by Frank Harris
It was commonly said at the time that Whitman had led a life of extraordinary self-indulgence: rumor attributed to him half a dozen illegitimate children and perverse tastes to boot. I think such statements exaggerated or worse: they are no more to be trusted than the stories of Paine's drunkenness. At any rate, Horace Traubellft later declared to me that Whitman's life was singularly clean, and his own letter to John Addington Symonds must be held to have disproved the charge of homosexuality. But I dare swear he loved more than once not wisely but too well, or he would not have risked the reprobation of the unco guid. In any case, it is to his honor that he dared to write plainly in America of the joys of sexual intercourse. Emerson, as Whitman himself tells us, did his utmost all one long afternoon to dissuade him from publishing the sex-poems, but fortunately all his arguments served only to confirm Whitman in his purpose. From certain querulous complaints later, it is plain that Whitman was too ignorant to gauge the atrocious results to himself and his reputation of his daring, but the same ignorance that allowed him to use scores of vile neologism in this one instance stood him in good stead. It was right of him to speak plainly of sex; accordingly he set down the main facts, disdainful of the best opinion of his time. And he was justified; in the long run it will be plain to all that he thus put the seal of the Highest upon his judgment. What can we think, and what will the future think, of Emerson's condemnation of Rabelais, whom he dared to liken to a dirty little boy who scribbles indecencies in public places and then runs away, and his contemptuous estimate of Shakespeare as a ribald playwright, when in good sooth he was «the reconciler» whom Emerson wanted to acclaim and had not the brains to recognize? Whitman was the first of great men to write frankly about sex and five hundred years hence that will be his singular and supreme distinction. Smith seemed permanently better, though, of course, for the moment disappointed because his careful eulogy of Paine never appeared in the Press, so one day I told him I'd have to return to Lawrence to go on with my law work, though Thomson, the doctor's son, kept all my personal affairs in good order and informed me of every happening. Smith at this time seemed to agree with me, though not enthusiastically, and I was on the point of starting when I got a letter from Willie, telling me that my eldest brother, Vernon, was in a New York hospital, having just tried to commit suicide, and I should go to see him. I went at once and found Vernon in a ward in bed. The surgeon told me that he had tried to shoot himself and that the ball had struck the jaw-bone at such an angle that it went all round his head and was taken out just above his left ear: «It stunned him and that was all; he can go out almost any day now.»
The first glance showed me the old Vernon. He cried, «Still a failure, you see, Joe: could not even kill myself, though I tried!» I told him I had renamed myself Frank; he nodded amicably, smiling.
I cheered him up as well as I could, got lodgings for him, took him out of the hospital, found work for him, too, and after a fortnight saw that I could safely leave him. He told me that he regretted having taken so much money from my father: «Your share, I'm afraid, and Nita's, but why did he give it to me? He might just as well have refused me years ago as let me strip him, but I was a fool and always shall be about money. Happy go lucky, I can take no thought for the morrow.» That fortnight showed me that Vernon had only the veneer of a gentleman; at heart he was as selfish as Willie but without Willie's power of work. I had overestimated him wildly as a boy, thought him noble and well read; but Smith's real nobility, culture and idealism showed me that Vernon was hardly silver-gilt. He had nice manners and good temper and that was about all. I stopped at Philadelphia on my way to Lawrence just to tell Smith all I owed him, which the association with Vernon had made clear to me. We had a great night and then for the first time he advised me to go to Europe o study and make myself a teacher and guide of men. I assured him he overestimated me because I had an excellent verbal memory, but he declared that I had unmistakable originality and fairness of judgment, and above all, a driving power of will that he had never seen equaled. «Whatever you make up your mind to do,» he concluded,
«you will surely accomplish, for you are inclined to under-rate yourself.» At the time I laughed, saying he didn't even guess at my unlimited conceit, but his words and counsel sank into my mind and in due course exercised a decisive, shaping influence on my life. I returned to Lawrence, put up a sofa-bed in my law room and went to the Eldridge House nearby for my meals. I read law assiduously and soon had a few clients, «hard cases» for the most part, sent to me, I found, by Judge Stephens and Barker, eager to foist nuisances on a beginner. An old mulatto woman kept our offices tidy and clean for a few dollars monthly from each of us, and one night I was awakened by her groans and cries. She lived in a garret up two flights of stairs and was evidently suffering from indigestion and very much frightened, as colored folk are apt to be when anything ails them.
«I'm gwine to die!» she told me a dozen times. I treated her with whisky and warm water, heated on my little gas-heater, and sat with her till at length she fell asleep. She declared next day I had saved her life and she'd never forget it. «Nebber, fo' sure!» I laughed at her and forgot all about it. Every afternoon I went over to Liberty Hall for an hour or so to keep in touch with events, though I left the main work to Will Thomson. One day I was delighted to find that Bret Harte was coming to lecture for us: his subject: «The Argonauts of '49.» I got some of his books from the bookstore kept by a lame man named Crew, I think, on Massachusetts Street, and read him carefully. His poetry did not make much impression on me-mere verse, I thought it; but The Outcasts of Poker Flat and other stories seemed to me almost masterpieces in spite of their romantic coloring and tinge of melodrama. Especially the description of Oakhurst, the gambler, stuck in my mind: it will be remembered that when crossing the «divide,» Oakhurst advised the party of outcasts to keep on traveling till they reached a place of safety. But he did not press his point: he decided it was hopeless, and then came Bret Harte's extraordinary painting phrase: «Life to Oakhurst was at best an uncertain sort of game and he recognized the usual percentage in favor of the dealer.»
There is more humor and insight in the one sentence than in all the ridiculously overpraised works of Mark Twain. One afternoon I was alone in the box office of Liberty Hall when Rose came in, as pretty as ever. I was delighted to renew our acquaintance and more delighted still to find that she would like tickets for Bret Harte's lecture. «I didn't know that you cared for reading, Rose,» I said, a little surprised. «Professor Smith and you would make anybody read,» she cried; «at any rate you started me.» I gave her the tickets and engaged to take her for a buggy ride next day. I felt sure Rose liked me, but she soon surprised me by showing a stronger virtue than I usually encountered. She kissed me when I asked her in the buggy, but told me at the same time that she didn't care much for kissing.
«All men,» she said, «are after a girl for the same thing; it's sickening; they all want kisses and try to touch you and say they love you; but they can't love and I don't want their kisses.» «Rose, Rose,» I said, «you mustn't be too hard on us: we're different from you girls and that's all.» «How do you mean?» she asked. «I mean that mere desire,» I said, «just the wish to kiss and enjoy you, strikes the man first, but behind that lust is often a good deal of affection, and sometimes a deep and sacred tenderness comes to flower; whereas the girl begins with the liking and affection and learns to enjoy the kissing and caressing afterwards.» «I see,» she rejoined quietly. «I think I understand: I am glad to believe that.»
Her unexpected depth and sincerity impressed me and I continued:
«We men may be so hungry that we will eat very poor fruit greedily because it's at hand, but that doesn't prove that we don't prefer good and sweet and nourishing food when we can get it.» She let her eyes dwell on mine. «I see,» she said, «I see!» And then I went on to tell her how lovely she was and how she had made a deathless impression on me, and I ventured to hope she liked me a little and would yet be good to m
e and come to care for me; and I was infinitely pleased to find that this was the right sort of talk, and I did my best in the new strain. Three or four times a week I took her out in a buggy and in a little while I had taught her how to kiss and won her to confess that she cared for me, loved me, indeed, and bit by bit she allowed me the little familiarities of love. One day I took her out early for a picnic and said, «I'll play Turk and you must treat me,» and I stretched myself out on a rug under a tree. She entered into the spirit of the game with zest, brought me food, and at length, as she stood close beside me, I couldn't control myself; I put my hand up her dress on her firm legs and sex. Next moment I was kneeling beside her. «Love me, Rose,» I begged, «I want you so: I'm hungry for you, dear!» She looked at me gravely with wide open eyes. «I love you too,» she said, «but oh! I'm afraid. Be patient with me!» she added, like a little girl. I was patient but persistent and I went on caressing her till her hot lips told me that I had really excited her.
My fingers informed me that she had a perfect sex and her legs were wonderfully firm and tempting; and in her yielding there was the thrill of a conscious yielding out of affection for me, which I find is hard to express. A soon persuaded her to come next day to my office. She came about four o'clock and I kissed and caressed her and at length in the dusk got her to strip. She had the best figure I had ever seen and that made me like her more than I would have thought possible; but I soon found when I got into her that she was not nearly as passionate as Kate even, to say nothing of Lily. She was a cool mistress but would have made a wonderful wife, being all self-sacrifice and tender, thoughtful affection. I have still a very warm corner in my heart for that lovely child-woman and am rather ashamed of having seduced her, for she was never meant to be a plaything or pastime. But incurably changeable, I had Lily a day or two afterwards and sent Rose a collection of books instead of calling on her. Still I took her out every week till I left Lawrence and grew to esteem her more and more. Lily, on the other hand, was a born «daughter of the game,» to use Shakespeare's phrase, and tried to become more and more proficient at it: she wanted to know when and how she gave me the most pleasure, and really did her best to excite me. Besides, she soon developed a taste in hats and dresses, and when I paid for a new outfit, she would dance with delight. She was an entertaining, light companion, too, and often found odd little naughty phrases that amused me. Her pet aversion was Mrs. Mayhew: she called her always «the Pirate,» because she said Lorna only liked «stolen goods» and wanted every man «to walk the plank into her bedroom.» Lily insisted that Lorna could cry whenever she wished, but had no real affection in her, and her husband filled Lily with contempt. «A well-matched pair,» she exclaimed one day, «a mare and a mule, and the mare, as men say, in heat-all wet,» and she wrinkled her little nose in disgust. At the Bret Harte lecture both Rose and Lily had seats and they both understood that I would go and talk with the great man afterwards. I expected to get a great deal from the lecture and Harte's advance agent had arranged that the hero of the evening should receive me in the Eldridge House after the address.
I was to call for him at the hotel and take him across to the hall. When I called, a middle-sized man came to meet me with a rather good looking, pleasant smile and introspective, musing eyes. Harte was in evening dress that suited his slight figure, and as he seemed disinclined to talk, I took him across to the hall at once and hastened round to the front to note his entrance. He walked quite simply to the desk, arranged his notes methodically and began in a plain, conversational tone, «The Argonauts,» and he repeated it, «The Argonauts of '49.» I noticed that there was no American nasal twang in his accent, but with the best of will, I can give no account of the lecture, just as I can give no portrait of the man. I recall only one phrase, but think it probably the best. Referring to the old-timers crossing the great plains, he said, «I am going to tell you of a new crusade, a crusade without a cross, an exodus without a prophet!» I met him ten years later in London when I had more self-confidence and much deeper understanding both of talent and genius, but I could never get anything of value out of Bret Harte, in spite of the fact that I had then and still keep a good deal of admiration for his undoubted talent. In London later I did my best to draw him out, to get him to say what he thought of life, death and the undiscovered country, but he either murmured commonplaces or withdrew into his shell of complete but apparently thoughtful silence. The monotonous work and passionate interludes of my life were suddenly arrested by a totally unexpected happening. One day Barker came into my little office and stood there hiccoughing from time to time. «Did I know any remedy for hiccoughs?» I only knew a drink of cold water usually stopped it. «I've drunk every sort of thing,» he said,
«but I reckon I'll give it rest and go home and if it continues send for the doctor!» I could only acquiesce. Next day I heard he was worse and in bed. A week later Sommerfeld told me I ought to call on poor Barker, for he was seriously ill. That same afternoon I called and was horrified at the change: the constant hiccoughing had shaken all the unwieldy mass of flesh from his bones; the skin of his face was flaccid, the bony outline showing under the thin folds. I pretended to think he was better and attempted to congratulate him, but he did not even try to deceive himself. «If they can't stop it, it'll stop me,» he said, «but no one ever heard of a man dying of hiccoughs, and I'm not forty yet.» The news came a few days later that he was dead-that great fat man! His death changed my whole life, though I didn't dream at the time it could have any effect upon me. One day I was in court arguing a case before Judge Bassett. Though I liked the man, he exasperated me that day by taking what I thought was a wrong view. I put my point in every light I could, but he wouldn't come round and finally gave the case against me. «I shall take this case to the Supreme Court at my own expense,» I explained bitterly, «and have your decision reversed.» «If you want to waste your time and money,» he remarked pleasantly, «I can't hinder you.» I went out of the court and suddenly found Sommerfeld beside me. «You fought that case very well,» he said,
«and you'll win it in the Supreme Court, but you shouldn't have told Bassett so, in his own-» «Domain,» I suggested, and he nodded.
When we got to our floor and I turned towards my office, he asked, «Won't you come in and smoke a cigar? I'd like a talk.»
Sommerfeld's cigars were uniformly excellent, and I followed him very willingly into his big, quiet office at the back that looked over some empty lots. I was not a bit curious, for a talk with Sommerfeld usually meant a rather silent smoke. This time, however, he had something to say and said it very abruptly. «Barker's gone,» he remarked in the air, and then: «Why shouldn't you come in here and take his place?» «As your partner?» I exclaimed. «Sure,» he replied, «I'll make out the briefs in the cases as I did for Barker and you'll argue them in court. For instance,» he added in his slow way, «there is a decision of the Supreme Court of the State of Ohio that decides your case today almost in your words, and if you had cited it you'd have convinced Bassett,» and he turned and read out the report. «The state of Ohio,» he went on, «is one of the four states, as you know (I didn't know it), that have adopted the New York code-New York, Ohio, Kansas and California»-he proceeded, «the four states in a line across the continent; no one of these high courts will contradict the other. So you can be sure of your verdict. Well, what do you say?» he concluded. «I shall be delighted,» I replied at once. «Indeed, I am proud to work with you: I could have wished no better fortune.» He held out his hand silently and the thing was settled. Sommerfeld smoked a while in silence and then remarked casually, «I used to give Barker a hundred dollars a week for his household expenses: will that suit you?» «Perfectly, perfectly,»
I cried. «I only hope I shall earn it and justify your good opinion.»
«You are a better advocate than Barker even now,» he said, «but you have one drawback.» He hesitated. «Please go on,» I cried,
«don't be afraid! I can stand any criticism and profit by it-I hop
e.»
«Your accent is a little English, isn't it?» he said. «And that prejudices both judge and jury against you, especially the jury: if you had Barker's accent, you'd be the best pleader in the state.»
«I'll get the accent,» I exclaimed. «You're dead right: I had already felt the need of it, but I was obstinate. Now I'll get it, you may bet on that, get it within a week.» And I did. There was a lawyer in the town named Hoysradt who had had a fierce quarrel with my brother Willie. He had the most pronounced western American accent I had ever heard, and I set myself the task every morning and evening of imitating Hoysradt's accent and manner of speech. I made it a rule, too, to use the slow western enunciation in ordinary speech, and in a week no one would have taken me for anyone but an American.
Sommerfeld was delighted and told me he had fuller confidence in me than ever and from that time on our accord was perfect, for the better I knew him, the more highly I esteemed him. He was indeed able, hardworking, truthful and honest-a compact of all the virtues, but so modest and inarticulate that he was often his own worst enemy.
Chapter XIV. Law Work and Sophy
Now began for me a most delightful time.
