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Friday, January
11, 1889.
8 P. M. W. lying on bed. Did not get up while I stayed: was cheerful: talked vigorously and
long: seemed generally in good trim. Said he was not on the bed because he felt worse but
simply for a change and some little rest. Asked at once about the book: what had been done
to-day? McKay met me at Oldach's: we had discussed and ordered cover.
W. greatly interrogative: "So you ordered one? Are promised one next
week? I was afraid I did not commit myself radically enough for you to go on: I am glad you
went on of your own accord." Then: "Whatever turns up we retain the
privilege of final rejection"—adding: "I suppose it is a
question of durability: it remains to be seen how far these present books will answer: that
can only be known by waiting, use." Referred to "great covers."
I suggested: "Perhaps some day there will be a Whitman edition produced
in such style."
"That is very far off, if at all: but there are places, people, who want
them: the big British libraries, the museums: even here there are some rich men: rich men's
sons, families. Do you know young Ed Reed?—the lawyer?—the young man down
Federal Street? He has fine bindings: some very fine, rare: I have seen them: he has shown
them to me." So on and so on. "But for the present I suppose we have
nothing to do but wait—see what comes about."
New York Mail and Express copied Press paragraph as a telegram. W. remarked: "That is usually the way: the thing you don't wish circulated goes the
rounds: it is copied from one end of the land to the other: the thing you wish noticed,
read—think
must
be read beyond a doubt—that falls
flat, is altogether forgotten." I returned him Carpenter's note. "You found it just as I said, did n't you?"
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W. had been "turning the matter over and
over," he said. "I am confident it was never drawn—never
received: I would not have forgotten. You know that would have been, is, a notable
event—not easily dismissed: but to make certain about it I looked all through my
note book to-day and through the check book: there was not a sign of
it: besides, the draft was marked as 'not drawn.'" Then W. laughed heartily till the bed
shook. "I seem to be getting up wrong anyhow nowadays. You know the
little piece I sent The Century the other day—the six or seven lines?" I said
no. He had not told me of it. "No? why I thought I had told you? Anyhow,
I sent them a piece—marked it twelve dollars (I always settle the price myself).
To-day there comes along a letter from Gilder—a few lines,
I think signed by him—dictated, I suppose—written on a type
machine—in which he says something this way—that he is glad I am able to
do these things again: that he encloses my price: but there was no check
enclosed—nothing there at all, check or cash. I returned him the note stating this
in effect."
Something was said about Clifford's message of thanks for The Critic piece. W.: "Oh! I 'm glad he got it." Expressed himself as
"a little or a good deal dubious" about "both
the pieces" himself. "I must wait and see what comes of
'em—see what I make of 'em myself." It was "a
problem"—to him "a strange sort of difficulty."
"What they amount to, what they signify, I could not at all
estimate." I said: "Bucke appears to be well
satisfied—almost enthusiastic." W.: "Well—I
don't see it that way: Doctor says it is fierce, powerful: then asks, where the devil do you
get this power—that is all." Was that not enough? "Not at
all. whether the poem has any congruity with what has gone before, that is another question:
that is
the
question: there may be the fierceness, the power: that is
not enough." What had been my feeling? "I liked it—liked
it much:
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the first part is clear, good: the last three lines are
not so easy for me: I confess I don't grasp them." He said warmly: "Good! good! your state appears to be precisely mine: you will have to wait as I do: see what
is finally evolved." He expresses his frequent suspicions that this work he attempts now
is not congruous with what has preceded it. He realizes "a loss of
grip": that "the old power will never come back": but the
question remains: "If not all, why not some?" Said he had sent copies of
the 1889 poem to O'Connor and Kennedy. Neither one has so far acknowledged it.
Suddenly after a pause W. exclaimed: "Poor Nellie O'Connor! She has a
hard time of it!" Then: "She is a slight woman: weighs ninety
pounds—perhaps a little more. O'Connor is a heavy man: built like Oldach: that same
figure—compact: she is a typical Yankee girl: rather intellectual than physical:
bright, good."
"I can't help thinking of the talks I used to have with
Eldridge—Charles Eldridge: our strolls together: often having Nellie O'Connor in
mind. We would wonder if O'Connor showed her sufficient consideration." I asked: "Was not O'Connor an affable man enough to meet with?"
"Oh yes! there was no doubt about that: but it seems almost the rule
among foreigners—even the sons of foreigners—to regard woman less
deferentially—less considerately, I suppose we may say: less gently: than we find is
the case here. Nellie? We both liked her—oh! had a great affection for
her—particularly Charles"—then after a short pause: "But I don't know: I liked her as much as he did." W. again as to
foreigners: "The helpmate business they do not comprehend as we do. They
do not recognize that it must be a reciprocal relationship." He did not wish to "hypercriticise": had come to this conclusion by careful study. It was
true "our fellows make a popinjay of a woman: dress her up—give
her jewelry, toggery—creams, candies—which is all paltry, mean,
enough": but then "that is the mere surface of the evidence: below
all that there 's a something more—a nearer
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approach to what should be than is found in Europe—found
here among Europeans." I told W. how Christlieb traveling here in America was surprised
for instance to see a husband go and get his slippers for himself in the evening instead of
waiting for his wife to do it. He thought the American woman would go to the devil if this
thing kept on. W. said warmly: "It is a good illustration." He knew
"we have nothing to boast about": he knew, he felt, that "we have no reason to point a finger at Oriental customs or any others and
say: 'There, there alone, is the sin.'" Yet "we have made a decided
move." I contended for greater freedom all around. W.: "I feel that
as deeply as you do: I consider it the glory of this age that it dares throw off
restrictions—throws them right and left: demands to go free: and this freedom must
be for the women as well as the men. I look to see woman take her place in literature, in
art—show what are her innate potencies, powers, attributes." But was not
motherhood precious above all: not bookwriting or ornamental acquirements? "Yes, I allow all that: but it is important to have the books because of
what they reflect: as the
alter ego
—the other self: men
nearer realize what they are through what they see in others: O'Connor calls it 'the philosophy of the passions': sees it as the chief
fact, the interfusing atmosphere, so to speak, of the Shakespearean, or, as he positively
insists, the Baconian, plays."
A great question, W. thought it: "the question of questions, perhaps:
who knows?"
"O'Connor makes much more of that factor in the Plays than I do: warms up
a good deal more about it: but what he says is substantially true." The Washington
clipping he gave me yesterday—what paper was it from? What was its date? "It was in the Washington days," he said slowly (he always speaks
slowly): then seeming to catch on to the inquiry in my face: "Yes, I
wrote it: I am the man." But how about the reference to him? Had he inserted that? "No—that was interpolated: I don't know how it came about. The
paper was edited by
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—let me see, who was it? Burbage,
Savage: some name or other near that: oh! I have it: Burritt: I think he lately died." His
memory is a bit shaky here and there but he generally gets it together again. "Burritt would often come in of a Saturday night: take his coat off: set
lustily to work. He probably got hold of my piece—knew I had been present at the
concert: my habits, enjoyment: inserted that line or two. The concerts were always a treat: I
was always on hand: the players were most of them Italian: spoke miserable English—a
mere show of it: but I got along very well with them, as I always did, do: I struck up
acquaintance with all of them. They were likeable fellows: I think they thought I was a
likeable fellow. Sitting here of late, calling up, as often occurred, old
times—these among a curious hunger to possess a file of The Herald: get hold of my
pieces again: re-read." They would be "oddities at least."
He paused: was serious, yet in a fraternal mood. "I can now see one of
those Italian players: he played E flat cornet, I think they called it: very bright, animated:
one of the best if not the best. I was always loafing about: had a quick if not a technical
ear. This man would come to the crucial passages with immense gusto—would often play
solo interludes, whatnot: then would come the lull—a chance for the others to whack
away—he being silent for a space. Then it was I would see his dark eyes glancing
about—catch me—as if to say, how was that? do you approve? are we agreed?"
"I looked upon those concerts in the open air—the nights often
so beautiful, calm—as bright gleams athwart the sad history of that harrowing city
and time. Yet my enjoyment was altogether untechnical: I knew nothing about music: simply took
it in, enjoyed it, from the human side: had a good natural ear—did not trouble
myself to explain or analyze."
Whether it was "best so" had been a question he had "often heard debated and had debated" himself. "Some
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insist that, given the vital intuition, a man is better
without than with a knowledge of technique." W. said: "I don't know
about that: I think that a risky assumption: I think my best talks on this have been with Mrs.
Gilchrist. She was very vehement: she would say: 'No! no! rather than
hurting it betters.' First, of course, there needs to be the feeling, the bottom
appreciation." I pointed to Ruskin—had just been reading The Eagle's Nest. W.:
"I have heard that: but he is wrong—all wrong: Mrs. Gilchrist
alone, standing as she did, for what she did, was sufficient refutation." I think he
delights to conjure with that name. He spoke of her "vast
information," her "eminent qualities."
"It is one of my great regrets, that of all of these great, solid, cute,
keen criticisms hers—I have heard them in hundreds (all good—some
supremely ample)—none have been written down—written by her, by some of
us—by some one who had the good fortune to meet, realize her." He considered
that "they deserved, as they would have had, an immortality." He "commiserated" me that I had not witnessed "the
power, the heart, she displayed, even in a case like the matter we have been talking about."
"She was courageous: nowhere afraid to assert truths—often
profound truths—as we knew, knowing her. I was her contention that no man can know
too much of science: not even the artist himself, the poet, the writer." W. regarded Mrs.
Gilchrist as "a supreme character of whom the world knows too little for
its own good."
"If her sayings had been recorded—I do not say she would pale,
but I do say she would equal the best of the women—the best of the women of our
century—add something as great as any to the testimony on the side of her sex."
W. added: "And now that I have said this much to you about Mrs. Gilchrist
I don't mind giving you a draft of a note I once wrote to her acknowledging her wonderful
recognition and understanding of me. Whatever notion you might have of my extravagance when I
speak of her or write about her would be dissipated at once if you by a miracle could spend a
single hour in her
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presence: I have often spoken to you of Frances
Wright: well, here was Frances Wright—glorious Frances—and something still
more glorious added: in this woman—this great soul." He directed me to the table
where I found what he spoke of. The letter was written on two pages of the American Institute
poem sheets pasted together. I asked W.: "Do you mean me to read this
aloud, too?" He was very still. In a glow, too. "Yes, if you
will."
Nov. 3, 1871.
[To A. G., Earl's Cone, Halsted, Essex, Eng.]
I have been waiting quite a long while for time and the right mood, to answer your letter
in a spirit as serious as its own, and in the same unmitigated trust and affection. But more
daily work than ever has fallen to me to do the present season, and though I am well and
contented, my best moods seem to shun me. I wished to give to it a day, a sort of Sabbath,
or holy day, apart to itself, under serene and propitious influences, confident that I could
then write you a letter which would do you good, and me too. But I must at least show
without further delay that I am not insensible to your love. I too send you my love. And do
you feel no disappointment because I now write so briefly. My book is my best letter, my
response, my truest explanation of all. In it I have put my body and spirit. You understand
this better and fuller and clearer than any one else. And I too fully and clearly understand
the loving letter it has evoked. Enough that there surely exists so beautiful and delicate a
relation, accepted by both of us with joy.
I finished. W. lay there on his bed. His eyes were closed. "Horace," he said: "there are some things in the world too big for
it: they seem to crowd it out at the sides—to demand more room. I have had to spend
a good deal of time for thirty years thinking of my enemies: they have made me think of them:
even when I have tried to forget I had any enemies, have been compelled to reckon with them.
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But when I turn about and look at my friends—the friends
I have had: how sacred, stern, noble, they have been: the few of them: when I have thought of
them I have realized the intrinsic immensity of the human spirit and felt as if I lived
environed by gods. I do not mean to be extravagant—to say too much—Horace:
you know how much I hate gush, effusion, flattery: but I can't help acknowledging that while I
have had the worst enemies that ever were I have also had the best friends that ever were:
perhaps the one comes to offset the other—the passionate love to offset the venomous
hate. I don't need to name anyone: yet there are Dowden, Symonds: there is William: and John,
too: and do you know Swinton? he is fiery true always: oh! what's the use? They don't need to
be named to you: and the Mrs. Gilchrist—a woman among women: she saw me as no one
else did—certainly no other woman ever did. Here we have had the hate and the love:
how I have been bedevilled! how I have been blessed! I never feel quite certain of
myself—certainly I am never certain of the Leaves: the Leaves still seem to be a
trial merely: but my friends—of you—of Rossetti, of Tom, of Doctor, of
Rolleston—oh! after all there are quite a lot of you: oh! of you I feel certain:
there is no doubt about you: you are my rock of ages: but for you, for the assurances you have
always been bringing me—you fellows—I would never feel that I and my book
had done more than simply passed across the stage into oblivion." Then he referred to his
letter to Mrs. Gilchrist: "The substance of that letter—its
feel: what it starts out to say to her: oh! with a few words taken out and put in—it
would do for any one of you! I have not said much about it but the sense of it all has stirred
my heart profoundly and drawn me closer and closer to you with each year." After a pause
he said: "Horace, maybe I have said too much—been too wordy:
but the facts remain facts: I feel just what I have tried to say."
In talking of W.'s early adherents I mentioned Bryant. "Walt: you and
Bryant were personal friends. Did he
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ever care for your work?"
"I can't say he did: Bryant was trained in the classics—made no
departures. He was a healthy influence—was not a closet man: belonged out of doors:
but he was afraid of my work: he was interested, but afraid: I remember that he always
expressed wonder that with what he called my power and gifts and essential underlying respect
for beauty I refused to accept and use the only medium which would give me complete
expression. I have often tried to think of myself as writing Leaves of Grass in Thanatopsisian
verse. Of course I do not intend this as a criticism of Bryant—only as a demurrer to
his objection to me: Thanatopsis is all right in Thanatopsisian verse: I suppose Bryant would
fare as badly in Leaves of Grass verse as I would fare in Thanatopsis verse. Bryant said to
me: 'I will admit that you have power—sometimes great
power.' But he would never admit that I had chosen the right vehicle of expression. We
never quarrelled over such things. I liked Bryant as a man as well as as a poet: he I think
liked me as a man: at least I inferred so from the way he treated me. Bryant belonged to the
classics: liked the stately measures prescribed by the old formulas: he handled them so
marvelously well. Breaking loose is the thing to do: breaking loose, resenting the bonds,
opening new ways: but when a fellow breaks loose or starts to or even only thinks he thinks
he 'll revolt he should be quite sure he knows what he has
undertaken. I expected hell: I got it: nothing that has occurred to me was a surprise: there
probably is still more to come: that will not surprise me, either." A long good talk
vividly impressing me.
I wonder often over W.'s long sentences—if they are to come out right at last (as
they mostly do) after devious windings. He was serenely glowing to-night. He stirred me. He rarely lets himself loose in this personal fashion. I wrote
to Stedman for W. to-day: sent the message out of my sheet of notes.
Copies of Boston Herald arrived at last. Gave three to W., kept one for McKay, kept one for
myself. In leaving I picked up a piece of paper on the floor by the
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door. I went back under the light to see what it was. It was three lines in W.'s handwriting.
W. asked from the bed: "What is it?" I read it: "'If you would know what books are
best worth reading,' was the saying among European scholars in the 16th and 17th
centuries, 'look in the Index Expurgatorious.'"
W. said: "That 's what it is: yes, I remember:
take it along: paste it in your hat: it 's worth having around to
think about."
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