| | | |
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [Begin page 364]
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
| | |
Sunday, December 23, 1888. 8 P.M. W. yesterday undoubtedly better than at any time in two weeks or perhaps a month. On
his bed this evening. Said of his health: "I call it a continuation of
yesterday, though I don't realize it as having the same edge and nip." He at times feels
almost as if he was enjoying a "revival"—"a dim suspicion of something or other" as he states it. Walsh not in
to-day. W. feels that he is not needed. Digestion pretty good. The
one thing he says he notices after each of these setbacks is the "weakness," and this weakness "grows and grows, each spell setting
me down a peg or two." Still, he walks across the room again, often unassisted: can sit up
much longer than he could a week ago: is generally more optimistic and able. Face very
cheerful, calm, bright, voice strong. I had Tolstoy's Sebastopol along with me. Left it. "I know I shall like to read it." We had spoken of it before this last
illness. Out in Germantown. Mrs. Burleigh had received some fruit from the south. Gave me two
tangerines which I passed over to W., who was glad, smelt of them, and said: "I will lay them aside till morning and make a breakfast of 'em." He
asked me about the weather. Were the stars not full out? Was it cold? Then of my trip. Always
brightens up when so humored. He said to-night playfully: "You must always answer my questions even though I don't always answer
yours." I said: "You don't answer my questions—that 's true. That question about the great secret—you've never
answered that." He asked: "You have n't
forgotten that yet?""Do you want me to?""No." There was a pause. Then he said again: "No: I want you to keep on asking till I answer: only not to-night—not to-night." Returned | | |
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [Begin page figure 007]
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
| | |
| | |
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [Begin page 365]
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
| | |
me Ticknor's literary bulletin and The Stage, which I left with him
last night. "I read them both: the theatrical paper all through: it is
very bright: it is a great relief to hit upon that airier stuff occasionally." Said also:
"I read all the notices in the literary journals—every word of
them. I am very industrious at that!" Bellamy's picture in the Ticknor pamphlet. W. had
forgotten all about Baxter's counsel that "Traubel" should read Looking Backward. Have not done
so yet. W. urged it. W. wrote in Ed's book to-day: from so and so to so and so: then: "Camden, New Jersey, America,"
contemplating Ed's ultimate return to Canada. Shows how closely he looks to details, well or
unwell. Harned in early in the evening. Did not stay long. W. has struck a notion to have some
of the big books boxed—perhaps a hundred of them. Had he read De Guérin? He asked: "How do you spell the
name?" then: "Ah! I know it: I have read him, somewhat—not
enough, however, to have got a decided impression—an impression I retained."
Spoke of "American ballade rondeau writers—their small calibre,
mean aims—the mere literary hangers-on and sportsmen.""But ours are not the real fellows—even of that sort: they are
the six time diluted imitators of the French: the French excel in all that: in grace, beauty,
sparkle—witty sayings, bright rhymes—persiflage, they call it." There
was a paragraph in The Press to-day about Tennyson's protest against
the introduction of a railroad near him on the Isle of Wight. W. had not read that, "but I read a paragraph somewhere which said that he had got much better of
his sickness—the acute gout, or whatever." W. did "not
sympathize with such sensitiveness"—did not "fear the age
of steam.""There is Ruskin: Ruskin seems to think himself constituted to protest
against all modern improvements." I asked: "Are all the modern
improvements improvements?" W. shook his head: "Oh you lawyer! I 'm afraid not." W. said Ruskin "maintained a
more or less curious and uncertain attitude towards" himself. "I
have heard nothing | | |
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [Begin page 366]
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
| | |
from him, of him, recently: years ago he was
known to have read Leaves of Grass: he said Leaves of Grass contained no humor—no
humor at all: it is true he saw good in it, too—acknowledged the good." He
thought "the friendship that existed between Ruskin and Carlyle" was
"rather remarkable if not inexplicable." Yet W. felt that "Ruskin's notions of professional integrity—in art,
literature—were noble, admirable, no doubt productive of vast moral educative
benefits." No mail in to-night. "Letter form Doctor
yesterday, but, as I told you then, nothing in it—empty almost." Mention of the
boat hands. I met several to-day who asked about him and whom I
greeted for him, as he advised me. One, deaf, oldish, bronzed, strong—W. saying
instantly (I did not know his name): "Oh! I know him—know his
name, too: he rejoices in the unique and saving name—though the best hand on the
river—the unique and saving name of John Smith: he is deaf, but wise, wary. Nature
has a keen way of putting its strength out: if a man lack in one sense, nature puts the
strength—the strength due that—into another. It is so with Smith." He
thought the men on the boat "sensitive to influences"—"water influences," he called them—"as
we are not:""like all men made acute by long training in some
special branch of labor.""These fellows—the pilots particularly—are very
sensitive anyhow—wonderfully: how often I have gone up into the pilot
house—often when they had to help me: sat there—sat there with the
Captain. I remember the Brooklyn boats—how sensitive the pilots were to motions I
would not have even a suspicion of: I think even their feet were extremely sensitive." W. often gets back to free-trade. Protection rubs his fur the wrong way. It
's like a perpetual sore with him. To-night he said: "Why am I a free-trader? a free-trader in the large sense? It is for
solidarity: free-trade makes for solidarity: the familar, full, significant word: and I hope,
oh I hope, there has been no failure to manifest the | | |
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [Begin page 367]
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
| | |
fact in my
books. I know in my own heart that every line I ever wrote—every line—not
an exception—was animated by that feeling. I like best of all—better than
anything else—in all the thousand pages, the little line or two in the preface to
the English edition of Specimen Days: the lines wherein I expressed this feeling, this hope,
that the witness of it was 'below any page I had written,
anywhere,' &c.: I think I put it this way." He quoted page 94, November
Boughs. He had considerable difficulty in getting it out but it came out quite accurately. "I tie myself to that if tying is necessary." W. gave me one of what he
calls his "soger boy letters": his draft of such a letter: he even
had me read it to him. I don't like to read these letters aloud. They move me too much. I
notice that he too is stirred strangely over them hearing them again. But I read. I could not
get out of it. It was spread out over ten different slips of paper which were folded in a
Sanitary Commission envelope on which he had written: "to
Hugo Aug. 7 '63." He said: "Yes it was from the midst of
things—to the midst of things: when I went to New York I would write to hospitals:
when I was in the hospitals I would write to New York: I could not forget the
boys—they were too precious."
Dear Hugo,
I received a letter from Bloom yesterday—but before responding to it (which I
will do soon) I must write to you my friend. Your good letter of June 27th was duly
rec'd.—I have read it many times—indeed Hugo, you know not how much
comfort you give, by writing me your letters—posting me up. Well Hugo, I am still as much as ever, indeed more, in the great military hospitals here.
Every day or night I spend four five or six hours among my sick, wounded, prostrate, boys.
It is fascinating, sad, and with varied fortune, of course. Some of my boys get well, some
die. After I finish this letter (and then dining at a restaurant) I shall give the latter
part of the afternoon and some hours of the | | |
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [Begin page 368]
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
| | |
night to Armory
Square Hospital, a large establishment and one I find most calling on my sympathies and
ministrations. I am welcomed by the surgeons as by the soldiers—very grateful to
me. You must remember that these government hospitals are not filled as with human
débris like the old established city hospitals, New York, &c., but mostly
with these goodborn American young men appealing to me most profoundly, good stock, often
mere boys, full of sweetness and heroism—often they seems very near to me, even as
my own children or younger brothers. I make no bones of petting them just as if they
were—have long given up formalities and reserves in my treatment of them.
Let me see, Hugo. I will not write anything about the topics of the horrible riots last
week, not Gen. Meade nor Vicksborough, nor Charleston—I leave them to the
newspapers. Nor will I write you this time so much about hospitals as I did last. Tell Fred
his letter was received. I appreciate it, received real pleasure from it—'t was a true friend's letter, characteristic, full of vivacity, offhand,
and below all a thorough base of genuine remembrance and good will—was not wanting
in the sentimental either (so I take back all about the apostate, do you understand, Freddy, my dear?)—and only write
this for you till I reply to that said letter a good long and special measure to yourself. [This paragraph W. said as I read he did not think was ever sent. He had drawn his pen
through it. "It was too damn nonsensical for a letter otherwise so
dead serious."] Tell Nat Bloom that if he expects to provoke me into a dignified not
mentioning him, nor write anything about him, by his studious course of heartbreaking
neglect (which has already reduced me to a skeleton of but little over 200 lbs and a
contenance of raging hectic, indicating an early grave). I was determined not to do anything
of the sort, but shall speak of him every time, and send him love, just as if he were
adorned with faithful troth instead of (as I understand) beautiful whiskers—Does
he think that beautiful whiskers can fend off the pangs of | | |
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [Begin page 369]
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
| | |
remorse? In conclusion I have to say, Nathaniel, you just keep on if you think there 's no hell. Hugo, I suppose you were at Charles Channing's funeral—tell me all you hear
about the particulars of his death—Tell me of course about the boys, what you do,
say, anything, everything— Hugo, write oftener—you express your thoughts perfectly—do you not
know how much more agreeable to me is the conversation or writing that does not take hard
paved tracks, the usual and sterotyped, but has little peculiarities and even kinks of its
own, making its genuineness—its vitality? Dear friend, your letters are precious
to me—none I have ever received from anyone are more so. Ah I see in your letter, Hugo, you speak of my being reformed—no, I am not so
frightfully reformed either, only the hot weather here does not admit of drinking heavy
drinks, and there is no good lager here—then besides I have no society—I
expect to prove to you and all yet that I am no backslider—But here I go nowhere
for mere amusement, only occasionally a walk. And Charles Russell—how I should like to see him—how like to have one
of our old times again—Ah Fred, and you dear Hugo, and you repentant one with the
dark shining whiskers—must there not be an hour, an evening in the future when we
four returning concentrating New York-ward or elsewhere, shall meet, allowing no interloper,
and have our drinks and things, and resume the chain and consolidate and achieve a night
better and mellower than ever,—we four? Hugo, I wish you to give my love to all the boys—I received a letter from Ben
Knower, very good—I shall answer it soon. Give my love to Ben—If Charles
Kingsley is in town same to him—ditto Mullen—ditto Park, (I hope to hear
that sweet sweet fiddler one of these days, that strain again) I wish to have Fred Grey say something for me, giving my love to his mother and
father—I bear them both in | | |
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - [Begin page 370]
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
| | |
mind—I count on
having good interviews with them when I see New York.
I said to W.: "That 's not so serious as
you led me to believe." He smiled: "The undertone is serious: they
were grave times: I was not feeling gay and festive in those years: never could get away from
the terrible experiences. Emerson asked me: 'Mr. Whitman, how can
you stand it? I do not think I could endure it. It would take too much out of me: too
much—too much—.'" I asked W.: "Did
Emerson always address you as Mister?""Generally—I may say always. Once or twice he addressed me as
Whitman: but he looked a bit uncertain after he had done so as if possibly he might have taken
on too much liberty." W. lay on the bed as I left. The tangerines and a book beside him: he played with them. I was
happy. He seemed so well. |
| |
