Distance Avails Not
5 June 1915
Essars, France
Dear Nan,
The prosey Glen it is, then. I would not dare to miss such a rendezvous. I really am feeling better, no small thanks to your letters. I don't know whether I can carry many more of them - I may have to start sending them back to you for safekeeping. But I think I'll keep them all a while longer.
A few days ago, our battalion passed through a tiny village and I found my beautiful thing. There was a little church there, with thick stone walls and pointed-arch windows all at different heights. It wasn't a cathedral, soaring to heaven — in fact, it was hopelessly earth-bound — more like a turtle than anything. The bell in the bell tower clanged as we passed — such a sound! — it made me think of cows — and I wondered how old that bell is. The church itself must have been built in the 12th or 13th century — you would know, Nan, if I could send you a picture of it.
It made me wonder — What other armies have marched this way? Did Joan of Arc come this far north on her march from Reims? Did this bell sound an alarm during the Thirty Years' War, calling the villagers to take refuge from marauders? For a moment, I felt connected to all those people who have walked this road before and seen that squat, funny, lovely little church. The building itself has seen so much — it made me think of Matthew 7 and the strong house built upon a rock: La pluie est tombée, les torrents sont venus, les vents ont soufflé et se sont jetés contre cette maison: elle n'est point tombée, parce qu'elle était fondée sur le roc.* It was beautiful.
I wonder how they endured their wars — all those Crusaders and knights and foot soldiers of long ago. Somehow, I never really imagined the experience of it — not just the battles, but the waiting and watching whole years go past with little to show for it. I thought of wars as dates and places and kings, but I know better now. I hardly know where we are half the time and have only a rat's-eye view of the proceedings. Now I imagine that soldiers must have fought at Agincourt and Crécy without ever knowing that they were Agincourt and Crécy. We are not so far from the ground fought over during the Hundred Years' War — I shudder just to write that. Strange to think how events get boiled down in history books. I never realized what a name like "Hundred Years' War" must conceal in its tidy appellation. Who do you think gets to decide those things? What to name a battle or a war? What to remember and what to forget?
I am glad there is room for many more letters in your box, though I should like better to be home and writing nothing at all. That mightn't please the historians much, but it would certainly please me. I'm sure my current letters must look a sorry lot next to the old ones from Redmond. Of course those letters were unblemished, Nan — I drafted them, edited them, and copied them over clean, didn't I? And still agonized after I sent them, worrying I'd put a comma out of place — you'd catch it for sure, even if you might be too sweet to say anything. What you're getting now is nothing but scribbles and drafts — straight from thought to paper. I hope you'll overlook the deficiencies in both expression and punctuation.
Don't stop imagining, Nan. I would have you keep some dreams alive for both our sakes.
All my love,
Jerry
24 June 1915
Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia
Dear Jerry,
I never knew you copied your letters over. There was no need to do that, though it makes my heart flutter to think that you did. I suppose I might have noticed errors if there had been any, but you can't think I would have marked your letters as if they were essays!
As much as I loved those old letters, your recent epistles are infinitely more precious to me. Each one is a lifeline and I read them over until I could almost recite them. Never mind what they look like — I would have you unmediated. A silly thing to say in a censored letter. But I would have your heart, not your punctuation.
[Two pages omitted.]
I'm sure that Jem has told you that Walter enlisted when we were home in May. I suppose it was inevitable that he would — he has been positively morose all year — but that does not lessen the blow. Rilla took it hard. Mother was outwardly calm, but her mind never seems to be in the same place as her body anymore. You might be in the same room, speaking to her, and unless you had captured her attention at the first and maintained eye contact, she will never hear you at all.
I dithered over whether I should stay home or come back to Kingsport, but there is little enough I can do in either place. In the end, I left Mother to Dad and Rilla, and came back for Di. She doesn't let on quite the way Mother and Rilla do, but I know that she feels Walter's going keenly. They quarreled this winter, but I never could get her to tell me exactly what had happened. Di has just thrown herself into Red Cross work this summer — she and Faith are at the hospital all hours and they work just as hard as the nurses. I mostly stay home and sew for the Reds and try to write a little while keeping house for the three of us so that they can work more. I never did mind housework, and doing it first saves me having to do it over after Faith has been through.
But I will tell you a secret. This afternoon, I went out to the garden with no knitting and no sheets and no war news — only a little picnic basket and my old Lady Molly book. I spent a glorious afternoon just being horribly lazy and self-indulgent, eating far too many strawberries and not thinking of anything at all except for Lady Molly's adventures. It felt terribly wicked, but also wonderfully like old times. It was beautiful.
As to the history books, what has come home to me this year has been the contingency of it all. That no one living through an event knows how it will end, nor when, and that it is rank hubris to imagine ourselves wiser than those who have gone before only because we can plot them an ideal course in hindsight.
Be well, love, and know that I am praying for you always.
Your
Nan
24 June 1915
Aster House, Kingsport, Nova Scotia
Dear Jem,
I only read the first few lines of your letter when I received it. I saved the rest for a time when I could go to the park and find just the right sort of tree and sit there, as we have done so often. It was quite an exquisite agony to have that letter in my pocket and not read it, but I like to do a thing properly.
Thank you, Jem. I cherish all your letters, but thank you for this one. I want to hear all the rest of those stories when you get home. I'll never touch another pen and never say another word and be perfectly happy.
In the meantime, I suppose you will want to know when I realized that I loved you. You will never guess it. I don't even think you will remember the day — it was certainly nothing as dramatic as my "explanation" in church nor my adventures in pig-riding (I have tried to apologize to Walter for that, but he would never discuss it with me, either).
It was the first Christmas Jerry was home from Redmond. You were home, too, of course, but at the time, that did not seem of any special importance to me. Do you remember that Christmas? There was such a snowstorm that no one could go anywhere. But Boxing Day was fine, so I came over to Ingleside, but everyone had gone out. Except you. You were sick in bed, but you answered the door anyway and then fainted! I have no idea how I got you back upstairs, but I did, and just before you fell asleep, I scolded you for coming to the door at all. And you said you did it because you hoped it was me.
I don't know if you remember that. You were ill, and half-asleep, and we neither of us mentioned it ever again. But I will tell you, I stood in your room for a scandalously long time after you said that, just trying to breathe. I hadn't thought of you as anything but a lovely chum up until that moment, but never again. I was so staggered that I didn't move at all until I heard the sleigh coming back up the drive and had to scurry out the kitchen door to avoid being seen. I've often wondered what your parents thought about the smashed cake I left on the veranda.
When you came back from Kingsport in May, everything was different. I found that I was always intensely aware of where you were, whether you were off sailing with Jerry or going on rounds with your father or —sometimes— coming to find me in Rainbow Valley. I spent quite a lot of time that summer wondering whether you really were seeking me out, or if I were only reading too much into every little thing. We were always good friends before. Why shouldn't you come to ask me to help you in some ridiculous scheme or another?
Do you remember the day you rescued me from Evangeline Lewis and we spent the afternoon in the hidden strawberry patch out behind the old MacAllister farm? How did you ever find that place, Jem? You were away from home so much then, but you still seemed to know where to find the ripest berries and the first-blooming and last-blooming flowers, even when no one else knew of them. I can't tell you how nervous I was when you came to fetch me that day, but I was determined that you should never know it. I don't think you did, and after the first few minutes, I wasn't nervous anymore. It was just you, after all.
Did you have my handkerchief in your pocket that day as well? If I had known that, I think perhaps we might never have needed Gull Island.
There, now. You can tell Jerry that you finally have a letter you can't share. I'm sure he would have some older-brotherly objections to the idea of me standing half an hour in your bedroom with Ingleside deserted, even if you were asleep at the time. Though if it comes to it, I think you could probably take him in a fight.
I love you, Jem. I begin to see a bit of Nan's point about long letters.
Yours always,
Faith
P.S. I certainly did not kiss you before you went away to Queen's! That was Mary Vance you were kissing behind the schoolhouse!**
P.P.S. I know that your father has already written you about Walter's having enlisted at last (and I would guess Rilla and Di have as well). I will add that Walter came back to Kingsport on the ferry with us and seemed much changed for the better. We had a pleasant conversation — nothing of consequence, but he did speak to me and even looked me in the eye, which hasn't happened all year. Nan and I left him with Di for a long while and I think perhaps they have reconciled. I am heart-glad over that — Di will hate to see him go, but at least they will part on better terms than they have been of late.
19 July 1915
Neuve-Eglise, Belgium
Dear Faith,
Do you think that I could possibly be mistaken about the first time Faith Meredith kissed me? I could not! It may be true that I kissed Mary Vance, but I assure you it was in service of a much loftier goal. There was no chance of your kissing me in those days unless you were dared into it, and you couldn't abide being told you hadn't nerve enough to do anything Mary Vance would do. Thus my strategic kissing of young Miss Vance and my triumph in losing a bet to you. I could not possibly be mistaken about that kiss, as it was the only one I had from you for several years and I cherished it fondly.
The first Christmas Jerry was home from Redmond! (! ! !) Do you mean to tell me that you were already in love with me that whole next summer, even before Gull Island? You might have told me, Faith. I spent rather a lot of time and effort trying to charm you that summer and now I hear I might have saved myself the trouble!
And you were nervous the day I brought you to the MacAllister strawberry patch? I don't remember that at all — all I remember is you with daisies in your hair, looking like the Queen of May. I should never like to sit across a poker table from you, Faith — you must not have any tells (or if you do, I don't know them yet — in which case, I intend to find them out). And of course I had your handkerchief with me then. I always did.
I guess I won't share that letter with Jerry after all. I've fought a fair few fights over you these many years, but I wouldn't particularly relish testing myself against Jerry. He's up the line from me aways. I've seen him once or twice for a few minutes, but we made a pact never to be too long in the same place unless we are well back of the line. We've both of us seen enough of the aftermath of shell-blasts to know it might be a hard day in the Glen if one found us chumming around. He looks as well as any of us and seems to be in good spirits, by which I gather that his mail call is generally satisfactory.
I find that I am also somewhat persuaded by the charms of a longer letter. I don't know that either of us can write them often, but I will keep your last somewhere safe.
Love and kisses,
Jem
XXX
21 July 1915
Glen St. Mary, PEI
Dear Walter,
In light of your recent departure, I must insist that we re-form our club under the following bylaws:
1) That this shall be a club dedicated to literary criticism, and that discussion of mundane ugliness should be kept to a minimum, particularly when it can be conveyed to and by other correspondents.
2) That we shall discuss both our own poems and such others as seem fitting to the day and mood of the club members. New poems shall be counted of particular interest.
3) That I will endeavor to send very little "mushy stuff" from my own pen, though I will not venture to limit the topics and themes of your own submissions.
I went looking for my copy of Leaves of Grass today and discovered it missing. Do take a look at "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry," won't you? I do not have a copy before me, but I went in search of it because its lines are more in my meditations than ever before. It avails not, time nor place — distance avails not. That was the very first of Whitman I loved — the connection between past and present, present and future, all of us standing in one another's footsteps, linked inextricably across a not-so-unbridgeable gap.
Write to me of "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry," Walter. There is perfection in you also.***
Love,
Mother
*Matthew 7:25
**The Blythes are Quoted, "The Haunted Room":
Jem, aside to Diana: "Listen to her! As if we had never seen or heard of a kiss!"
Diana, teasingly: "You, anyhow. I saw you kissing Faith Meredith in school last week . . . And Mary Vance, too."
Jem: "For mercy's sake, don't let Susan hear you say that. She might forgive it with Faith but never with Mary Vance."
***All from Walt Whitman's "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry"
