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Thursday, December
20, 1888.
7.45 P. M. W. reading. Ed reported him as having one of the best days. W. quiet, looking
pretty well. Few visitors to-day. George Whitman, for one. Ingram up
stairs for a minute—brief visit from him. Sorely tries W.'s patience sometimes. Yet
W. loves him. Very kind—generous: sends W. coffees, teas, fruits, home-made wines,
&c. W. always grateful, "seeing the beautiful good heart below
his peculiarities." W. had been up all day. Busy. Arranging Christmas gifts. Got Ed to
draw a hundred dollars from bank, part or all of which he sent off by post-office money orders.
Wanted three three-dollar gold pieces: Ed could not get them: got two fives. W. asked me to
secure them in Philiadelphia if possible, "unless it should be
troublesome," &c.: no other pieces would do. "I have always
had a peculiar liking for three-dollar pieces: something in their shape attracts me." Had
his big bulging purse in inside vest pocket: in taking it out to get the coins spilled them all
over his lap and about the floor. We gathered them up.
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"I have threatened for a year to get a new purse and yet I seem to cling
to this one, which is miserable enough." Said he wanted Kennedy to get his books for a
Christmas present, "though I have had no word from him yet." Fears if
nothing comes to-morrow it will be too late. Yet is "not willing to pay the postage on four or five volumes."
Walsh was in to-day. "Very bright: Thinks I am
better, as, indeed, I feel I am." I asked: "Did he leave you any
medicine?"
"Oh no! he knew better—knew I would not take it." He had
eaten well. Drinks considerable milk. When I entered he was reading the Leaves of Grass I took
him last evening. He said: "I like the Annex—like the way it
flows in there: found it all correct,—pagination, appearance, all." I said: "The book gets thicker: every now and then you add twenty or thirty pages
to celebrate a new period passed through." He looked at me quite earnestly. "Yes—that is the way it has come to be: but there will be no
more: that is the last." Woman in to-day to buy a copy of L. of
G. Did not see W. nor ask for his autograph. W. wrote Bucke. Sent him the Logan Smith and
McCarthy letters. "I did not write much much—a little towards
evening." Picked up the McKay L. of G. Pointed out the stamping. "Our big book must be better than that"—indicating the title line, L. of G., "almost hid among the flowers in the background":
"Except to those who already know it is a medley—conveys no
intelligence: I never did like it: it is a New England notion: the Osgoods': they paid several
dollars for it—probably thought it just the thing: to me it seems wishy-washy."
I suggested the Author's Edition, 1882—stamping free, strong, characteristic. W.
approved. "We should look up something like it: I want something strong,
characteristic: too often heretofore we have adopted things not of my choice. It seems to me
anyhow that the modern stamping on books is thoroughly devilish, horrible: I can conceive of
nothing that could be so little suggestive, so characterless. Look at the lettering Dave has
stuck on that book—Charles Brock-
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den Brown." As to cover he said again: "Of
all things, I should least think of vellum—white vellum especially."
I was rejoiced to have him show marked interest in the subject: just this forenoon had
written B. I doubted if W. would ever resume business. Referred to Bucke: "The letter came to-day: came this morning. It is a wonderfully
inspiring letter: yet it 's not long." He handed it to me. I
started to read it. He stopped me. "No: I want you to take it where you
can read it more carefully than you can here: it is much like the letter you gave me to read:
the substance of it: elaborated." He is generally calm—almost provokingly
so—in taking the good words of his friends. This letter moved him. "Doctor seems impressed with the autobiographicality of the
book—that from beginning to end it is autobiographical: not in the ususal
sense—but in a sense that makes it strikingly mine. I confess the letter impressed
me more than I could have believed it possible. It contains but a few lines—yet
these are pressed in deep—are put there to stay." He, too, "realized a sense in which the book is deeply personal"—"no breaks in its continuity"—"the statement of a
life." Then he said: "I want you to read it very carefully: we must
discuss some of these matters together: for myself there can be no explanation—no
formulated explanation: it is because it is." He continued: "One
thing I can say: I am satisfied: I feel that we have won a victory: much is left undone but
some things we have done." He thought Bucke's letter "vehemently
Buckeian."
He returned me Unity left yesterday. Had read Black's piece:—"read it carefully—it is good—read every word of it." He said it had
"aroused new thoughts" in him—"seemed to prompt a revison of some" of his "former ideas of
Tolstoy.": had "never known Tolstoy presented in that way."
"Who is the writer—who is Black?"—He certainly strikes his crowbar very deep: he is not making
sport—is in dead earnest." He felt "convinced" that "Tolstoy has much for us—is one of our men." He had
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been "particularly moved by the article" and
what I had said of the parallelisms of W. with T. "One of the things that
impresses me is this: that to the fellows over there, the miseries, gloom, uneasiness,
messiness, of things, comes very close—the outlook is painful, dismal: feelings are
naturally excited in them that could not come to us here." But he "did not speak of this complainfully."
"They are right to feel this environment—must feel it: they are
subjected to an experience we cannot realize here—the circumstances of our birth and
all the rest are so different: the whole atmosphere on this side is charged with the idea of
liberty." He attributed "a great deal of our good fortune" to
the fact that the land is at present still measurably free." But he
"had no idea that with tendencies as they are this can continue long."
"We have free land—
now:
much of it: land
that will be free for a couple of generations more: but—what then?" There he was
"troubled."
"We have our hoggishnesses, miseries, wrongs, horrors—but none
that press us quite so hard and so close." He "at last understands
better" my very "frequent association of" his own name "with Tolstoy's."
"I can't endorse you: it 's hardly for me to say
you are right or wrong: but I see what you mean and I appreciate your intention. You have good
reasons: that 's as much, as far, as I can go." I asked W. about
the land. "Won't we have the European problems just the same here in a
little time?"
"Yes."
"All the poverty problems—about the land, about machinery,
ownership of things—just the same?" W. nodded: "Why not?
surely? what can prevent it? we seem to be travelling the same damnable road."
"Inevitable road," I put in. "Yes—but damnable, too."
"We will get out of it?"
"Yes, we must: money must take second place!"
Yesterday was my birthday. W. was inquisitive—congratulatory—saying of my
health so far (I have never been in a doctor's hands): "Certainly that is
the whole story: it seems to me that tells all: the thirtieth year!
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and health, vim, hope! What is there more thant that?" He humorously questioned me. Had I
no rules of life—no dietary doctrine? No. "Good! good!"
"Except," as I put it—"no
tobacco, no whiskey."
Ah! that is wise—a wise precaution: I should say, persevere on
that point—everything is to be gained by it, nothing lost!" I said: You said to Harned the other day talking of smoking that no doubt you had
lost a lot by not learning how to do it." He laughed gently: "Well—I don't like to insult the smokers: I let them have their own way with
themselves. Did I say I had no doubt I had lost a lot? Well, that is still true. But I may add
that I have no doubt gained an immense lot more than I have lost."
"Do you ever have any regrets?"
"I would as lief regret that I had not murdered my mother." Showed me
a picture of one of Johnston's daughters. "It 's
Katy," he said: "a dear girl: more mature there than in fact: only
fifteen or so: bright, happy."
W. sat to-night on his chair: talked easily: his hair glowing:
hand firm and warm: eye better, clearer, than any day in the fortnight past. But he declines "to express hope of rehabilitation": feels "now
that this is only a lull on the way down.": realizes that every "spell," as he calls the bad phases, puts him "a little lower in
the measure" of his "vitality." Speaks of having "grown old" and "being near the end." Ed is
better. Gets his full sleep. Says he nearly suffocated the two or three nights he slept in W.'s
room: light down, every window closed: Ed sleeping on the lounge: W. waking every now and then
and admonishing him: "Eddy, stir the fire." When he is well and up,
stirring the fire is W.'s own monopolized and enjoyed job.
W. thinks Gardner, in Washington, has so far done the best portraits of him. He always refers
to Gardner with great respect and says beautiful things always of that particular Gardner
picture, the 1863 picture, which he gave me. To-day he turned up a
Gardner letter which he brought to my notice before I left. "It shows
when and in a certain
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way how Buchanan became interested in me:
throws an interesting sidelight on the Buchanan adhesion, which had its ups and downs. Gardner
was always a mighty fellow—also mightily my friend: he was always loving: I feel
near to him—always—to this day: years, deaths, severances, don't seem to
make much difference when you have once loved a man: Gardner was a real artist—had
the feel of his work—the inner feel, if I may say it so: he was not a
workman—only a workman (which God knows is a lot in itself, too!)—but he
was also beyond his craft—saw farther than his camera—saw more: his
pictures are an evidence of his endowment." Then he paused. "How
garrulous I get on the least provocation! Read the letter." I did so, aloud:
Washington, 26 November, 1886.
My dear Whitman,
I received this morning from an old friend (Mr. Robert Buchanan) in England a letter and
among other things he asks me to send him Leaves of Grass, Drum Taps and any other works by
the author Walt Whitman of the Attorney General's department, Washington, and a portrait if
it can be got by hook or crook. I shall make a copy from each negative. Please tell me if
there are any other works of yours than the above and where I can get them. He desires also
that I should send him a portrait of Emerson. Can you tell me where I can get a good one?
Yours respectfully,
Alex. Gardner.
I asked W.: "Up to that time you had not heard direct from Buchanan?"
"I think not."
"Did Gardner send him the books?"
"O yes! I helped him out: also sent things to Buchanan direct."
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