When we met in London, some years later, he came almost every afternoon to my lodging, and the story of our old-time Cambridge walks began again in London phrases.There were not the vacant lots and outlying fields of his native place, but we made shift with the vast, ****** parks, and we walked on the grass as we could not have done in an American park, and were glad to feel the earth under our feet.I said how much it was like those earlier tramps; and that pleased him, for he wished, whenever a thing delighted him, to find a Cambridge quality in it.
But he was in love with everything English, and was determined I should be so too, beginning with the English weather, which in summer cannot be overpraised.He carried, of course, an umbrella, but he would not put it up in the light showers that caught us at times, saying that the English rain never wetted you.The thick short turf delighted him; he would scarcely allow that the trees were the worse for foliage blighted by a vile easterly storm in the spring of that year.The tender air, the delicate veils that the moisture in it cast about all objects at the least remove, the soft colors of the flowers, the dull blue of the low sky showing through the rifts of the dirty white clouds, the hovering pall of London smoke, were all dear to him, and he was anxious that Ishould not lose anything of their charm.
He was anxious that I should not miss the value of anything in England, and while he volunteered that the aristocracy had the corruptions of aristocracies everywhere, he insisted upon my respectful interest in it because it was so historical.Perhaps there was a touch of irony in this demand, but it is certain that he was very happy in England.He had come of the age when a man likes smooth, warm keeping, in which he need make no struggle for his comfort; disciplined and obsequious service; society, perfectly ascertained within the larger society which we call civilization; and in an alien environment, for which he was in no wise responsible, he could have these without a pang of the self-reproach which at home makes a man unhappy amidst his luxuries, when he considers their cost to others.He had a position which forbade thought of unfairness in the conditions; he must not wake because of the slave, it was his duty to sleep.Besides, at that time Lowell needed all the rest he could get, for he had lately passed through trials such as break the strength of men, and how them with premature age.He was living alone in his little house in Lowndes Square, and Mrs.Lowell was in the country, slowly recovering from the effects of the terrible typhus which she had barely survived in Madrid.He was yet so near the anguish of that experience that he told me he had still in his nerves the expectation of a certain agonized cry from her which used to rend them.But he said he had adjusted himself to this, and he went on to speak with a patience which was more affecting in him than in men of more phlegmatic temperament, of how we were able to adjust ourselves to all our trials and to the constant presence of pain.He said he was never free of a certain distress, which was often a sharp pang, in one of his shoulders, but his physique had established such relations with it that, though he was never unconscious of it, he was able to endure it without a recognition of it as suffering.
