TLS, four pages, 8 x 10, November 26, 1936. Written from Synnyside in West Kilbride, Scotland, a letter to Andrea Bereus, in full: "It has taken me all this time to learn how to behave like a free spirit despite my greatest deprivation. Now, however, I have resumed my correspondence and other usual tasks, and after this rallying pause among restful surroundings I shall be ready for more years of endeavor to wear away ‘the impalpable barrier—the mind ‘s night’—that still stands between millions of human beings and their heritage. Meantime in a new way I feel the nearness of friends like you and Conrad with whom I continue to sojourn.
How shall I ever thank you both for being so wonderful to us three? The only real thanks is loving you to the height and depth and breadth of what you meant to Teacher. I am thinking not only of the time and skill Conrad put into the effort to restore her sight. With emotion I also recall how often he came out to Forest Hills, tired after a hard day’s work, brightened weary hours for Teacher and, with sympathetic understanding, kept up the hopeful mood so essential to her well-being. I count over the eleven years of his friendship and bless him for the courage Teacher felt in his presence and the tender care even to the end with which he followed the casket from the memorial services to the crematorium.—What can I say?
And you too, Andrea—if I should declare all you did—the dear way you stood around watchful of every chance to console Polly and me or lighten our staggering load—your comings and goings to save us fatigue the many kinds of people you entertained with such charming tact—the prepared meals you brought—your comforting presence in Washington and back to New York,—they are past numbering! It is not possible to put through language our deepest emotions, but it seems to me, our clumsy attempts often say more than polished expressions.
The devotion with which you expedited our preparations for the voyage softened my grief at the thought that it was the first time we had sailed without Teacher. Polly wrote to you aboard the ‘Deutschland’ and no doubt told you what a smooth passage we were having. The last day the ship went on a rampage wrestling with the first of the winter storms. The listing was so bad we nearly fell out of bed, and went stumbling up to the deck or down to dinner. However, we kept true to form as good sailors and enjoyed the ride on the Southampton tender in glorious sunshine.
We stayed in London a week seeing a few friends and trying to reorientate ourselves on life’s changed trails. It was sad yet sweet to be at the Park Lane where Teacher had always been so comfortable and interested. The expressions of sympathy we received in our loneliness from the very door-men up to the manager touched us deeply.
One morning we visited the National Institute for the Blind, and Mr. Cockin, the publicity manager, took me aside for a quiet interview. I wish, Andrea, you had seen the exhibition at the Institute of dolls in the costumes of various nationalities. Among them were two intriguing dolls belonging to Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret Rose. Elizabeth’s is named Pamela—dimple-cheeked, her flaxen curls tied with tiny red bows, a winter suit and cap, also red, leggings and sensible flat shoes. The other, called Bridget, is adorable in a white summer silk dress and bonnet. My picture was taken hugging both. I have to smile wondering whether they would have asked me to hug Their little Highnesses if they had been present.
Another time Lady Fairhaven, the daughter of my good friend H. H. Rogers, invited us to her town house. We lunched with her and Mrs. Silverthorne, an American, her friend from childhood. I am sure you know Mrs. Silverthorne’s sister who lives on Fifth Avenue in New York. (I cannot recall her name just now.) The house was a bower of fragrance and beauty—orchids, chrysanthemums, tuberoses and so forth. As always Lady Fairhaven was most dear and hospitable. We are to see her again before going back to New York.
Naturally ‘the whole discourse and expectation of London,’ as Pepys would say, is the Coronation. You would be amused at the astonishment of our friends here to whom we report concerning the King and Mrs. Simpson. Wide-eyed, silent they listen as we retail the gossip from the American newspapers. But the people I meet who are doing their work in the world have no time for such affairs, Anyway they say, ‘Oh, it will pass. Even though the King did marry Mrs. Simpson, he would get tired of her in six months.’
From London we went to The Manse in Bothwell, the home of Polly’s brother and his wife for a short visit. As we had brought with us a tremendous overflow of work, we at first planned to live like hermits at some Scottish hotel ‘from public haunt exempt,’ like Birnum Woods, where you spent a night with us. Perhaps you will remember the trees, huge beeches and oaks dating back several centuries, overshadowing the River Tay. But Mr. and Mrs. Thomson, divining our need, insisted on our remaining under their roof and working in a bright home environment—bless their warm hearts! They turned the drawing-room over to us so that we might have privacy and litter the floor with trophies of our desperate fray against an increasing host of letters, articles and newspaper clippings.
At present we are here with Dr. and Mrs. Love whose affection will not let us go without a struggle. They, too, are darling about letting us bring our papers and my typewriter and using the library with a cosy fire. Friday we shall go to see Polly’s sister Margaret in Dundee; and by the way, Andrea, we shall hear more about Alec Keiller there and report to you when we return. Next week will find us ‘parked’ at The Manse until about January 22nd when we shall be in London. On the 29th we expect to be in Paris for the unveiling of the Borglum statue of Thomas Paine, and Mr. Moore, who wished to be remembered kindly to you, is making arrangements for us to fly over. Won’t that be thrilling?
How astonishing Dr. Love’s energy and vitality are! He had his 79th birthday not long ago, and he performed Forty-three operations in one week. He and Dr. Berens are incomparable! Today Dr. Mavor, the author of ‘The Sleeping Clergyman,’ (his nom de plume is Bridie) lunched with us. Some years ago he was one of Dr. Love’s assistants at the infirmary in Glasgow. He is a quiet but delightful Scot. The other night we saw his play ‘The Black Eye’ which I liked very much. Dr. Love’s garden is charming at this time. The asters, marigolds and bachelor’s buttons are blooming in banks, and, will you believe it, the roses are keeping their fragrance in defiance of long nights, hoar-frost, fogs black or white or yellow! Every day we think of you and store up news to tell you when we are at home in February. Always with our love to you both.” Keller adds a brief postscript: “Polly is enjoying the beautiful things you gave her, and they are greatly admired. She thanks you each time she wears them. H. K.” In fine condition. Accompanied by the original mailing envelope.
The “greatest deprivation” to which Keller refers is the loss of her lifelong companion and teacher Anne Sullivan, who passed on October 20, 1936, only a month before this letter was written. With Sullivan’s death Polly Thomson became Keller’s primary companion, and the two embarked on a prolonged European retreat, visiting France, England, and Thomson’s native Scotland before returning in the early spring of 1937. A touching and wonderfully descriptive letter from Keller during one of the more trying episodes of her life.
