow "that it is an art capable of giving a great deal of pleasure." She gives all the little gossip of home, describes the new German governess "a pretty figure, black hair, rather a large mouth, an animated countenance, very lady-like and lively.... They (the younger ones) like Miss D. very much, and so we do, all of us, I think." Bessie has read Don Carlos, the Bride of Messina, and a play by Halm. Her reading time is from four to five; but there are reading and needlework from three to four, which all the elders try to join, and from which, we may be sure, Bessie would not be absent. Then there is a dinner party at the Palace: "She (the Fraülein) dined, and so did I."

"As to the dinner part I managed very well. I had it all by heart. What I was to have was all settled in the morning, so that I had very little else to do but to talk, and that I did so much that I was really almost ashamed. Mr. —— took me down, and pleased mamma uncommonly by praising me to her in the evening. I cannot think why."

A little later Bessie is at Culham, and writes to Mary at Chichester.

Now don't make any more excuses about not writing. For my part I have forgiven you, at least since this delicious weather, for we have been out almost all day lately. Yesterday we walked to Abingdon, did some shopping, and came back before breakfast. [Inquiries about friends follow, and then:] Question upon question; but no matter, answer another, who sent me the violets? though I think my guess is right. If it was Mr. Ashworth it was very kind, for I think they were the first he had found this spring. Take care what you put in your letters to grandpapa. The last but one was pronounced by a judge whose opinion I am sure you will agree with, because you will think it right, to be very dignified and a perfect specimen of epistolography. There were cries of "It won't do" all through the letter. Do you think you shall come here soon? I begin to want to see some of you.

Bessie, as usual, had charge of one of the little girls. She writes: "I think Katie is improved since we have been here, but I cannot get her to get up; so please ask mamma to say what time she is to get up, for now it is not much before eight and often some time after."

Now to an elder sister who wants to do her shopping at Abingdon before breakfast, Miss Katie must have been a trial. But Bessie herself was by no means perfect in this respect. Some years later she and a sister about her own age paid a visit to an old lady, cousin of their father's, in Yorkshire. This cousin rose early, was very punctual, and expected her guests to be the same; but, "Say what I would," writes her sister, "I could not get Bessie up in the morning, not even though I represented that it made me appear to disregard Miss Dawson's wishes as well as herself, and was not fair. The only answer I could get was, 'I say nothing;' and the next morning she was as late as ever." Whether Mrs. Gilbert was in this case also appealed to "to fix the hour" we are not told.

In the autumn Bessie is at home again, and, writing to her faithful Mary, she says: "The week after next our house must stretch a slight degree. There will be the Halls, the Churtons, the Woods from Broadwater (it was Mrs. Wood who fought for the teaching of reading in St. George's Schools thirteen years previously), the two Archdeacons, Mr. Garbett, Mr. Simpson, and another gentleman, all in the house; and Mr. Wagner, if he comes, will have a room at the inn. This will be something like—won't it? I think mamma liked her visit to——."

The Bishop, his wife, and one daughter, had been paying short visits to influential people in the county. The young lady sends home letters which show close and minute powers of observation and no small insight into character. The rooms, the pictures, the plate and china, all are described, and she ends by saying:

I suppose you will expect a comparison of the two families. The gentlemen are far superior at A——; and though B—— is more fascinating, and makes one feel for her as if one could do anything, yet A—— seems to me to be superior to her in strength of mind and also in acquirements. Lady C. is much younger than Lady D., much more in awe of her mother, and being plain, has not the appearance of being used to the homage of all around her like Lady D. So ends my long story of a short but pleasant time, and if it has tired your patience, at least you cannot complain of my not having given you a full account.

Looking over these letters, taken back into the past by the yellow paper, the faded ink, the old-fashioned writing, all angular and sloping, letters fresh and vivid with youth, intelligence, and goodness, one cannot but wonder if those written by a girl of seventeen, in these days of high pressure, will be such pleasant reading forty years hence.

Bessie was greatly interested in these visits, and she writes to Mary at Culham: "Mamma saw some beautiful miniatures of the Pretender, the Cardinal York and their sister the Princess Louisa. They were very small, and set in turquoises and diamonds. I believe that princess married the King of Sardinia."

The Rev. T. Lowe, Vicar of Willingdon, who left Chichester thirty-five years ago, says that he often met Bessie at the palace and in general society at Chichester; that he made use of every opportunity he had to cultivate her acquaintance. She liked to talk of music, and he "remembers well the sweet expression of her mobile features, declaring the peace and resignation that dwelt within. These, no doubt, made her so alive to all pleasures within her reach. It was a touching sight to see her joining, with evident enjoyment, in a quadrille at an evening party at home or elsewhere."

Mr. Lowe saw her occasionally after he left Chichester. She was interested in some blind persons in his parish. One she rescued from "the uncongenial life of the workhouse;" another acted as an agent for her society; and she was specially interested in a third, both blind and deaf, now dead. "Her sympathy with these sufferers was full of comfort to them; and as to them, so to all to whom it is known, the history of her long, patient suffering; of her submission to the heavy trial laid upon her; of her thankful enjoyment of the blessings granted her; of her loving endeavours to alleviate like suffering in others—will, I doubt not, bring forth good fruit in other hearts and other lives."

Mr. Wintle at Culham was now an aged man, and his infirm health gave much anxiety to Mrs. Gilbert. After she had left Oxford one or two of her daughters were nearly always with their grandfather. One of his latest letters, written from his Oxford lodgings, was to his favourite Blossom.

27th November 1845.

My dear Blossom—As I have gained the reputation of not caring for what I do or say, why may I not scribble a scrawl to you containing what is found uppermost in my memorandum box? Not having been admitted a member of the Abingdon Literary and Scientific Society, you must look rather for trifles from a bagatelle warehouse than for graver subjects culled from the repository of useful and entertaining knowledge. But previous to opening my budget let me express a wish that I may soon hear from one of the numerous palace scribes of your mother's faceache having left her, and that you are all as well as the damps of November will permit of your being. As you probably knew nothing of my opposite neighbour Chaundy, hair-dresser and perfumer, perhaps you will nothing grieve at hearing that he is moving from the Corn Market to the High Street, nor will you be much interested in hearing that Mr. —— tells his Oxford tradesmen that as he deals with them, he expects they will come to his shop and buy a pig of him. Possibly you may be amused by hearing that Mr. A. and Dr. B. have nominated five select preachers, all ultra low church, of whom Mr. C. is one, who takes an annuity of £500 from his parishioners in Holy Well, in preference to a living from his college. So would not I. [And so on through three pages of gossip ending:] And now with love to you all, affectionately am I yours, R. W.

In the spring of 1846 the Bishop and Mrs. Gilbert, with many but not all the daughters, were in the Isle of Wight. Mary was again at Culham with her grandfather, who was recovering from a serious illness, and had been out "in a sedan chair." Bessie writes full accounts: "You should have heard Nora begging to go. She has gained her point, you see;" and then follows a description of the little house at Ryde, of their visitors and friends, the books they were to read, etc. During this visit Bessie once walked from Ryde to Shanklin, and was proud of the achievement.

The Bishop's house in London at this time was in Green Street, Grosvenor Square. He and Mrs. Gilbert with some daughters were there in the early part of the year 1846, and Bessie was left in the post of honour, at home. The father writes to her without making any allowance for blindness. She is to give orders and arrange for their return just as Mary would have done.

My dear Bessie—I write to you as Mrs. House, Mrs. Pomona, Mrs. Flora, i.e. as having, under your aunt and Miss Deiss, sovereign rule in the domestic, horticultural, and floral departments at Chichester, but not as Mrs. Ceres, as with respect to the farm I reserve the rule therein to John and Symonds, and Smoker and myself, which may account for the bad condition things in that department are in.... Now, in your domestic department let me suggest to you to order preparations for the return of the veritable heads of the family, possibly on Friday next, to dinner, but you may expect to hear again. Then, in the horticultural, know that a tub of regent potatoes, and eke a tub of blues, containing each about a sack, may daily be expected. They are to be used as seed at your and Holmes's discretion. Those which are not so used you may direct to be put from time to time into a pot and saved for dinner. In your floral department I do not presume to give any hint; the greater will be your responsibility if either violets are drooping or snowdrops and crocuses not in sufficient abundance. Poor me! I am afraid they are all over, blossomed and gone while I have been smoke-dried here. But mind you show me something when I come, or I may prove a rat without a tail. Pray, why do none of you little pusses write to me? I desire I may have an olla podrida, a bit of something from every one, without delay. How do you think I am to get on here all by myself? Yes, indeed! Pray, look to it, Mrs. House, and mind your P's and Q's, and do not laugh, but let me have my letter from all in a cluster, and I daresay in a clatter too forthwith. So no more at present from your and their fond parent and most loving father,

A. T. Chichester.

I suppose you know poor aunt E. M. has left you her piano. If your grandpapa does not think it too large and would let it go to Culham, should you object?

In August 1846 Bessie completed a long poem founded on a belief "which prevails in parts of Burgundy, that the first flower which blossoms on the grave of a departed friend links the soul of the departed in eternal love to that of the person who gathers it." The verses are moderately smooth and pretty, but give no great promise of excellence in that department.

It is, however, characteristic of the writer that she represents the "departed friend" not as a lover, but as the father of the girl who has gathered the first blossom, and that she concludes: