Jonathan Ned Katz: "Comrades and Lovers," Act II

UNDER CONSTRUCTION

"Comrades and Lovers, Act II

SCENE TITLE: 1 Peter Doyle, "Yes, I will talk of Walt"

DOYLE SPEAKS AS THE YOUNG MAN HE WAS WHEN HE MET WHITMAN; TO THE AUDIENCE AS SYMPATHETIC INTERVIEWERS WHO HAVE COME TO ASK ABOUT WHITMAN

DOYLE:

Yes, I will talk of Walt,

nothing suits me better.

How we met

is a curious story.

We felt to each other at once.

I was a street car conductor

in Washington.

The night was very stormy --

he came down to take the car --

the storm was awful.

Walt had his blanket --

it was thrown around his shoulders --

he seemed like an old sea-captain.

He was the only passenger,

it was a lonely night,

so I thought

I would go in and talk to him.

Something in me made me do it

and something in him

drew me that way.

He used to say

there was something in me

had the same effect on him.

Anyway, I went into the car.

We were familiar at once --

I put my hand on his knee --

we understood.

He did not get out

at the end of the trip --

in fact

went all the way back with me.

From that time on

we were the biggest sort of friends.

WHITMAN:

TO DOYLE

I think of you very often,

dearest comrade,

and with more calmness then when I was there--

I find it first rate

to know I shall return,

and we shall be together again,

Dear Boy.

I don't know what I should do

if I hadn't you to look forward to.

Here in New York

there is pretty strong enmity

among certain classes

toward me

and Leaves of Grass --

that it is a great mass of crazy talk

and hard words,

all tangled up,

without sense or meaning

(which by the by

is, I believe,

your judgment about it).

But others sincerely think

that it is a bad book,

improper,

and ought to be denounced

and put down,

and its author along with it.

DOYLE:

TO AUDIENCE]

Yes, Walt often spoke to me of his book.

I would tell him

DIRECTLY TO WHITMAN

I don't know

what you are trying to get at.

TO AUDIENCE

And this is the idea

I would always arrive at

from his reply.

WHITMAN:

All other peoples in the world

have their representatives

in literature;

here is a great big American race

with no representative.

DOYLE:

He would furnish that representative.

WHITMAN:

DIRECTLY TO DOYLE

Dear Pete,

I have made a change of base,

from tumultuous, close-packed,

world-like New York,

to Providence

this half-rural,

third-class town.

At both places I stop

we have plenty of ripe fresh fruit

and lots of flowers.

Pete,

I could now send you

a bouquet every morning,

far better than I used to,

of much choicer flowers.

GIVES DOYLE BOUQUET; DOYLE HOLDS IT IN HIS ARMS

In the evening

I went by invitation

to a party of ladies and gentlemen --

mostly ladies.

I made love to the women,

and flatter myself

that I created

at least one impression --

wretch and gay deceiver that I am.

You would be astonished,

my son,

to see the capacity

for flirtation with the girls --

I would never have believed it of myself.

Fortunate young man --

ain't you --

getting such instructive letters.

DOYLE:

TO AUDIENCE

I never knew a case

of Walt's being bothered up

by a woman.

His disposition was different.

Women in that sense

never came into his head.

I ought to know about him

in those years --

we were awful close together.

Towards women generally

Walt had a good way --

he very easily attracted them.

But he did that with men, too.

It was an irresistible attraction.

I've had many tell me --

men and women.

He had an easy, gentle way

no matter who they were

or what their sex.

WHITMAN:

DIRECTLY TO DOYLE

My darling boy,

if you are not well

when I come back

I will get a good room or two

in some quiet place,

and we will live together,

and devote ourselves

to making you healthier than ever.

I have had this in my mind before

but never broached it to you.

My love for you

is indestructible.

LIGHTING/MOOD CHANGE; WHITMAN'S SEXUALLY UNCONSUMMATED PURSUIT OF DOYLE HAS LEFT HIM DEPRESSED AND HUMILIATED. HE DECIDES TO END THE PURSUIT; GRABS BOUQUET HE GAVE DOYLE AND FLINGS IT ON FLOOR. LOOKING INTENTLY AT DOYLE:

It is imperative

that I remove myself

from this incessant,

enormous

PERTURBATION.

SPEAKERS FOCUS ON DOYLE

SPEAKER 1:

To GIVE UP ABSOLUTELY

SPEAKER 2:

and for good,

SPEAKER 3:

from this present hour,

SPEAKER 4:

this FEVERISH,

SPEAKER 1:

FLUCTUATING,

SPEAKER 2:

useless,

SPEAKER 3:

UNDIGNIFIED

SPEAKER 4:

pursuit of P.D.

SPEAKER 1:

so humiliating --

SPEAKER 2:

(It cannot possibly be a success)

SPEAKER 3:

LET THERE BE NO FALTERING

SPEAKER 4:

avoid seeing him,

SPEAKER 1:

and meeting him,

SPEAKER 2:

or any talk or explanations

SPEAKER 3:

or ANY MEETING WHATEVER,

SPEAKER 4:

FROM THIS HOUR FOREVER,

SPEAKER 1:

FOR LIFE.

SPEAKER 2:

Depress the adhesive nature.

SPEAKER 3:

It is in excess --

SPEAKER 4:

making life a torment.

WHITMAN: All this diseased, feverish, disproportionate adhesiveness.

SPEAKER 1:

TO WHITMAN

Remember Fred Vaughan.

LIGHTING/MOOD CHANGE

WHITMAN:

We parted there,

you know, Pete,

at the corner of 7th Street,

Tuesday night.

Parting though it was

something in that hour

left me pleasure

and comfort for good --

I never dreamed

you made so much

of having me with you

nor that you could feel

so downcast

at losing me.

I foolishly thought

it was all on the other side.

I now see clearly,

that I was all wrong.

Love to you,

dear Pete,

my darling boy.

LIGHTING CHANGE. NIGHT. STARS. A PAINTED, CARDBOARD MOON MIGHT DESCEND ON A VISIBLE WIRE

DOYLE:

TO AUDIENCE

How different Walt was then

in Washington

from the Walt of later years!

TO WHITMAN

I knew him to do wonderful lifting,

running, walking.

TO AUDIENCE

I would go up to the Treasury building

and wait for him to get through.

Then we'd stroll out together,

going wherever we happened to get.

This occurred days in and out,

months running.

TO WHITMAN

We went plodding along the road.

Walt always whistling

or singing.

We would talk of ordinary matters.

He would recite poetry,

especially Shakespeare

he would hum airs

or shout in the woods.

He was always active, happy.

Many of our walks

were taken at night.

TO AUDIENCE

He never seemed to tire.

When we got to the ferry

opposite Alexandria

I would say,

TO WHITMAN

"I'll draw the line here I won't go any further."

TO AUDIENCE

But he would take everything for granted --

we would cross the river

and walk home

on the other side.

TO WHITMAN

Walt knew all about the stars.

He was eloquent when he talked of them.

WHITMAN:

TO DOYLE

Dear Pete,

Dear son,

I can almost see you

drowsing and nodding

and I am telling you something deep

about the heavenly bodies

and in the midst of it

I look around

and find you fast asleep

and your head on my shoulder

like a chunk of wood --

an awful compliment

to my lecturing powers.

Good night, Pete --

Good night,

my darling son

here is a kiss for you,

dear boy --

on the paper here --

a good long one --

I will imagine you

with your arm around my neck

saying

DOYLE:

QUIETLY, TO WHITMAN

"Goodnight, Walt" --

WHITMAN:

and me --

"Goodnight, Pete."

LIGHTS OUT ON DOYLE. WHITMAN CONTINUES, ADDRESSING AUDIENCE. WHILE WHITMAN SPEAKS A SERIES OF PHOTOS OF HIM MAY BE PROJECTED, TRACING IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER HIS CHANGING IMAGE FROM YOUTHFUL, EFFETE, BOHEMIAN DANDY TO OLD, POET PROPHET

TITLE: 14 Walt Whitman, "Publish my name"

WHITMAN:

Publish my name and hang up my picture as that of the tenderest lover,

The friend the lover's portrait, of whom his friend his lover was fondest,

Who was not proud of his songs, but of the measureless ocean of love within him, and freely poured it forth;

Who often walked lonesome walks thinking of his dear friends, his lovers;

Who pensive, away from one he loved, often lay sleepless and dissatisfied at night;

Who knew too well the sick, sick dread lest the one he loved might secretly be indifferent to him;

Whose happiest days were far away through fields, on hills, he and another wandering hand in hand, they twain apart from other men;

DOYLE JOINS WHITMAN, PUTS HIS ARM AROUND WHITMAN'S SHOULDER; WHITMAN PUTS HIS ARM AROUND DOYLE'S SHOULDER

Who oft as he sauntered the streets, curved with his arm the shoulder of his friend -- while the arm of his friend rested upon him also.

BLACKOUT.

ANOTHER O WHITMAN'S MEN, JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS, APPEARS AGAIN, IN THE SPOT VACATED BY DOYLE. SYMONDS' PHOTOGRAPH MAY BE PROJECTED

SCENE TITLE: 2 John Addington Symonds, "I fear"

SYMONDS ADDRESSES WHITMAN DIRECTLY, AS IF THEY ARE IN THE SAME SPACE; WHITMAN IS SEATED WITH HORACE TRAUBEL

SYMONDS:

I fear

that the last time I wrote

spoke something amiss.

I then asked you

questions about Calamus.

Since that time

I have kept silent,

fearful I was ill-advised

in what I asked.

WHITMAN:

TO TRAUBEL

He harps on the Calamus poems again --

always harping on "my daughter."

I suppose you might say:

TRAUBEL:

Why don't you shut him up by answering him?

WHITMAN:

TO AUDIENCE

There is no logical answer to that.

But I may ask in my turn:

TO SYMONDS

"What right has he

to ask questions anyway?"

TO TRAUBEL

Symonds' 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.

But it always makes me a little testy

to be catechized about the Leaves --

I prefer to have the book

answer for itself.

SYMONDS:

TO WHITMAN

The reason why

I have not published

more than I have

about your poems

is that I cannot get quite

to the bottom of Calamus.

I wish I had your light upon it.

SYMONDS REACHES OUT TO WHITMAN, BESEECHING

WHITMAN:

TO SYMONDS

That question,

he does ask it,

again and again:

asks it, asks it, asks it.

TO SYMONDS, TENDERLY

Anyway,

Symonds is a royal good fellow.

Look at the fight

he has kept up with his body --

his consumption --

yes, and so far won.

I have had my own troubles

but Symonds is the noblest of us all.

TO TRAUBEL

Symonds has a few doubts

yet to be quieted

not doubts of me,

doubts rather of himself.

One of these doubts

is about Calamus:

SYMONDS:

TO WHITMAN, PLEADING FOR A RESPONSE

What does Calamus mean?

WHITMAN:

That is worrying him a good deal --

my poems' involvement,

as he suspects,

in the passional relations of men with men --

the thing he reads so much of

in the literature of southern Europe

and sees something of

in his own experience.

He is always driving me about that:

SYMONDS:

is that what Calamus means?

WHITMAN:

because of me

or in spite of me,

SYMONDS:

is that what Calamus means?

WHITMAN:

TO TRAUBEL

I have said no,

but no does not satisfy him.

He is very shrewd,

very cute,

in deadliest earnest:

he drives me hard --

almost compels me --

is urgent, persistent:

he sort of stands in the road and says:

SYMONDS:

I won't move

till you answer my question.

WHITMAN:

TO SYMONDS

He is still asking the question.

SYMONDS:

What the love of man for man

has been in the past

I think I know.

What you say

it can and shall 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 your own chosen form --

you will tell me more

about the love of Friends.

Till then I wait.

Meanwhile

you have told me more than anyone.

TRAUBEL:

TO WHITMAN

That's a humble letter enough.

I don't see anything in it

to get excited about.

WHITMAN:

CLEARLY EXCITED

Who's excited?

TRAUBEL SHAKES HIS HEAD, PUZZLED BY WHITMAN'S VEHEMENCE

TO SYMONDS

That question,

he does ask it.

Anyway,

I love Symonds.

Who could fail to love

a man who could write such a letter?

I suppose he will have to be answered,

damn, 'im!

QUIETLY, TO HIMSELF

Sometimes I wonder

whether Symonds doesn't come under

St. Paul's famous category --

men leaving the natural use of women.

SYMONDS, MOVES TO A PODIUM AND ADDRESSES AUDIENCE AS A SYMPATHETIC CONFIDANT

SYMONDS:

In February 1877

I gave three lectures

on Italian history and culture

in the theatre

of the Royal Institution, London.

One day,

an old acquaintance

asked me to go with him

to a male brothel

near Regents' Park Barracks.

A BRAWNY YOUNG SOLDIER APPEARS

There,

moved by something stronger than curiosity,

I made an assignation

with a brawny young soldier

for an afternoon

in a private room at the house.

Naturally,

I chose a day

I was not wanted

at the Royal Institution.

SYMONDS STOPS TALKING, TURNS TOWARD THE SOLDIER WHO UNDRESSES SLOWLY, WATCHING HIMSELF IN A MIRROR. SYMONDS WATCHES THE SOLDIER WATCHING HIMSELF IN THE MIRROR. THE AUDIENCE WATCHES A MAN WATCHING A MAN WATCHING; THEN SYMONDS DRAWS A CURTAIN OVER THE AREA WITH SOLDIER AND TURNS BACK TO THE PODIUM

For the first time

I shared a bed

with one so ardently desired.

He was a very nice fellow

as it turned out:

comradely and natural,

regarding the affair

from a business-like

and reasonable point of view.

For him

it involved nothing unusual,

nothing shameful;

and his simple attitude,

the not displeasing vanity

with which he viewed

his own physical attractions,

and the genial sympathy

with which he met

the passion they aroused,

taught me something

about illicit sexual relations

I had never before conceived.

Instead of yielding to any brutal impulse,

I thoroughly enjoyed

the close vicinity

of that splendid

naked

piece of manhood.

Then I made him clothe himself,

sat and smoked and talked with him,

and felt,

at the end of the whole transaction,

that some of the deepest moral problems

might be solved

by fraternity.

Within the sphere

of that lawless, godless place,

human relations --

affections,

reciprocal toleration,

decencies of conduct,

asking and yielding --

concession and abstention --

find a natural expression:

perhaps more

than in the sexual relations

consecrated by middle-class matrimony.

Meanwhile,

I was giving my lectures.

Very dull lectures they were,

for my soul was not in them;

my soul throbbed for the soldier,

for escape

from that droning lecture desk

into a larger, keener existence.

Little did I care

what the gentlemen in frock coats

and ladies in bonnets

thought of my lectures.

I knew

the real arena was not

in the theatre of disputations

and explications of theories.

It lay in a world each penetrates

when the voice of the lecturer

is no more heard

in the theatre.

SYMONDS TURNS AND JOINS SOLDIER, BEHIND CURTAIN. LIGHTS UP ON WHITMAN, WHO STEPS UP TO THE PODIUM SYMONDS HAS VACATED: THE VOICE OF THIS LECTURER IS HEARD IN THE THEATER

TITLE: 3 Walt Whitman, "It is to the development"

WHITMAN:

It is to the development,

identification,

and general prevalence

of that fervid comradeship,

the adhesive love

of man and man

at least rivaling

the amative love

of man and woman,

if not going beyond it,

that I look

for the counterbalance

to our materialistic,

vulgar

American democracy,

and for the spiritualization thereof.

Many will say

it is a dream,

and will not follow my inferences;

but I confidently expect a time

when there will be seen,

running like a half-hid warp

through all the myriad

worldly interests of America,

threads of manly friendship,

fond and loving,

pure and sweet,

strong and life-long,

carried to degrees

hitherto unknown --

not only giving tone

to individual character,

making it unprecedently emotional,

muscular,

heroic,

and refined,

but having the deepest relation

to general politics.

I say democracy infers

such loving comradeship,

as its most inevitable twin,

UNDER CONSTRUCTION -- MORE TO COME