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Thursday, December
6, 1888.
8 P. M. Ed met me with a smiling face. W. better: had not got up better but had improved
during the day. Went upstairs. W. sat in his chair, a pad on his knee, writing a
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letter. Spoke of this before he had answered my questions about his
health. "It is for Edward Carpenter," he said: "Edward Carpenter, of England. I have had a regular invasion of English visitors to-day: one of them from Edward—came with a letter of
introduction." He laid the pad down on a pile of papers. He had addressed the envelope in
ink and stamped it: the letter was written in pencil. "I won't send it
off to-day"—he had written about three-quarters of the
letter page— "will hold it over: add a little, then let it go,
to-morrow: I sat down right after tea intending to send it to the
post office by Ed, but found I did not feel well enough: let it go."
"Edward" was "likely to come over here at any
time."
"He has paid us three or four visits: after awhile will come the
fifth." I asked: "Three or four? That sounds like too many."
This somehow seemed to trouble W. He retorted: "Who the hell should
know—you or I?" I was going to say no again but he at once went on: "Carpenter is a youngish man, not now over thirty-seven, I should say:
Italian in appearance: radical of the radicals: come-outer: one of the social fellows in
England who get constitutions by the ears—stir up thought, progress. Strange to say,
too, Carpenter is really liked by the dons, the fellows on top: liked in spite of his
radicalism, his espousal of hated ideas." Carpenter was "a
Shelleyite": England now "seems full of Shelleyites—so
much so, I question at times: is n't there too much of this? too much
crying, screaming, for progress? Should n't the brakes be put
down?" But he "always rejected" his "suspicions." He came "around inevitable to" his "optimism."
"More than all else," he continued: "what I am
now going to tell will amaze you." Then he said: Oxford, Cambridge,
have too much money—so many thousands and thousands of crowns more than is required
for college purposes. How to dispose of this? Here is a vexed question. Finally the idea was
hit upon, that lectures be established in the outlying places: not avoiding London, exactly,
but mainly confining themselves to the smaller places: regular
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corps of lecturers being sent out: to Birmingham, Bristol—towns of that kind. Edward
was very young, yet was chosen for one of these boards of lecturers—chosen in spite
of his radical proclivities. The lectures were for the masses—workingmen, anybody
who would come."
W. said Carpenter had "come of wealthy parents."
"The father died: they had lived in Bristol: Edward came in for his share
of the patrimony: quite a showable share it was, too." C. had been "much attached" to a young man whose "great ambition had been to
get a farm of his own to work, to live upon: Edward encouraged him. When he came into his
money Edward invested in land: the friend was married: the three lived together: Edward was
not always there, yet mainly." W. spoke of it as "near a still
larger place."
"Edward has described to me the difficulty he found in getting
land—getting a freehold: it is almost incredible—he says it is almost
impossible to get. Think of it—in a civilized land: land mostly unoccupied: even
here it seems the same. They had settled in this place—Edward for some part of the
time off on the continent—seeking adventures—interesting himself in the
masses: studying." Then: "Remember, Carpenter is a college man, but
one of the liberal samples of that class." He had been "given all
the advantages": had "availed himself wisely of them." At one
time recently he had "started a coffee house in one of the second or
third class English cities"— "a venture reformatory in
nature—supposed to be for the people: but according to the story of my visitor to-day it has gone bad—been given up." The problem now is "for another change."
"My visitor man told me they are very much discouraged—talk of
coming to America: Edward willing, the friend willing, the wife objecting. I should not wonder
if it was yet done." W.: "The strain of that English life seems
intense: the fight is going against them: but is it any better here?" He called Carpenter
"a noble fellow." W. believed him absolutely friendly to Leaves of
Grass: "in fact, to me personally." What would "come out of Carpenter's
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life" was "yet
to be developed." It had for him "the pathos of a half-shadowed
history." But: "I did not encourage the young man to talk much to-day: insisted upon the limit on his time: I was not feeling bright."
"These vivid young fellows—what are they going to lead us to?
The world abounds with 'em: earnest, astute, clarified, wanting to act, seeking progress,
progress, progress—the fever of the age!" Then he laughed. "After all" was he "not as radical as the most radical of 'em?"
Getting off this strain he asked me as he has every day: "What of the
baby—the mother? And well still? Tom was in last night for an
instant—pretty late." Gave me two letters from Bucke, Dec. 2d and
3d—looked for, found them, himself. They occasioned some talk of his health. W.
wished me to particularly read the letter of the 3d. "It seems like
sense: the Doctor is level-headed in such matters—not an alarmist: perhaps we should
do as he says: what do you think about it?" I will quote the letter itself:
London, 3 Dec., 1888.
Your letter of Friday and Saturday (30th and 1st) came to hand this afternoon and has made
me feel very anxious for you. I fear you are suffering a great deal. I have written to Osler
urging him to try and do something to relieve that horrible irritation of the bladder that
keeps you getting up so much at night, and it seems to me imperative that the bowels should
be kept open. I fear that Osler is too busy to give you the attention you require and it
seems to me that you ought to have him recommend a good man who would see you every day, and
twice a day if necessary, while O. himself would come over from time to time and see you
with him. I have also written to Traubel urging him to make some arrangement by which you
will be seen at least once a day by some good doctor. I wish I could be with you, but that
is impossible at present. I shall hope to hear very soon that proper arrangements have been
made and
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that you are more comfortable. I am always
affectionately yours,
R. M. Bucke.
W. said: "Of course you fellows will do as you think best: you do
generally: I am in your hands: yet I would have you always lean to the side of
mercy—don't oppress me with doctors, nurses, attentions, medicaments: I am near
enough dead as it is: yet I may say I am conscious that Maurice is in effect
wise—only suggests a necessary precaution." Then suddenly W. asked me: "Don't you enjoy Doctor's picture in the other letter? Read that passage to
me."
"But I have a good fire in my office, have just had a
good dinner of roast turkey and potatoes boiled in their jackets (which is the only way potato
should ever be cooked), and have a very middling book to read (Obiter Dicta, 2d series,
Augustine Birrell), so I feel that I can defy the Pope the Devil and the
Pretender—(an old expression of my father's)."
W. was very jolly over this: "I can defy the Pope the Devil and the
Pretender! How rich that is! and the turkey and the potatoes with their jackets on and the
very middling book! Oh Maurice, dear Maurice, that 's better than
all your medical advice! Why should n't I too defy the Pope the
Devil and the Pretender? Why should n't I? Defy them?" He was
very happy over it.
W. said: "I think Bucke is unnecessarily anxious, alarmed: yet I am
sure we realize here all the danger he speaks about: it seems to me Osler is doing as well as
could be expected—that he is relieving me: no doctor could do more." I
suggested: "But Bucke is absent—is therefore more
nervous." He granted that: "It is true: you are right—of
course we know what animates all the Doctor's anxiety." But he thought "calm" was
"enjoined."
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"There are certain things which can be done—certain things
which cannot: it is for us to be on guard: more than that is impossible." Said he often
wrote the Doctor notes made up of items written different days. "I write
a few lines—then lay the thing aside for later news: so to-day—so to-morrow: but if you write the Doctor
in the morning tell him I am better: you may call it
much
better: tell
him I am relieved of this terrible pressure: I promised myself nothing: you know, two or three
days ago we all thought I was better when it proved only to be a rest before a worse siege: so
don't you, don't Eddy, be too quick—we must hold our horses." He thought this
had been "mainly" but "not only" a bladder
trouble. "I am always more or less constipated."
"Last night I got full four hours' sleep—think I slept a clean
sweep from twelve to four, undisturbed: Oh! that was a terrible experience
Friday—ever since: the going to and fro—pain, unrest." He supposed his
description of the one or two bad nights last week was chiefly responsible for Bucke's alarm.
"I am not well yet by any means, but then a man in my condition counts
little things."
He spoke of disease in general—epidemics, &c., &c. Then of
diarrhea. "How much I knew of diarrhæa in the
hospitals—the army: diarrhea was of all troubles the most prevalent." I
interjected: "and a bad form of it, too!" W.: "Yes, a bad form: it meant death, death: I nursed many a man down with
diarrhæa." He instanced one case of a German—a young man— "a miserable scamp and scalawag he was, too"—yet with "elements in his chaotic nature" which W. "rather
liked."
"He liked me, too, I think: came there, down with diarrhæa: oh!
it was very bad: we nursed him: I was there once, twice, often three times a day: posted the
nurses, the doctors." Finally the man "came around, was better."
There was "hope of recovery"—"almost
assurance."
"The doctor came to me one evening—said to me: 'We're going to get your boy about again': next day he got a big mess of pork and beans:
his mother, sister, smuggled them in—surrepti-
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tiously
brought them in." It had occurred while no attendants were present— "cadets, nurses, doctors, me." The fellow was "ravenously hungry"—he "swallowed the whole mess with
gusto—was taken with a relapse—then died: that finished him."
W. closed his eyes, dropped back in his chair. "I can see him
now—it is one of those days long ago—the devilishly obstinate, illiterate
boy he was: no one could do anything with him: doctors, nurses: no one but me. For me he would
do anything"—as W. put it— "somehow."
"Yet I was a perfect tyrant with him. Yes, yes: I can see him now: the
close-cropped hair, the beautiful, full, eloquent brown eye—the bullet
head—the strong mouth: then as he lay there, pale, sick, thin." He had seen "many such cases, seemingly insignificant in themselves, yet part of the
real history of that time." He had "drawn physical lessons" from
it—one of them, "how much physical trouble is traceable to
stomachic disarrangement."
"The stomach, the lower trunk—heed it, care for
it"—he swept his hand down his ample front— "there is nothing in legs or arms or head so preciously to be guarded." He said it was
curious with "this German lad"—that he "distrusted the doctors"—probably "for
reasons no better nor worse than our own."
"There seemed to be in him as in all of us at some hours that
suspicion—what do the doctors know?—what a mass of solid pretence after
all! what the devil is the use of diets, abstentions, prohibitions, squeamishness?"
"We all feel that way at times: I know I do: but I know too that it is
unreasonable—that the doctor is justified as others are justified."
"Yet I feel that the best doctor is bitten somewhat—the
best—I don't except any: it is the taint of the preachers—the same thing:
the best minister is here or there bitten: they can't avoid it—it is the stamp of
their circumstance. Tell that to Clifford sometime: tell him I told you to—tell him
for me: tell him I said, beware! beware! it is a poison, a pestilence!" I described
Clifford's attendance at the big Farrar reception of
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ministers in
the city: hundreds were there: Clifford's swift exit, repulsed as he was by the frightful
clerical air prevalent. W. laughed. "That 's a
good thing to hear of him—I can see how natural it should be for him: I confess
there 's no trace of the taint in Clifford—no air, word,
gesture—nothing: he is certainly the most remarkable human being for a preacher I
have ever known." Dr. Brinton met C. at the lecture Friday last: was with him at tea
&c.: said to me Monday that he thought C. "was an individual of
noteworthy character.: W. not "surprised" that B. had "discovered that."
"I have no doubt it is so: more 's the wonder when
you put that and the minister together."
I chanced upon a sheet of Ms. on floor—much singed along the
edges—evidently had been against the stove. Headline: "On Religion"—something of that sort: asked W.: "Was
that matter not printed," &c. He answered: "I don't know:
let me see." Took it—glanced across the page. "On
religion!" he exclaimed: "God save me!" Then: "Probably something I commenced long long ago—then laid it by for
future consideration but never considered." He surveyed the litter about
him—under his feet, on the table. "It is getting very bad,
don't you think? The worst of it is I am very unsteady on my feet and some day shall have a
fall—trip." He said again: "Eddie has been at me time and
time again to let him set to and clean up. We must do it—do it before long." He
felt himself "getting more and more helpless."
Spoke of Tom. "He was in, but late: told me a little about the
boy." Corning called. Did not see W. Sent up by me to my father a picture of Dr. Bucke for
him to see. He had written on the back of it: "My friend Dr.
R. M. Bucke came Oct: 15 '88". Still pleads off writing out the checks: "I do not feel quite disposed for it."
Discussed Epictetus—W. telling me finally to take his little pocket Ep. along. The
following is now the full inscription on 1st fly-leaf:
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"Walt Whitman (sent me by my friend the translator
T W
H
Rolleston, from Dresden, Saxony)——1881"[this in
ink—probably written when book was received.] Then came the
following—written with purple indelible pencil: "March—1886—T W R is now in Ireland, (Delgany, County
Wicklow)—and edits the Dublin University Magazine." "Magazine" marked out with
purple pencil and "Review" put above it—no doubt about the same time. This fall he
added (now
blue
pencil): "seems to have
left"—evidently meaning
review:
then writing this: "from 1881 to '88—Have had this little Vol. at hand or
in my hand often, all these years —" finally, this, just added the other day in
black pencil: "Translated a good part of L. of G. (with
conjunction of Dr. Knortz) into German—being printed (I hear) in Nov. '88 in Zurich,
Switzerland."
W. said: "This book has become in a sense sacred, precious, to me: I
have had it about me so long—lived with it in terms of such familiarity." I
nudged him a bit about the "secret."
"You have n't said anything about it,
Walt." He was serious at once: "But I have not forgotten: I want you
to know it—know all about it: you." I can't make it out. He has something on his
mind.
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