Studies in the Psychology of Sex (Vol. 1-6). Havelock Ellis
impelled to devote far more space and far more ardor to the subject of sexual relationships with women and all that is involved in maternity than is accorded to them in Leaves of Grass. Some of Whitman's extant letters to young men, though they do not throw definite light on this question, are of a very affectionate character,[97] and, although a man of remarkable physical vigor, he never felt inclined to marry.[98] It remains somewhat difficult to classify him from the sexual point of view, but we can scarcely fail to recognize the presence of a homosexual tendency.
I should add that some friends and admirers of Whitman are not prepared to accept the evidence of the letter to Symonds. I am indebted to "Q." for the following statement of the objections:—
"I think myself that it is a mistake to give much weight to this letter—perhaps a mistake to introduce it at all, since if introduced it will, of course, carry weight. And this for three or four reasons:—
"1. That it is difficult to reconcile the letter itself (with its strong tone of disapprobation) with the general 'atmosphere' of Leaves of Grass, the tenor of which is to leave everything open and free.
"2. That the letter is in hopeless conflict with the 'Calamus' section of poems. For, whatever moral lines Whitman may have drawn at the time of writing these poems, it seems to me quite incredible that the possibility of certain inferences, morbid or other, was undreamed of.
"3. That the letter was written only a few months before his last illness and death, and is the only expression of the kind that he appears to have given utterance to.
"4. That Symonds's letter, to which this was a reply, is not forth coming; and we consequently do not know what rash expressions it may have contained—leading Whitman (with his extreme caution) to hedge his name from possible use to justify dubious practices."
I may add that I endeavored to obtain Symonds's letter, but he was unable to produce it, nor has any copy of it been found among his papers.
It should be said that Whitman's attitude toward Symonds was marked by high regard and admiration. "A wonderful man is Addington Symonds," he remarked shortly before his own death; "some ways the most indicative and penetrating and significant man of our time. Symonds is a curious fellow; I love him dearly. He is of college breed and education, horribly literary and suspicious, and enjoys things. A great fellow for delving into persons and into the concrete, and even into the physiological and the gastric, and wonderfully cute." But on this occasion he delved in vain.
The foregoing remarks (substantially contained in the previous editions of this book) were based mainly on the information received from J. A. Symonds's side. But of more recent years interesting light has been thrown on this remarkable letter from Walt Whitman's side. The Boswellian patience, enthusiasm, and skill which Horace Traubel has brought to his full and elaborate work, now in course of publication, With Walt Whitman in Camden, clearly reveal, in the course of various conversations, Whitman's attitude to Symonds's question and the state of mind which led up to this letter.
Whitman talked to Traubel much about Symonds from the twenty-seventh of April, 1888 (very soon after the date when Traubel's work begins), onward. Symonds had written to him repeatedly, it seems, concerning the "passional relations of men with men," as Whitman expressed it. "He is always driving at me about that: is that what Calamus means?—because of me or in spite of me, is that what it means? I have said no, but no does not satisfy him. [There is, however, no record from Symonds's side of any letter by Whitman to Symonds in this sense up to this date.] But read this letter—read the whole of it: it is very shrewd, very cute, in deadliest earnest: it drives me hard, almost compels me—it is urgent, persistent: he sort of stands in the road and says 'I won't move till you answer my question.' You see, this is an old letter—sixteen years old—and he is still asking the question: he refers to it in one of his latest notes. He is surely a wonderful man—a rare, cleaned-up man—a white-souled, heroic character. … You will be writing something about Calamus some day," said W. [to Traubel], "and this letter, and what I say, may help to clear your ideas. Calamus needs clear ideas; it may be easily, innocently distorted from its natural, its motive, body of doctrine."
The letter, dated Feb. 7, 1872, of some length, is then reproduced. It tells how much Leaves of Grass, and especially the Calamus section, had helped the writer. "What the love of man for man has been in the past," Symonds wrote, "I think I know. What it is here now, I know also—alas! What you say it can and should be I dimly discern in your Poems. But this hardly satisfies me—so desirous am I of learning what you teach. Some day, perhaps—in some form, I know not what, but in your own chosen form—you will tell me more about the Love of Friends. Till then I wait."
"Said W: 'Well, what do you think of that? Do you think that could be answered?' 'I don't see why you call that letter driving you hard. It's quiet enough—it only asks questions, and asks the questions mildly enough,' 'I suppose you are right—"drive" is not exactly the word: yet you know how I hate to be catechised. Symonds is right, no doubt, to ask the questions: I am just as much right if I do not answer them: just as much right if I do answer them. I often say to myself about Calamus—perhaps it means more or less than what I thought myself—means different: perhaps I don't know what it all means—perhaps never did know. My first instinct about all that Symonds writes is violently reactionary—is strong and brutal for no, no, no. Then the thought intervenes that I maybe do not know all my own meanings: I say to myself: "You, too, go away, come back, study your own book—as alien or stranger, study your own book, see what it amounts to." Some time or other I will have to write to him definitely about Calamus—give him my word for it what I meant or mean it to mean.'"
Again, a month later (May 24, 1888), Whitman speaks to Traubel of a "beautiful letter" from Symonds. "You will see that he harps on the Calamus poems again. I don't see why it should, but his recurrence to that subject irritates me a little. I suppose you might say—why don't you shut him up by answering him? There is no logical answer to that I suppose: but I may ask in my turn: 'What right has he to ask questions anyway?'" W. laughed a bit. "Anyway the question comes back to me almost every time he writes. He is courteous enough about it—that is the reason I do not resent him. I suppose the whole thing will end in an answer some day."
The letter follows. The chief point in it is that the writer hopes he has not been importunate in the question he had asked about Calamus three years before.
"I [Traubel] said to W.: 'That's a humble letter enough: I don't see anything in that to get excited about. He doesn't ask you to answer the old question. In fact he rather apologizes for having asked it.' W. fired up 'Who is excited? As to that question, he does ask it again and again: asks it, asks it, asks it.' I laughed at his vehemence. 'Well, suppose he does? It does not harm. Besides, you've got nothing to hide. I think your silence might lead him to suppose there was a nigger in your wood pile.' 'Oh, nonsense! But for thirty years my enemies and friends have been asking me questions about the Leaves: I'm tired of not answering questions.' It was very funny to see his face when he gave a humorous twist to the fling in his last phrase. Then he relaxed and added: 'Anyway I love Symonds. Who could fail to love a man who could write such a letter? I suppose he will yet have to be answered, damn 'im!'"
It is clear that these conversations considerably diminish the force of the declaration in Whitman's letter. We see that the letter which, on the face of it, might have represented the swift and indignant reaction of a man who, suddenly faced by the possibility that his work may be interpreted in a perverse sense, emphatically repudiates that interpretation, was really nothing of the kind. Symonds for at least eighteen years had been gently, considerately, even humbly, yet persistently, asking the same perfectly legitimate question. If the answer was really an emphatic no, it would more naturally have been made in 1872 than 1890. Moreover, in the face of this ever-recurring question, Whitman constantly speaks to his friends of his great affection for Symonds and his admiration for his intellectual cuteness, feelings that would both be singularly out of place if applied to a man who was all the time suggesting the possibility that his writings contained inferences that were "terrible," "morbid," and "damnable." Evidently,