That April Washington Irving turned sixty-two years old. “I reccollect the time when I did not wish to live to such an age,” he wrote reflectively, “thinking it must be attended with infirmity, apathy of feeling; peevishness of temper, and all the other ills which conspire to ‘render age unlovely.’” Yet, as he wrote to Sarah with the warm April sunshine streaming into his salon, he was feeling good, even optimistic: “Here my Sixty second birthday finds me in fine health; in the full enjoyment of all my faculties; with sensibilities still fresh, and in such buxom activity, that, on my return home yesterday from the Prado, I caught myself bounding up stairs, three steps at a time, to the astonishment of the porter; and checked myself, reccollecting that it was not the pace befitting a Minister and a man of my years.”77
In late spring, Isabella and her court departed for Barcelona again, but Irving waited behind, uncertain whether he had official permission from the State Department to follow the queen. Irving wanted explicit authorization for two reasons. The first was purely financial. If the State Department formally permitted him to travel with the court, then he could charge all his expenses to the U.S. government. He had paid for his last trip to Barcelona out of his own pocket, and he didn't want to risk shouldering any further expenses he couldn't recover. The second reason was both personal and political: he was trying to ascertain whether he would be retained by the president. “I observe that Mr Polk is beset by heavy office seekers,” Irving wrote to Catharine, “and he will have many important political friends to provide for.”78
According to the gossip, Irving's recall was imminent. He had sent several dispatches to the new secretary of state, James Buchanan—the fifth secretary Irving served under—none of which had been answered. “This silence makes me think that I am being weighed in the balance,” he huffed. Despite the uncertainty, Irving held on to the hope that he would be retained, if only so he could continue drawing his government salary. “I would long ere this have resigned my post and returned to my friends,” he admitted to Sarah, “but the constant thought of those I have to provide for, cuffs down my pride, and prevents me from sacrificing, to my independence and my inclinations, a post which enables me to keep my little flock at home in decent maintenance.”79
Diplomatically, there wasn't much new to report, but Irving continued providing Buchanan with regular updates throughout the summer, perhaps to remind him that, for the time being, he was still the minister to Spain, and he was doing his job. Rumors of insurrection continued, as did the bickering between Narváez and the Queen Mother. Without official authorization, Irving was stuck in Madrid while the court remained at Barcelona. He could only watch and listen, relying on regular reports from other diplomats and any gossip he could glean during his daily walks in the Retiro or from his seat in the opera house.
In August an interesting offer crossed his desk when publisher George P. Putnam, the thirty-one-year-old partner in the New York publishing firm of Wiley & Putnam, asked for exclusive rights to publish anything new Irving might be writing. “I have nothing at present that I am prepared to launch before the public; neither am I willing just now that any of my former works should be published separately,” Irving told Putnam. “If, hereafter, I can make a satisfactory arrangement… with your [publishing] House, I assure you there is none with which I would be more happy to deal.”80
To his annoyance, his herpetic condition returned in late September. Frustrated and unwilling to wait for formal leave from the State Department, he sought treatment in Paris, providing Buchanan no solid date for his return, but promising to come back “as soon as I find myself in travelling condition.” Throwing his trunks and books into a mail carriage, he left so abruptly that his housekeeper cried inconsolably, convinced he was never coming back.81
The journey to France was difficult, and Irving relapsed on his arrival in Paris, requiring several weeks of quiet to recover. His plans to return to Madrid by mid-November were delayed by a diplomatic crisis that required his immediate assistance—but not in Spain. The American minister to the Court of St. James's had specifically requested Irving's presence in London to help negotiate the so-called Oregon question.
At issue was a chunk of land between the Continental Divide and the Pacific Ocean that the United States and Britain had cohabited peacefully for more than thirty years, until recently. The United States asserted a claim for the entire territory, extending the northwestern boundary to the 54 degree, 40 minutes line of latitude. Naturally, the British objected, and were trying to push the boundary back to the 42nd parallel, beyond the Columbia River. The two countries had vacillated between war and resolution. President Polk, who had vowed to address the issue as a presidential candidate, hoped to resolve the matter diplomatically, and had sent to the Court of St. James's an American minister who had already proven himself adept at negotiating delicate issues: Louis McLane.
Irving knew the area in question conceptually—he had stared at enough maps while writing Astoria—but that wasn't why McLane was calling on him for help. Nor did he need Irving's assistance in crafting a compromise. Polk was prepared to place the border at the 49th parallel. What McLane required was help selling his compromise, which would entail not just politicking but careful conversation and delicate maneuvering among British ministers, aristocrats, and royalty. Like Polk, McLane knew exactly the right man for the job. Irving set out for London in early January, buying the president time to swagger in his December 1845 message to Congress before sending the McLane/Irving team to manage the situation.
To Irving's frustration, communications with Washington, D.C., remained excruciatingly slow. Polk had been in office nearly a year, but Irving had yet to receive any formal notification of whether he would be retained as minister. He had continued to cash his paycheck without complaint, but he was no longer interested in playing games of political patronage. Polk either wanted him, or he didn't; it was as simple as that. Irving was convinced he would be replaced. At the expense of his friendship with Van Buren, he had stood to be counted with the Whigs in 1840, and the Whigs had since been run out of office by Polk and his Democrats. It was only a matter of time, Irving thought.
Actually, the job was probably Irving's for as long as he wanted it. Irving was a competent minister, and his fame made him a popular member of any president's diplomatic corps, regardless of party. But the silence from Washington, D.C., was deafening—and as usual, Irving assumed that quiet on the part of any correspondent only meant bad news for him. If neither Polk nor Buchanan could decide on his current status, Irving would make that decision himself.
“The time having elapsed which I had allotted to myself to remain abroad when I accepted the mission of Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the court of Spain,” began Irving's December 12, 1845, letter to Buchanan, “I now most respectfully tender to the President of the United States my resignation of that post.” It was a difficult letter to write, but Irving handled it with his typical elegance. “I am actuated by no party feeling, nor any indis-position to aid in carrying out the foreign policy of the present administration,” he told Buchanan, “but solely by an earnest desire to return to my country and my friends.”82 It was done.
On a cold morning in early January 1846, Irving traveled by train from Paris to Le Havre. Two days later he was in London, a city that had lost all charm for him. London no longer belonged to Geoffrey Crayon, who had written of its colorful back alleys and lofty spires a generation before. This was now the London of Charles Dickens, with the chimneys and smokestacks of the Industrial Revolution. Irving thought it “smoky smutty and dismal.”83
His first morning there, Irving had breakfast with John Murray III and McLane's secretary, Gansevoort Melville, an “intelligent and apparently amiable” young man with an interest in literature. The three chatted about copyright law over their toast, and Irving paged through the first ten chapters of a manuscript Gansevoort's younger brother had written about his experiences as a beach-comber in the
South Pacific. Irving “was much pleased” with it, Gansevoort reported excitedly, “declared portions to be ‘exquisite,’ s[ai]d the style was very ‘graphic’ & prophesied its success.”84 Murray published young Herman Melville's first book, Typee, in February. Just as Irving had predicted, it was a success.
Irving's involvement in the Oregon negotiations was hailed by McLane as a “god send,” and his confidence in his former right hand, now colleague, was justified. Irving had lost none of his ability to maneuver through English society, and his literary reputation always helped. As they worked, the two ministers turned a blind eye to British newspapers that agitated for war. “We shall eventually get out of all this quarrel without coming to blows,” Irving said calmly.85
He was right. His presence alone had been enough to get both sides talking again, and in June the Oregon Treaty—which drew the border at the 49th parallel—was ratified by the U.S. Senate, and signed by President Polk. “I have reason to congratulate myself,” Irving wrote later, “that, in a quiet way, I was enabled, while in England, to facilitate the frank and confiding intercourse of Mr. McLane and Lord Aberdeen, which has proved so beneficial to the settlement of this question so that… my visit to England was not without its utility.”86
Irving returned to Madrid in early March, stopping briefly in Paris for an emotional good-bye with Sarah Storrow, and was back at his post on the morning of March 7. He had been away for nearly five months.
All he could do now was wait for his replacement to arrive. He had already arranged for the Albuquerques to take over his apartments on Calle Victor Hugo, and was currently living out of his bedroom. Most of his trunks were packed and stacked around him. His health was excellent; his mood bright.
News of Irving's resignation had rocked the diplomatic corps. Dinners were held in his honor nearly every evening, and Irving ate until he was certain he would burst. He requested a private reception with the queen to pay his respects, and as he walked alone through the empty salons toward the queen's chamber, he felt a strange sense of closure. “I felt peculiar interest in this visit from the idea that I should soon cease to tread these halls forever,” he wrote. His conversation with the queen was pleasant, though short. “I was quite struck with the change in her appearance,” he said. No longer the girlish twelve-year-old he had first seen in 1842, the fifteen-year-old Isabella “had quite a womanly air,” he wrote. “Her complexion was improved… and she looked quite handsome, or at least,” he added, “the benignant express of her countenance persuaded me to think so.”87
In April Irving learned that his replacement, North Carolina lawyer Romulus M. Saunders, had been approved by the U.S. Senate and was on his way. He couldn't arrive fast enough. “I am getting tired of courts,” Irving wrote, “and shall be right glad to throw off my diplomatic coat for the last time.” For the moment, it remained on. That spring the United States and Mexico had gone to war over the annexation of Texas, which had joined the Union in December 1845. Mexico was dear to Irving's heart, and he was sick about the conflict. “I am heartily sorry for it as I fear it is but the beginning of troubles that may shake the peace of the world,” he said. He wrote a lengthy letter to the new Spanish premier, Xavier Istúriz, expressing his regret at the conflict, committing a slight breach of protocol, as he had not yet received official instructions from the U.S. government on how to proceed in discussions with Spain regarding the matter. Fortunately, his own views were supported in the official dispatch he later received from Buchanan.88
At last, in late July Romulus Saunders arrived to replace him. Rough in dress and even rougher in language, Saunders had a friend and ally in Polk, but not in many others; John Quincy Adams had once referred to him as a “venomous reptile.”89 At this point, it didn't matter to Irving. On July 29 he escorted Saunders to present his credentials to the queen and to deliver his own letter of resignation, making a short speech in Spanish as he announced his recall. “I now take leave of Your Majesty,” Irving said with a bow, “wishing you, from the bottom of my heart, a long and happy life, and a reign which may form a glorious epoch of the history of this country.” He meant every word. He continued to follow Isabella's career with interest, and shook his head in sad understanding when the young queen finally married the duke of Cadiz in October.
“Thus closes my public career,” Irving said, hardly believing the words himself. He had been away from Sunnyside for more than four years. “I shall hail with joy,” he had written to Kemble on his departure, “the day that I return to nestle myself down there for the remainder of my life.”90
That day, at last, arrived. On September 19, 1846, Washington Irving stepped off a steamboat at Tarrytown, only two short miles north of Sunnyside. He was home for good.
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1846–1859
Is not Time—relentless Time! shaking, with palsied hand, his almost exhausted hour-glass before thee?—hasten then to pursue thy weary task, lest the sands be run ere thou hast finished thy history.
—A History of New York, 1809
ON MY RETURN HOME,” Irving wrote to a Spanish acquaintance, “I found my place very much out of order, my house in need of additions and repairs and the whole establishment in want of completion.” If he was to spend the rest of his days at Sunnyside, he would make sure it was not only as comfortable as possible, but large enough to contain the ever-expanding inventory of nieces, nephews, and their families. New rooms on the second floor had ample closet space and easy access, while a “picture gallery” with portraits of friends and engravings from his books was created at the rear of the house. Irving also installed a new convenience, a bath-room—which, as its name implied, was simply a room with a bath—with a zinc-lined tub to which hot running water was piped in from behind the kitchen stove.1
He was most pleased with the addition of a three-story tower at the northeast corner of the house, with four bedrooms for servants or overflow guests. Irving had dictated his vision for the structure to his patient architect, George Harvey, and workmen labored for seven months, digging stone from the nearby hillsides to use on the building's exterior. With its curving roof and cupola, his tower resembled those of the Alhambra and other Spanish castles. Kemble, though, whose first glance at the tower came from a boat on the Hudson, thought it looked like a pagoda. The name stuck.2
So far, Irving had managed to keep costs for recent renovations to Sunnyside under control—“[they] will not be expensive enough to ruin me,” he said optimistically—but with his government post resigned, he no longer had a regular source of income. He was still planning to issue an author's revised edition of his works, provided he could find a publisher. Unfortunately, Lea & Blanchard wasn't interested in paying his asking price. Negotiations continued halfheartedly, with Wiley & Putnam and several others hovering nearby in case relations soured. But at the moment, building Sunnyside was much more enjoyable than writing or discussing contracts. “I am growing a sad laggard in literature,” Washington admitted to Pierre. “I am too ready to do anything else rather than write.”3
Fortunately, a number of Washington's investments were slowly paying dividends. In January 1847 Pierre passed on to his uncle the profits from an investment in the Screw Dock Company—“In faith, the Dock deserves its name!” Washington chortled—which were immediately spent on improvements to Sunnyside, including repairs to the kitchen yard, stable, and barnyard north of the house. “I know I am ‘burning the candle at both end’ this year,” he told Pierre sheepishly, “but it must be so until I get my home in order, after which expenses will return to their ordinary channel, and I trust my income will expand, as I hope to get my literary property in a productive train.”4
With an eye on the bottom line, Pierre continued to push his dithering uncle. “Make all dispatch with the preparation of your uniform edition,” he advised, “and then to work to complete your Life of Washington, and take your ease forever after.” But even gentle pressure was too much for the sixty-four-year-old
Washing-ton's increasingly fragile nerves; within a week, his legs and ankles were inflamed and swollen. While he blamed his condition on standing in wet January weather to oversee final work on the pagoda, the timing of the attack suggests a case of nerves. The condition spread to his face and eyes, and Washington feared he might be stricken blind. “That has passed away,” he wrote in relief in mid-February, “and you cannot think what a cause of self-gratulation it is to find out that I am only lame.”5
Even with the money coming in from his investments, Irving knew he needed a more stable source of income. But he seemed stalled on both his author's revised edition and his George Washington biography. As was now his habit when he needed money and inspiration, Irving opened his trunks and rummaged through abandoned manuscripts. There were a number of incomplete Spanish tales, “which had lain for years lumbering like rubbish,” but which, with a little polishing, “will more than pay the expense of my new building.”6
Skeptical, Pierre encouraged him to keep working on his author's revised edition. “You lost the Conquest of Mexico by not acting upon the motto of Carpe diem,” Pierre scolded, “and I am a little afraid you may let slip the present opportunity for a favorable sale of a uniform edition of your works, by suffering your pen to be diverted in a new direction.”7
Pierre's lecturing only annoyed Washington. “Don't snub me about my late literary freak,” he snapped. “I am not letting my pen be diverted in a new direction. I am, by a little agreeable exertion, turning to account a mass of matter that has been lying like lumber in my trunks for years.” For several weeks Washington scribbled at various Spanish chronicles before finally putting them aside. Most were still incomplete, but he felt he had made his point. “I write for pleasure as well as profit,” he huffed to Pierre, “but another time will ride my hobby privately, without saying a word about it to anybody.”8
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