|
| |
|
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [Begin page 164]
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
|
| |
Saturday, November
24, 1888
8 P.M. Found Harned sitting on the lounge. He and W. were talking literary
things—also immortality as reflected by modern writers. Tennyson chiefly up.
Tennyson's bad condition excites almost painful interest in W. nowadays. Rather an interchange
of views than discussion, though this too of a mild sort. W. greeted me kindly, as usual. Notes
and Queries on his lap. At his feet on the floor Cæsar, which he had been looking at
again, and the Bible open at Job. W. did not look bright, nor was he. The light full
up—the fire cheerful. Weather growing colder. How had he passed the day? He laughed.
"I have managed to survive: that is all I dare say." I relapsed.
Then the conversation went on. Harned's faith in Tennyson, he said, "much
shaken by his entrance into the peerage." W.'s not. Harned pinned his faith to Tennyson's
earlier work. W. said: "I accept it all." So the differences ran on.
Immortality? "What does modern life teach us as to that? the educators,
writers, poets?" That was W.'s question. Harned rather agnostic. W. thought: "Tennyson seems to me the great expression of modern ennui—the
blue devils that afflict modern civilization. It is the background of every
poem—every one of them: latent there—not always pushed to the
front—perhaps never introduced—but always present, never missed: a half
gloom—even a question—but after all, summed up, a faith. It is not a note
of triumph, but it is there. There are many to whom life may seem a thing of itself, but the
greatest, noblest, farthest-seeing, largest-hoping of modern man do not believe this is an
endup—this life a closing": rather, "With my friend, Mrs.
Gilchrist, one of the cutest sanest souls that ever blessed the earth, I am sure, while not
formulating anything (take Tennyson, Carlyle—the noble Carlyle), that we are, as she
puts it, 'going somewhere,' bound for something, following out a purpose, though we
| |
|
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [Begin page 166]
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
|
| |
may little apprehend its meanings—its inmost
suggestions." Tom had said something about the survival of identity—said that
George Eliot, W. K. Clifford, others, questioned it, etc. Was this not true of the major
proportion of the greatest modern men and women? W. said: "No—no—Tom: I do not think so: indefinite as all may seem, the faith in
identity, in purpose, lasts—must may seem, the faith in identity, in purpose,
lasts—must last." But it was not a thing to dogmatize about. No one knew: he did
not know. But, "as Horace has said," science "has put new meanings into life—indicates that everything is alive: therefore it
becomes us to be slow to reject or accept—to take fairly what may be and wait."
W. spoke tenderly of Darwin. Darwin is one of his loves that will last. So of Clifford, so of
George Eliot: "Darwin, simplest greatest, however, of all." I had
said: "Science everyhow says: See how nature seems to be aiming at
something in man—in all life: and everything is life!" W.: "Yes—that is coming more and more to be seen in its larger significance." As to
"Why should my dog inhabit heaven if I?" W. said: "Why not? that question proves nothing: the results, whatever they be, must
apply broadly to all life."
"Life," said W. further, "is an enterprise, an
exercise"—then after a flash—"with
reference—" pausing querying. Suddenly he turned to me. "What have you got there?" Afterwards saying: "Well, it 's interesting to learn all these things." I had delivered him a
copy of The American containing the promised review. He looked at but did not read it. "That 's one thing for to-morrow: we must face the music." Expressed an idea that "we must learn all that is said about us, good and bad." Harned pronounced the notice "fair and favorable." W. had turned to the table: took up a letter. he
handed the letter to me. "It is from Bucke," he said: "I had it to-day: he thinks very highly of
Garland's article."Did n't we all like it? "Yes, that is true: we
all like it." This is what Bucke writes:
| |
|
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [Begin page 167]
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
|
| |
"If I had Hamlin Garland's address I think I would write him a few lines to say how much
I admire his calm and pleasant sentences in The Transcript. I do not know when I have read
anything that pleased me more—not, I think since I read O'Connor's letter in the
N.Y. Tribune on the Osgood-Stevens affair. We are coming to the front at last—and
should come. I have no fear, no doubt. It is only a question of waiting a few years till
men have time to take it in. Another quarter or half century will see Leaves of Grass
acknowledged to be what it really is—the Bible of America."
W. made no remark about Bucke's enthusiasm. W. interested in Arthur Montefiore's Temple Bar
piece about America which I had brought to leave with him: a reprint. "Such things," he said, "I always read." Whatever was missed "that should not be." I got The Critic to-day.
He did not get his copy. Was curious to hear what I could tell him about the poet symposium now
at last out. "What do you make of it all?" he asked: "or do you make nothing—which is more probable?" I said the
consensus appeared to be for Emerson. W. at once: "I don't know but that
is just—but that 's the best thing to be set down." He
wanted the names of writers: spoke of some of them—Burroughs,
Gilder—kindly. "But what can they say? What can anybody
say?" I remarked: "There is no mention of you." He smilingly
replied: "I am ruled out by the terms of the question if nothing else."
"But you yourself name Whittier."
"Ah! he is so near: we are privileged!" Showed no feeling whatever.
But said: "It appears thoroughly unprofitable to enter such a discussion:
if Charles Dudly Warner calls it 'idle speculation' I agree with him." Harned mentioned
Louise Chandler Moulton. I remarked: "She is one of your admirers."
W.: "Yes, of the gushing kind: she has been here to see me." Had he
met Elizabeth Stuart Phelps? "No—never: I know little of
her—she of me, I suppose." I expected Howells
| |
|
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [Begin page 168]
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
|
| |
to
notice November Boughs in some way in Harper's. W.: "It is doubtful:
still it may prove so: but it will be in no hurry: it takes two or three months at least to
get anything into our magazines." Did not think Howells had ever said anything about him
in The Atlantic. "They printed several of the poems there years ago: but
their policy is mainly to ignore me." Still, "something might turn
up from Howells," though he did "not expect it."
Harned thought W. looked rather bad. He spent a brighter day, Mrs. Davis tells me, than
yesterday. W. called my attention to the dummy of the book for the binder. He had it ready. "Take it now, if you care to." But I left it for to-morrow. The second half of this week has been a hard one for W., clearly
discouraging him from any sanguine feelings. Harned left. I stayed a little while longer. Just
a little. W. said: "I 'm glad you held on: I
wanted to say a word or two to you about a nasty snarling thing I saw in a paper here about
the Colonel." He commenced a search in the litter on his table. Then sank back in his
chair. "I 'm too tired: the paper was there: I
kept it for you. It was of no importance: only I wanted you to see it. I wanted to see you get
hot over it. It made me boil. Bob is a big dog and goes on cheerfully though the little curs
do make a hell of a noise: but every time he turns his head they scamper: why, there 's no other canine his size in the whole tribe. This time it was
an editor fool not a preacher fool, Horace, though, as you know, as we know, both sorts of
fools are plentiful. Ingersoll is so placid equable self-contained that these biters, these
poisoners, these revengers, don't seem to raise a hair on his back." I said: "You 're something that sort of critter
yourself." He smiled: "I suppose we 've got
to be: I suppose fellows of our sort have got to get used to the crossfirers."
We talked a little about the Rhys letter. I asked W. some questions. W. said: "It is really a noble letter—
| |
|
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [Begin page 169]
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
|
| |
the
letter of an extra inspired young man of idealist inclinations. I liked two things especially
in the letter: what he said of the necessity of having the Leaves dressed in a habit of its
own, and what he said about his young friends there—that they are 'of the people not
the academics': Horace, have you the letter with you?" I had. I took it out of my pocket.
"Read that passage to me again." I did so. He said fervently: "That 's a memorable tribute—a
memorable tribute: to Rhys really more than to me: not so much proving anything about me but
certainly proving something—something ingratiating and lofty—about Rhys
himself."
W. had laid aside a William Rossetti letter for me. He handed it to me the last thing. "I want you to have it: it throws a little more light on that English part
of our history: speaks of editions there—people, too—some very friendly
people: none of them, of course, more nobly generous, comradely, than Rossetti himself:
William. Oh! it seems queer about the William Rossetti: of course I have never seen him: I
only know him in this way, by correspondence, by his work: but when John went to England their
first encounter was almost a tragedy: something got on John's nerves—something in
Rossetti's manner: got on his nerves hard: so John was for never going back
again—never seeing him again: to hell with him: but later John tried again: this
time everything went as if it was greased: nothing could have been more beautiful, satisfying:
that English something or other which floored John seems to have smoothed itself all out."
W. laughed quietly. "You will find the letter delightful to
read—also important for your records: file it away—put it in a safe
place." He stopped in an amused way. "I tell you to put it in a safe
place: I know I don't need to: I know you keep all these things damned safe almost with a
miser's caution." I got to the door. He called me. "Won't you kiss
me good night." Saying: "It will be a last kiss, a last good-night,
sometime." I said: "You seem a bit gloomy."
"No: I
| |
|
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [Begin page 170]
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
|
| |
only face conditions." Then I went
home. I will put Rossetti's letter right in here:
Somerset House, 15 June, '77
Dear Whitman:
I received some little while ago your post-card of 3rd May, and felt obliged to you for
having sent the books to Mr. Cozens, without waiting for actual receipt of the
money—which, as before stated, is in my hands. The only reason why, contrary to my
usual practice, I have so long delayed sending it on to you is that I have been looking out
for any other stray subscriptions, promised but not yet paid, which could be sent along with
Mr. Cozens' in a Bank order—or, if more convenient, a P. O. order. On receipt of
your card (other such subscriptions not making their appearance at present) I was intending
to send C.'s money at once by P. O. order; but then, some little while ago now, Minto, the
editor of The Examiner, started in to talk with me, of his own accord, on the subject of the
money that he owes for your article, and he proposed to send round to me at
once—which of course I approved. This again made me hold over the dispatching of
the P. O. order for C.s money, but as yet, after all, no symptom of Minto's remittance
appears. One of these days C.'s money will be properly sent off to
you—accompanied, let us hope, by some other, but if not then by itself. I enter
into all these tiresome details because an explanation of my delay is due to you: but I fear
you will think them quite as bothering as the delay itself.
It is a goodish while ago—say six weeks—that I wrote to Dowden in
Dublin, inquiring about those subscribers who volunteered through him (not holding any
direct communication with me), and who have not yet paid. Dowden has not yet replied to me:
when he does so, it will behoove me to look into the details of all the outstanding
subscriptions, and get the affair finally closed.
Lately,—say three weeks ago—I received a letter from Australia, of
which I enclose some extracts, along with the
| |
|
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [Begin page 170]
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
|
| |
printed matter which
accompanied it. I replied the other day, giving the writer, Mr. Adams, my last news of your
health, and enclosing also a copy of my last circular (summer of 1876) regarding your new
editions—not without some hope that some few Australians here and there may do
themselves the good service of ordering copies. Mr. A.'s wish for a copy of my "full review"
of you (as he terms it, meaning of course the introduction to the selection from your Poems
which I published in 1868) has been attended to—the publishers sending him a copy.
I had hardly thought there was any remaining of the book. The tone of his letter is
agreeable to me, and I hope it will be the same to you: his name had not previously been
known to me.
Pleae remember me to Mrs. Gilchrist—or
us,
I should
rather say. My wife received lately a letter from Mrs. G. to serve as an introduction for an
American lady, Mrs. G. to serve as an introduction for an American lady, Mrs. Edwards. To
the latter my wife sent a card for a gathering at our house of a few friends on 14 June, and
we had the pleasure of seeing Mrs. E. and her son accordingly. I was glad to hear from her a
good account of the G.'s generally, though she thinks Philadelphia is anything but a
favorable field for the painting career of Herbert.
I have by me a note written long ago (6 Jan?) by Foote, editor of The Secularist, to say
that before receiving my then last note on the subject, he had sent on to you direct the
subscription money in his hands. This, I suppose, is all right, within your cognizance.
I enclose a note written to you by C. P. O'Conor, and shall without a delay forward to you
by post the volume of his poems. In a note addressed to me he says: Will you kindly tell Whitman that the writer is one of his ardent admirers,
and that it was a rich treat to read in your American Poems those of Walt Whitman's
production." I never
met
Mr. O'Conor: but he has addressed me
from time to time about his volume of poems, and other such matters.
Not very long ago I received a letter from Mr. Marvin
| |
|
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [Begin page 172]
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
|
| |
offering a
prospect, rather more definite than hitherto, of your coming to look a little about you in
England, and perhaps on the European continent. I can but repeat my delight in this
prospect, were it to be realized, and my wife's hope and my own that you will not, in such
case, fail to give us some of your company in this house, Euston Sq.
We have had a rather noticeable summer here. Up to 2 June, nothing that was worthy the
name even of spring: then suddenly at 3 June hot summer, which continues till
now—but less decidedly these two days.
I am interested in hearing that the Bostonians mean to cut us out—and we deserve
it for our neglectful tardy stolidity—and erect a statue to our poet Shelley.
Believe me with all affection, Truly yours,
W. M. Rossetti.
|
|
|
