Against Wind and Tide: Letters and Journals, 1947-1986

by Anne Morrow Lindbergh

  C. in the meantime was marvelous. Kept the house warm, kept the stove (an old-fashioned wood stove) going—washed pots & pans—cleaned the kitchen from top to bottom—went shopping to try to find something that I could digest. In fact, worked like a dog all day long trying to save the situation and help me. His devotion touched me & I felt the strange irony of our relationship being so good when I felt so ill & helpless. And I looked at him from my cot—through the open window to the kitchen—across a chasm that lay between us. I felt so surprisingly enfeebled—he was working with all of his energy. I looked at his—and also my own usual—strength and health across an unbridgeable chasm of weakness. Usually, I thought, I can work like that—all day long driving like a horse—& my body never saying “no” to me. What an insight it gave me into health & illness—How I waste my strength. How precious it is! Also the understanding illness gives you. How can C. understand what it is to be ill, to be weak, to have the body say “no”? His body has never said “no” to him—Nothing and no one has ever said “no” to him. (Except me, sometimes, now.) Il n’a jamais eu sa descente de la montagne,* I thought, remembering M.H.† “C’est tout ce qu’il lui manque.”‡

  After two days of this I begged C. to put me on the sleeper in Montreal to N.Y. & proceed with the weekend without me. But this he would not do. We finally decided to turn around & start back & cancel the whole thing. It was too late to stop Barbara—she was already on the train from Chicago. But he telephoned home & stopped the children (from San Jovite). Then we started our long trek back. We had arrived in a thaw—which was why we went as far north as Mt. Tremblant—but we left in a blizzard—fighting it for ninety miles into Montreal—through Montreal—I with my basin—retching & spitting. C. wanted to get me to the Cygne Motel early p.m. & then go to meet B. in Montreal but the driving was so bad we barely got to the motel by dark. (I felt we had made a harbor out of the storm when we got into that driveway out of the mad swirling, blinding, wind-driven snow.) C. did not try to get back but telephoned & finally reached her & she telephoned Janey (in Boston!) & her father (in N.Y.!) & rerouted everyone to Scott’s Cove!

  The next a.m. we went on, I dying to get to the Medical Center before everyone had left for the four-day holiday weekend. However, we only got as far as Rutland & made home Friday p.m. Anyway, when we got to Bennington I called Dana from a drugstore. Never have I been so glad to hear anyone’s voice. “Why Anne! Are you ill?” And then “I am taking over, Anne. Do you hear me? This time I am taking over!” However we didn’t go straight to the hospital as he urged. I felt it was too much to ask of C., who was not too happy about my firm decision. On the basis of three doctors (Dana, Dr. Damon & R.) saying it would be madness to go ahead with it—which C. simply did not believe. However, he took my decision as my right & accepted it. (The responsibility, however, was mine—fully mine—& not the doctors’—in his opinion. All right, I could carry it. This time.)

  Also, he would be left with B. & Janey for the weekend. So we went home & I went to bed—and felt a good deal more comfortable after the week of being sick in strange cabins & traveling. I sat in bed & sipped warm milk every two hours & felt better & saw Janey & B. each a.m. after breakfast for a little talk. They left Sunday & Monday I went into the hospital & Dana & Damon were both there the first evening & gave their decision & then I saw Dana alone for a little. He sat on the edge of my bed and—in between my constant spitting—we laughed & talked. My relief was very great & the joy of laughing—of suddenly seeing the humor of so much of it. I had almost five days in the hospital (Dana was anxious to build me up again after two weeks’ malnutrition, etc.) and they had a rather wonderful quality—despite the disagreeableness of some of it. The peace, the quiet, the rest, the time to think (I didn’t even play the radio. I wanted quiet—no distraction) & the healing quality of an undemanding but wholly loving relationship was quite marvelous. It was not something exciting or stimulating or romantic, heaven knows, but the continuity of a rather steady and serene relationship—warm, understanding, undemanding. D. would drop in four–five times a day. Sometimes we hardly spoke, but it was nevertheless nourishing, almost—I felt—like a transfusion. I felt life pouring back into me & with it a realization of how blessed I was to have this friendship—whatever it was—wherever I had found it. Some of it, of course is his great gift of healing, of devotion, of concentration on the patient, that he gives all his patients as a doctor. Some of it was simply our long & now taken-for-granted friendship. (But should one ever take it for granted?)

  I said to him one day when he was sitting beside me, “Is this just the doctor-patient relationship again? Dependence? Transference?” (“O ye of little faith!”) And he said quite simply: “I don’t know, Anne. When I’m sitting in the sunshine I no longer pull out a prism and analyze the rays—I just accept it as sunshine.”

  My old fear of dependence! But this time I took the sunshine & grew strong with it & knew that it also fed him—to come in & share the little events of his day with me—or big events—to read me his radio speech & to work over the right word together. To talk over V. Woolf’s diary I was reading—or his troubles with his children.

  Saturday a.m. I left. C. came back from a trip to Washington & drove me home. The first week at home was—in spite of half-days in bed & all C.’s care & help—rather exhausting & depressing. I felt astonishingly frail still, & easily collapsible & unsteady. (Like the little mermaid in a new element—learning to walk—on knives!) I missed D’s nourishing companionship & resented the demands that every mother-wife householder inevitably has. I felt unequal to them & felt them pulling on me—Judy—the children—C. Also too sensitive & vulnerable to people—Sue*—for twenty-four hours—Mr. Miller (B.’s uncle) & the next week—Alan—Yvonne—Mary Knollenberg.† When one is on the low side one feels suddenly surrounded by too many people—they impinge on one. And oversensitivity. I was too sensitive to Sue’s criticism—& complete lack of response to “The Shells.” Oh dear—how one minds!

  However, I slowly got back to work & to strength & suddenly it was time to get ready for the wedding!

  … Anne comes in & sits on the edge of my bed & says mournfully: “He doesn’t belong to you any more; he belongs to Barbara now!” I realize she feels she’s losing her older brother & I say she is gaining another sister & we’ll see more of Jon—not less—etc. & that it’s fine!*

  Alone, I realize that this queer jitteriness, this sense of pressure, is due to my feeling that I am being pushed through the door to another stage in life—and I don’t feel quite ready for it. I, a mother-in-law?—like Mrs. Lindbergh? (One immediately projects oneself back into the way they looked to you as a bride!)

  I a grandmother? (Like Grandma Cutter?!)† One feels, in a painfully vivid way, the ticking of the clock, the tolling of the bell—as if one were being pushed into old age—and the grave! Once I analyze this, I feel less pressed by it. We are always being pushed into a new stage, of course, by life itself, and one is never prepared for it. No one ever is. And one doesn’t have to take the form that was taken by the one before you. One isn’t doomed or forced to live up to their pattern. One will make one’s own.

  Perhaps B. & Jon feel this pressure also? Poor children. But they are readier than I was—& readier than they know.

  I wake the next a.m. to a beautiful spring day. I feel rested & happy—ready for anything. Lying in bed I have an inspiration about A.’s hat—and suit. She can wear my old gray suit—and my pinky-red felt hat! We try them on before school & they fit perfectly & she looks charming & quite grown up. She is pleased. Land has left his bag packed & ready by the door.

  Judy goes to town for my coat. I shop for Land’s shirt & pants—pick up my dresses—old & new—from Mrs. Bannon, repack A. & my bags & still have time & peace enough to go to my little house & write Lucia & Alan.

  Judy comes back with the gray coat, which looks beautiful & I put it right on & my new red hat & scarf & we set off for the schools with bags—extra co
ats, etc. Land & A. are right on time, running with arms full of books & off we go to La Guardia where we arrive one hour ahead of plane time! Hah!

  We get three seats in a row & settle down & relax. I write letters the first hour or so—we are due in at 6:35 Chicago time, but run into bad weather. All the old symptoms of suspicion & then fear & then doom come slowly back to me. From the first snatches of overheard conversation of the stewardess & a passenger—weather’s supposed to change tonight. “Snow & sleet in Chicago”—the first “Fasten Your Seat Belts” and the first delays & a passenger saying “Thick—can’t see the end of the wing.” And then the long delays & the first announcements—circling Chicago—waiting for clearances—can’t get “limits”—“four or five hundred feet” “may land at Indianapolis.” (By this time I would have been glad to land anywhere!) I know intellectually that flying has completely changed since my early days. That they land by instrument every day in weather we would have turned back in—still, I can’t help the old reactions. Tense—stiff—all ears. (There go the flaps & wheels whining down again!)

  It was rough too—rough and thick. I wondered if they could navigate by instrument accurately through such rough air. Anne was also tense but Land (who has flown a lot in airlines today) went right on reading The African Queen! “How can he go on reading that!” Anne said to me & also, tentatively, “Do these planes ever go into a spin?”

  “No,” I said firmly and flatly. “No, Anne, flying is very different today. They fly through all sorts of weather on instrument—why, they do this every day!” (cheerfully)

  “That’s just it,” growled Land from his book. “It happens every time I get on a plane. We’re held up by weather & have to land somewhere else!”

  I kept thinking—well, it’s not so bad for me to be killed (though I minded most for I feel I haven’t yet written my book—for writing I seemed to mind most!), but the children have their lives to live—they’re too young to be snapped off like this.

  Also it bothered me that we were all listed under the name Scott. If we crashed—who would know? How long would it take to straighten it out? (C. had the flight number, though.)

  Finally, after two hours of circling over Chicago we went down again—I heard the whine of the wheels & the flaps going out. It was very bumpy—this time—thank God!—we landed. Down the ramp into cold rain & into the terminal & there was Janey & I threw my arms around her in relief. And then “At last” said a twinkling-eyed, kind-faced man—with a slight resemblance to Jane. Barbara’s father. (He looked younger & definitely more open than I had expected.) A nice out-of-doors but perceptive & sympathetic man. I practically fell into his arms too—my relief at getting down safely & being met with warm friendliness was quite heady. His son Dick was there too. The same quality in his face—sensitivity, intelligence, understanding, warmth. They had been waiting for two hours, too!

  Then at last we were there—in suburban Evanston—a house like our old Palisade Ave. home—Reeve runs out from the lighted door—Scott on the sidewalk. C. smiling & once in the door there is a roomful of family—Wendy, B.’s sister—flashing dark eyes & an open smile (quite a beauty). Another sister of Jim Robbins (I wasn’t prepared for her—Ruth. She is unmarried too, I gather. Does she keep house for Jim? Older & not as attractive as Jane but a nice open, sympathetic face). Barbara, who threw her arms around me. Jon—whom I threw my arms around—beaming & at home. Kent Garland, a friend of B.’s—(girl she stayed with in Darien)—a French girl who is living with Barbara & her father. I feel quite dazed with the gaiety & warmth & relief of our all being there safely—& somewhat giddy!

  A table is covered with supper: an enormous lobster Jon had caught (diving on the West Coast) & brought for the occasion—in a gunny-sack (“with the new suit?!” his father asked). Barbara looked rather tired & a bit tentative (I had never seen her like this before. I wished so much I could talk to her quietly but there was no chance & no time, one could only joke—about my letter to her on Our Town). (The man you’re going to marry seeming suddenly like a total stranger!) She said she felt just that way when Jon arrived (“But it didn’t last too long!”). About Ansy saying to me mournfully the night before: “He doesn’t belong to you any more—he belongs to Barbara.” About the last days being so full of little things (“Oh yes,” breathed Barbara with a sigh of understanding, “that’s it”) that they obscured the big feelings. About her staying too late talking to Kent the night before. “It’s a funny thing, you know, Barbara, I find you can still talk after you’re married!” Yes, I was giddy, a little. My day of little things was over. But I felt for Barbara.

  The young people—Dick, Land, Wendy & Kent—sat around the fire & sang, Dick stroking the guitar in true Latin languorousness: “Borra chita me voy!” (I thought of Mexico—C. & I in love & the smell of tuberoses at night.) Scott & Reeve sat on either side of me—& finally Reeve in my lap (it was midnight by now!). Then we sang the goodnight song—singing to Barbara too. I was so conscious of Barbara & my new awareness of her father—quietly watching, on the side.

  We wake the next morning to the smell of bacon. Janey already in the kitchen getting breakfast. I talk to her as she makes a “cake” as a joke for Jon—covering a pemmican* can (given to Jane by Jon for Christmas!) with fudge frosting. On living one’s own life—not being social, etc.

  Then Mother & Aunt Annie† arrive—& the children come back—full of enthusiasm. They decorated the cake. One of the baby ducklings (raised by the naturalist boy of the Millers) went up Reeve’s sweater! They addressed place-cards. Barbara’s card was “Mrs. Barbie Lindbergh”! They are v. excited. We eat at card tables, which Jane has somehow set up while I was out walking in the wind. B.’s father appears—or was that in the morning?—and I give him the tiny joke-present (a double-sunrise shell in a little purse) for Barbara’s pocket. (But no time to write her the note I want to.) Jon appears—carrying his new suit on a hanger—dresses in the bathroom. He & B. went to get the license in the a.m. & the clerk didn’t catch on to the name at all! Jon seems perfectly natural, calm & happy. I put an old heart-shaped lucky bean found in Florida in his pocket. He takes it out—looks at it, “Where did that come from?”

  Then we are all scurrying to dress, the girls & I in the bedroom Mother & Aunt A. have been lying down in. Everyone looks very well. Reeve in her lacey pink cotton party dress, Anne in the new full plaid cotton skirt & my old velveteen jacket on top—with a red carnation pinned to the collar (I pinned A. too, in my haste!), I, in my flowered silk—of all colors—red shoes & garnets.

  Everyone is a little hushed & tremulous & Janey flutters in & out. Children peek & whisper at doors & on the stairs. Olga‡ starts playing the piano to fill in the pause. I envy the older generation—Mrs. Robbins, her serenity & Mother & Aunt A. their education in self-control. This is one of those times, one feels, when one would barter anything for self-control. C. of course is poised & controlled. Janey feels like me (can I keep my tears from showing—from rolling down my cheeks?). And Jim Robbins? I don’t dare look at him but I feel for him—with him, really—all this day—he seems calm & poised—and natural too.

  Then there is a flurry & they come. Jon is there—how did he get there? He seems calm & serene—if a little uncomfortable in his good clothes! He looks very handsome & I am proud of him—also sure he will get through the day all right. It is Barbara I worry about.… The wedding march & B. & her father come down the steps. B. looks a little shy & tentative and very beautiful in a simple yellow gold dress (full skirt—belted—& a band of green-velvet leaves in her hair—she has a Botticelli look that makes me think of E.*). I don’t look at her father—I feel him from the protective lean of his shoulders. I don’t look at either of them long. This is the moment when all the emotion is fused—look straight ahead & barter for self-control. I am relieved when they are passed & standing at the fireplace & the minister takes over.

  Now the uncontrollable moment is over for me—why is it and what is it that one feels
at this moment? It is one of those crossroads of life when the past & the future meet. They rush together—they fuse—they melt in one fiery moment of the present that is too much for the human crucible to bear. That is why it must be held in a frame of formality—iron-clad & firm.

  These pinnacles of life we cannot stand for long. One sees too much (like the moment looking at a newborn baby). All the ecstasy and tragedy of human life. One cannot bear it. Shut the door & don’t look. Climb down & start on your way—keep your eyes on the path at your feet. Is this what the men were doing? C.? and Jim? I felt for Jim. He was losing more than his daughter. But he was calm & natural—even (B. said afterwards—when she slipped & started to say “I will” too early) leaning over to her & whispering during the music, “You don’t have to be so eager!”

  The service was very beautiful—arranged & rewritten by Janey & B. and broken in the middle by Dick singing—a wonderful full warm deep voice—golden in quality & steady & clear. I could—by now—let myself listen to it.

  Jon’s responses sounded strong & clear and with delicacy but no nervousness at all. At the end he lifted her tiny veil from her face & kissed her. (C. would not have done that! It must be B.’s influence.)

  Reeve held Barbara’s bouquet of yellow roses at this point, beaming with pride.

  And then it was over. B. turned to her father & kissed him—others came up—& then went across to her brother by the piano—to thank him.

  Then it all merged into a kind of reception. One had to shake hands—say the right thing, hold a teacup, etc. Only moments stand out. Standing next to Jon & telling him how beautiful B. was (he nodded silently—beaming) & how well he did taking Mother & Aunt A. up to B. A few words to B. trying to tell her what I said badly or not at all the night before: that we all feel we are being pushed through the door to a new stage in life but it isn’t so very different on the other side of the door—not as different as we think—and we don’t have to be pushed any faster than we want, really. And we can be ourselves there as well as here—we don’t have to be anyone else. She said, “I know”—& I think she does—a little. And she thanked me for the double-sunrise shell—“Ah—it’s just a joke!” “Oh no—it isn’t a joke!” “No—it isn’t a joke.”