Letters

Jim wrote the other day that you had sprained your knee, but I had no idea that were seriously hurt until this morning when a letter from Aunt Blaine tells me that you have been in bed almost every since...

You do not owe me these $’s at all! It is pure pretense on your part, because the original price was paid all at once, you recollect? My first impulse was to return it and explain. And then I remembered that “it is easier to give than to receive gracefully.” So I say it is all right...

Your letter is kind, and gave me much pleasure. Although I prefer the present title of the article, I am perfectly willing you would select one more “taking”. What would you think of “Beyond?” I should like something suggestive of the subdued meaning of the story, but if you do not approve of that, how would “The Korl-Woman” do...

Your kindness touches me. The more because it is so unexpected. I see that the novelty of the scene of the story has made you over-estimate it; – another, most probably, would disappoint you. However, I will try. I have nothing written now. I have been sick since you wrote...

I have begun another story entitled ‘The Deaf and the Dumb’ If it pleases you, and you accept it, would you wish to insert it in the June issue? If so, I will finish it...

I am sorry. I thank you for the kindness with which you veil the disappointment. Whatever holier meaning life or music has for me, has reached me through the ‘pathetic minor’ – I fear that I only have power to echo the pathos without the meaning...

We have just received a letter from Aunt Blaine[2] in which she says that you have not had a line from any of us. I think that is very strange as Emmy[3] wrote a long letter to Callie by Saturday’s mail, and I put a note in for you. Dear Jim, how heartless you must have thought us all...

Although your letter requires no reply, forgive me if I acknowledge it. Words so courteous and womanly could not fail to meet the cordiallist of measures, even if their tenor were less pleasant...

I have sketched a story,[1] which (as Mr. Fields is indifferent as to length) will extend through three no’s. The first part is finished. Shall I send it on, or would Mr. Fields prefer reading it all before he accepts or commences to publish it...

I send the ms. by today ‘s mail. Read it in a real July humour,—please—for I meant you to like it. Perhaps the name promises too much for so simple a story, if so, alter it...

I am very glad.— The story disappointed me, and I was afraid you would not like it. It was so much like giving people broken bits of apple-rind to chew...

Your letter has just arrived, the mails between here and Pittsburgh have run “clean daft” like everything else. For that reason it would be better as you say, not to return the mss: we’ll have to leave the weather and superfluous adjectives to the mercy of the readers...

First, thanks for yourself. I would like to say a good deal on “the study” but I suppose a Solomon of good taste would remind me that there is a time to keep silence. Thank you, which I do say sincerely...

Please give the note below to your proof reader[.] I saw the mistake after the book was mailed...

I am afraid I am going to worry you but I want advice, and have no one to ask but you. Would it not be good for me to next year if I could contribute occasionally to some English magazine? Even if you still wish me to write for you I have much time unemployed...

I think you are very kind, Mr Fields. I wish the time would come when I could oblige you. I feel ashamed of myself about the name— hereafter you shall christen everything I write—and I am still more ashamed that the divisions are so long...

I am sorry the story will be so tedious, everybody will be tired–you, too. I would have taken more pains if I had thought it would be so long. Could you find out for me, please, how many ms pages went into the October no.? I want--“a start”...

I have not begun the short story because I have been sick since you wrote.– I will try now, though. Did you want it for the Atlantic? Please let me know. I am going to do something horrid now...

Thank you very much. Both checks came safely. I will write a receipt on the other side. I have not yet begun the short story being worried about other things but will tomorrow...

I am glad that you like the story so well. I will correct the numbers as you suggest. Indeed I will leave all “care of authorship” in your hands. You don’t know how your kindness touches me...

If The Story of Today were in book form it ought to have a more complete ending, don’t you think? If you do think so, please send me the last four or five pages, and I will alter them now...

May I shake hands with you in our Virginia fashion? You have made the day a very happy one for me. I cannot tell you what old childish fancies surged up at the sight of Longfellow and Hawthorne. Mr. Holmes’ face is not what I expected...

I fully intended to go and have a likeness taken today but not being able send one taken last summer, which accounts for any airy costume...

I write just to thank you for Rab and his friends a bit of homely nature that ought to bring tears to anybody’s eyes. You are very good to give up to all my whims— That “pheasant” critic is not critical enough in his knowledge...

Is the Continental Magazine going to be a friend or a rival of “our’s?” Mr. Leland has written to me to become one of this corps—what shall I tell him? You are my mentor you know...

I did not keep the story for alteration, but sent it to the mail on the day I promised. I am sorry if it is lost as I made no copy. I left it to a friend to direct and probably he omitted the number and street or addressed it to the firm instead of you...

I find that John Lamar was not mailed until Dec 11–and directed to J. T. Fields, Atlantic Monthly, Boston. Possibly it is still in the Boston P.O. I hope it is all right. The delay here was accidental...

I am very glad – I send the proof sheets. I don’t understand correcting proof and do not know if I have done it right. Are the others ready yet?— I will correct them as soon as you send them on...

I am glad that my poor Georgian could find so warm a welcome in Massachusetts. Perhaps I need not have written it “with one hand tied behind my back” as Artemus Ward says—after all. Many thanks for your and Mrs. Fields kind invitation...

That’s bad! The Wabash is mentioned only, I believe, in one place–in the 9th or 10 chapter, where Knowles goes out to see his farm. Will you alter it from “The Wabash crawled moodily” to “the river crawled moodily” please–? I am such a trouble to you...

Here are “The Gurneys.” I hope they will please you better than they do me. The pages read “fagged” to me, and I am tired and need rest. Tell dear Annie I received her letter day before yesterday and will write very soon...

You seem determined that the burden of all my letters shall be “thank you”! I would not write about Sir Thomas Browne however, until I saw how you had treated my old friend—and I do thank you now for him, for the delicate taste of his dress, and especially for the manner in which you introduce him yourself to modern readers...

Is it too late to put a sentence onto John Lamar? I will write it on the other side. It is to go where Dorr and Lamar are talking...

I think you are right about John Lamar—Won’t you do something for me--if you think it quite proper? write a note on my behalf to that clergyman and ask him for the notes of the sermon for me to read...

I have not received the book yet, but I thank you for it prophetically. As to Margret—yes—please send me 20 copies by express and ask “the publisher” to settle for price charges, etc. with that mysterious “copyright” which he understands—and I don’t...

I enclose Mr. Leland’s card. I am afraid you will write me down ‘our troublesome contribution.’ By the way. Mr. Fields, do you publish any but English books? I want some three of four Spanish books for a friend...

Do women ever change their minds? You offered to advance me some money on ‘Margret’ and I declined, but this morning I would see my way clearer through some accounts if I could ask you for an advance of $100...

I send the warmest greetings this snowy day to you and Dr. Putnam for the effort you both have made to give me pleasure. You speak of a breath of spring. It is like a breath of spring to send words as genial and pure as his...

Many thanks. I did not need so much—let us rest in the money question now until we are “straight”—and I am out of debt. That will be a long time, I suspect. I wrote to tell you how more than pleased I was with the book...

Will you be indulgent with me? I had planned and partly ended a new story for you, but I burnt it and began again this morning. I am sure you would rather I would take time and write when I can write and so do you and myself and The Atlantic justice...

I feel a little uneasy at not hearing from you in relation to the time you would like to have the new story. I find I must divide it into two parts–for two nos. Will you object? And when do you wish for it? It is hard to write when one is not in the vein...

I am at home again and hope to get letters safely once more. I received the newspaper criticism and am more grateful than I can tell you for the clipping and marking and trimming you spent on them. I know you have precious little time to spare and value it accordingly...

Since I find this last story is so long in making itself pen and ink, I feel worried at my indebtedness to you. Will you ask your book-keeper to send me word if the sale of ‘Margret’ has nearly put me out of debt—(for the $200 you remember) or how we stand? What is the percentage you spoke of? I am sorry to write about so intolerable a thing...

I enclose Mr. Macmillan’s letter for which I thank you. Will you explain one sentence for me? When he says he would like to publish a story of mine without announcing its American origin does he mean one written for you and republished there or written for them? Please let me know...

How very glad I shall be to go! I have just told Mrs. Fields why I was afraid I could not come so soon as I would like, to you. It would be better for me to go to Boston first and stop at New York as I come home...

I send David Gaunt by today’s mail. Won’t you let me know if you give him cordial welcome as soon as possible for if not I must stay at home and write something else. But I hope you will make a friend of David...

Certainly my dear Mrs Fields. If I go I will go to you first. Thank you for telling me exactly what you would like. If I can come I will be there the first or second week in June. But I am not very sanguine about going at all from home this summer...

Many thanks. If you read David, I have one request like Queen Esther. Don’t leave anything out of it in publishing. A deformity is better than a scar you know...

Will you be glad to see me soon? At home I always promise myself a pleasure every Saturday night—after the fashion of our ‘plus’ brothers. So next Saturday morning I promise myself to see you...

I have only time to say I am safely here, came in about half past seven and before the cars stopped began to feel my old scare of being left alone coming on fast, the great inhospitable world being represented just then by hack-drivers and scuffling newsboys...

I think this will do. I would call it M.H. & other stories as you propose— The motto for Margret will do for all. I am having a very good time in New York. Mrs. Fremont is well & desires her regards...

I know I am a dumb creature in a way, and not able to show even by looks how well I know that you are good and kind. So I send a ‘familiar spirit’ to speak for me:—may it? If its way is drearier than your happy life accepts...

Dear Annie and Annie’s vis-a-vis at the breakfast table—for I hope you are there—that I may say good morning. I hope the sun is glinting on the ivy trailed over the vase—and that the sea & [winds?] smell as savory as they used...

Could you send me your key to Charles Auchester for myself & a friend who is reading it today? I am glad by the way we are to hear more of Miss Sheppard in the Atlantic, as Annie tells me...

I don’t know which to write to. I cannot separate you, and I do want a good talk to both of you this tropical morning. Such a long time since we looked out on the bay from that ‘glorified’ breakfast room...

Here is Tom—Mr. Fields—Tell me how you like the poor little contraband. Have you thought of any book for me to ‘try my hand’ on? If not shall I choose myself? I am in a very industrious fit just now...

You must permit me, Mr. Norton, to tell you what a pleasant “good morning” that was you offered me yesterday. “Western savage” that I am. I know nothing of Arthur Clough but from your introduction...

Your letter did me so much good the other day. These are sad lonesome days for us here. The war is surging up close about us. O Annie if I could put into your and every true woman’s heart the inexpressible loathing I have for it! If you could only see the other side enough to see the wrong the tyranny on both! God rules...

Many thanks for Mr. Cornhill’s letter. Another time I hope we will be more successful. I should like very much to have the next story published in an English magazine if you can achieve it for me. How about Tom in Dickens magazine? I have not begun the Christmas story yet...

I am ashamed—but I quite forgot that I had not acknowledged the receipt of the check for Blind Tom. Certainly, call it anything you like. You are immaculate in titles—only keep Mr. George Nichols and his bad spelling out of my fields...

I wonder if you think western savages are ungrateful. I meant to answer your letter very soon, but since then, my sister and mother have been ill, and I, tired out, most of the time in body and mind. You are at home now, I suppose...

What is the latest date that will be ‘time enough’ for the Christmas story? [1] I am very busy with it, but have suffered a thousand interruptions – which by-the-way have prevented me from writing to Annie...

Here is the Christmas story, which I hope you will like. I am sure my heart never wrote one as much before. I received Annie’s letter the other day, it must have crossed mine. I am so glad to hear from her and will write in a day or two again...

I wrote to you after you left home and meant to sit down and have a long talk with you, but a young lady friend dropped in on me—one of those exigeant people who absorb every moment—you know? She has just gone an hour ago...

Forgive me for leaving your note so long unanswered. I accept your offer to write for the Atlantic exclusively for this (coming) year at 8 dollars a page. But if we can arrange for my gaining admittance to any English magazine that will not interfere with this arrangement...

Your “bow-wow” letter was good and cordial inasmuch as it said very plainly— “good friends we are”— You will try and obtain an opening for me in England? I am especially anxious for this—not to please myself so much as others...

Is that ship-shape? I would have sent it sooner but I was out of town when it came—up in Pennsylvania. That is the reason I have not written to Annie which I will do tomorrow. Please give her my love...

I meant to write to you dear Annie as soon as I returned from Pa.[1] but have been prevented from one day to another—I wish you and Mr. Fields could have been with me up at that wedding to see a bit of life different from any you know...

This will be handed to you by Professor Ch. D’Almeida of the University of Paris whom I commend most earnestly to you and Annie. He has been travelling through our country for the purpose of observing...

Here are “The Gurneys.” I hope they will please you better than they do me. The pages read “fagged” to me, and I am tired and need rest. Tell dear Annie I received her letter day before yesterday and will write very soon...

Only last night dear Annie your Christmas greeting came—too late, too, for me to say to you then how glad I was you had remembered me. It was such a beautiful gift, in conception and reality, just such as I like to receive from you...

The letter came today enclosing the cheques. It was thoughtful in you to so promptly answer my request—I won’t forget that or any other friendly act. About the story—I do not like the name at all—you will allow me to alter it? I will write about it in a day or two...

I know you will forgive me, dear Annie for not writing sooner. I’ve abandoned mail—to be fitted and inspected and looked at by women with mouths full of pins and me eye shut, and I’m tired of it— Did I surprise you so much? I thought I had said something of it before...

Will you alter the title of that story from The Gurneys to ‘Paul Blecker?’ and will you ask Annie to dye those brown eyes hazel—if she will,—for me? Mine were dozing very often as I wrote...

Only a word I have time for today—to tell you how thoughtful your fancy of giving up pleasure by a visit to you and Boston was. I would dearly love to see you both—but I cannot think of going now so I will say “no” without waiting to consult Mr Davis...

I hurry these off in the evening’s mail. I think I did send one to Mr & Mrs Waterston but send one undirected—won’t you find out if I did and repair the omission—if not? I don’t believe Prof. d’Almeida knew anything about that...

I could not send this notice sooner for Carrie has been very ill and I could not write of course—she is better now—able to be up— I do not agree with you about the book. You will see but I expressed my honest opinion...

Here is Mr Alden’s letter— Yes, I think you ought to minister to a mind diseased in that way—for you know I receive counter irritants often, and thus keep up the poise—balance—what is it? Seriously, I was glad to read the letters and I hope they did not harm me much...

I hoped to have a letter from you for the last three or four days. I hardly know why unless because I haven’t been very well and after Mr Davis went down street in the morning have fallen into the foolish trick of listening for the carrier’s ring—to know who was thinking of me...

Only time for a hurried thank you from my heart for Mrs. Wallace. I told Mr Davis of what you said on Saturday. ‘That is very generous in Mr Fields’ he said. ‘It is just like him,’ I replied. But indeed Annie the gift will do good...

I was more glad of that first sentence in your letter than you can believe & I write to say so today—in a chance moment. Carrie is sick again and a friend from Wheeling here with whom I must ‘do’ Girard College, the Academies etc—at 12, so only the usual hurry...

Only time dear Annie for one word to send with this. It came yesterday—I will send the notice of Mr. Browning’s book tomorrow I think. I wanted to write it and have nearly finished it though a headache and all sorts of aches growing out of a cold...

I waited to finish this before writing so that I could send it in—I hope Mr Fields will like it. But I’m afraid it is too long for one number and it would not be condensed so I leave it to Mr Fields’ tenderest mercies. I was so sorry about the proof—really and unfeignedly sorry—I did not want to give so much trouble to any one least of all to you...

The cheque came so immediately after my writing that I concluded you had not received my letter and that this was a pure business transaction of Mr. ‘Clarke for T&F’ and so did not write to tell you that it was in time and now I will be able to gratify my whim—thanks to you both...

I have thought of you so much dear Annie since your last letter came, more perhaps than if I had written. I did not write to you—or indeed to any one—because we have had so little quiet. First Lee’s approach and the excitement which followed it took away all heart for talking in any way...

With lunch and a museum and a trip to ‘Turner’s lane’ all staring me in the face as duties lying nearest to me, I pick up this bit of time for a word with you. Since your note written on the wing for [sic] Newport came, I have been doing Philadelphia with Emmy at a most thorough pace...

I send the story by this mail. I am ashamed to send so foul a copy, but I tried to strike out all superfluous words—it grew so shamefully long. Will you send me the proof, please? It is so long since I wrote more than a word to you that I have put off saying what should have been said months ago...

Why would you think I would be disappointed that you had found utterances for yourself in print? I always expected it, you know. There was so much that your life—with all its full and varied tone—would not express—and I am glad with all my heart that it has found this voice...

You don’t know how it touches me that you should sit down at odd moments to say a word to me–just because it must be said—so different that is from a set letter. I never have heard Mr. Wasson, you know, but I easily believe how much his voice would give effect to his words...

I could not answer your note in Wheeling—for every moment was occupied with my father who was weaker than I thought to find him. Not dangerously ill but enough to make him nervous and even morbid in his desire to have me with him...

Only a line to send you this—one of your sincerest friends—I know so you must give it welcome due.
Why don’t you tell me if you are coming on any of these brightest cheerfullest of winter days? I sit here so much alone...

I would have written on Saturday, but could not, as our house still is an hospital. Little Clarice has been very ill with congestion of the lungs—yesterday we hardly expected her to live from hour to hour—this morning she is better—Mrs. Cooper is better—and sends her remembrances...

Sunday I waited until today to write dear Annie, so that our welcome home might be fresh to you when it came. It was so good in you to just say a word to us on reaching New York–the very night. I knew you thought it, but one doesn’t often feel like pen and papers when there is most waiting to be said...

Well, dear Annie, to continue from yesterday—we have been talking over those short sketches we spoke of a good deal since you left & I think I would rather finish at least three of them before sending them in—so as to be sure of the general title—and not hurry with them...

The cheque surprised me yesterday. I had not thought of your sending it in advance but, it is very welcome. Yet after all, not so welcome as the spirit that made you send it— Here is the proof—I would have sent it before, but Clarke has been ill...

I feel ashamed when I think of your two welcome but unanswered letters—yet I was not in fault. You would say so if I could tell you how really ill Clarke was and the anxiety that gave me—and then I was just enough ailing in mind to be nervous and irritable...

Clarke has just sent me up your note and I must answer it myself, though maybe he may from the office. I wanted to write before only to say I loved you— God knows how dear and tender all love has grown to me now, but at first I was not able and now the doctor forbids the last reading or writing for fear of bringing back the trouble in my head...

Many thanks for your trouble in returning the ms. I know it was not usual to ask, but I had no copy & wanted it. I forgot the stamps too...

I have commenced two or three letters to you & never was able to finish one— Clarke received the pamphlet for which he will send his own reply but I want some more audible and visible sign from you. I felt as if I had been in some foreign country and could not be enough welcomed home again...

Not a day has passed since your letter came in which you have not been thought if not spoken of here but I have not written, waiting from day to day to know when we were going so as to tell you how to direct your letters...

I am afraid to leave the house after night on the baby’s account, so although the moon is shining without and mosquitoes raging within I sit down for a quiet talk with you. I am impatient for you to see our boy. That is, to love him...

I hope you will not write me a letter only ‘in case every thing of interest should occur’ (vide Mrs. Fields’ last note)— I don’t care so very much for news & I do care very much for your letter notes, dropped at all our homes and places...

Something in your last note, dear Annie, made me lay it down with the words ‘the best letter Annie Fields ever sent me’ it was even more than usual cordial & affectionate & true. I would have answered it then & there but the turmoil of getting launched in house keeping had not yet subsided...

When I came home your letter was here. It has been waiting for me for some time. It was such a happy home-coming, Annie. We brought my sister Emmy with us—then I was still enough weak to feel my heart beat and the tears come at a little petting—and they did pet me...

I send you the Christmas greetings with a warmth of meaning—new and deeper to me than ever before, I think. The past year has come to us so bright with blessing—with the mark of His hand so fresh and clear on it. The day too glows with sunlight windows in my old home...

Half asleep—I sit down to write to you—not I hope to send you the lees of the day. But talk of running three periodicals like steam engines? Why, a baby uses up twice the motive power! Think what a woman is worth by night when all day she has been in momentary expectation of seeing that infant hope of the world brought in choked by a pin...