Genteel Pagan: The Double Life of Charles Warren Stoddard (17 page)

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Authors: Roger Austen

Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #General, #Literary Criticism, #Gay & Lesbian, #test

BOOK: Genteel Pagan: The Double Life of Charles Warren Stoddard
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Page 34
Like most young writers, Stoddard thirsted for hearty encouragement, not disheartening caution, such as Oliver Wendell Holmes's frank advice to "think well" before relinquishing "any useful occupation . . .  for the life of an artist in verse." But Stoddard had no useful occupation, and being a poet seemed the only vocation open to one of his temperament. Encouraged by the more favorable comments and by Bret Harte's willingness to help him, Stoddard decided in 1866 to have a book of his poems published in San Francisco.
This slim volume of forty-five poems, underwritten by subscriptions, illustrated by his friend William Keith, and published by Anton Roman, appeared in the fall of 1867. The poems were grouped under six headings: "Of Nature," "Idyllic and Legendary," "Of the Heart," "Of Fancy and Imagination,'' "Of Meditation," and "Of Aspiration and Desire." In the last group, two are of some interest. In "Unrest," Stoddard alludes to "My heavy woe I may not name," but in "The Awakening," set in Hawaii, Stoddard pretends that his experiences during that trip were significant for spiritual as opposed to sexual reasons.
When
Poems
was about to appear, Anton Roman had the foresight to send the jittery young Stoddard into the mountains "on the pretext of wishing me to set Yosemite to song." He was relieved to have some place to flee to, especially when he thought about the critical brickbats that had been thrown at
Outcroppings.
Stoddard planned to stay at Yosemite until "the agony was over," hoping that he could return to San Francisco "with peace in my heart and my brow bound with victorious wreaths" (CRP).
The wreaths had thorns. While a few local reviewers praised him, many others made sport of Stoddard and his book, often in the Wild-West spirit that was conventional among San Francisco critics. One reviewer had it both ways. In the
Californian,
James Bowman praised the
Poems
in grandiose style and then savaged this review and Stoddard in an anonymous piece in the
Dramatic Chronicle.
The reviews from the East, on which Stoddard so counted, were no more encouraging.
The Nation's
critic felt only "imitation spasms" of someone in plight to the Spasmodic School, and Edward Rowland Sill averred in the
New York Round Table
that Stoddard had merely done "well what Tennyson has done so infinitely better." In later years Stoddard came to agree with the critics who "saw little or nothing in my verses save extravagance, rather than those who professed to see in them evidence of great promise."
Poems,
he conceded, had been a "mere wind-fall of unripe fruit."
12
 
Page 35
In 1867, the American poet whose approval Stoddard most desired, for reasons that did not have everything to do with poetry, was Walt Whitman. Stoddard's first reaction to Whitman's rude yawps had been a gentleman's cool disdain. In 1866, however, Stoddard wrote: "I have been reading
Walt Whitman
and him I thought a fooland him I am growing to glorify." In the "Calamus" poems, Stoddard felt a temperamental kinship to Whitman that was far more important than their poetic differences. "Who shall say we are not all babes and fools; and that this one and the other one who are declared gross and rudebecause their eyes see all things clearly and their lips speak outwho shall say they are not prince and king among usand shall by and by shine brightly and be understood" (IH 21, 22 May 1866). Although Stoddard had hardly spoken out in his poems, he was hopeful that they might still ring a responsive chord in the heart of this man who had the courage to champion love between comrades.
Apparently, Stoddard's book of poems did not impress Whitman, who chose not to reply. Disappointed and frustrated, Stoddard tried a flank approach, sending an ingratiating note to John Burroughs, whose
Notes on Walt Whitman as Poet and Person
had just been published. How grateful he was, Stoddard wrote, for Burroughs's book on "the glorious Walt Whitman," from whom he was so eager to hear. Might Burroughs be willing to serve as a go-between?
13
But Whitman was not to break his silence until 1870, when, after reading "A South-Sea Idyl," he recognized Stoddard as a fellow worshiper at the altar of "manly love."
III
As the hostile reviews of
Poems
continued to come in, Stoddard felt hurt and depressed. He had done his best, and that had fallen short of his ambitions. He hardly knew where to turn. More than ever before, Stoddard needed a source of comfort, a refuge that would protect him in a way that his family and friends could not. He found that refuge in the Roman Catholic church, into which he was baptized at Saint Mary's Cathedral in San Francisco on 2 November 1867.
Several literary historians have written perceptively about what may have led Stoddard to become a Catholic. Kevin Starr attributes the conversion to Stoddard's aesthetic as well as emotional need for "an altar before which he could prostrate himself in adoration." The symbols of Catholicism "met the needs of his imagination and the hungers
 
Page 36
of his heart. Romanism was part of a total
mise en scène.
The Latin liturgy, the Italian Jesuits of Saint Ignatius Church where he went for instructions, his developing interest in the civilizations of Southern Europe, the very Mediterranean metaphor of California itself, all massed themselves on the borders of his imagination, moving him to an assent that was an act of religion, the election of a cultureand a vision of beauty."
14
Starr is right not to overlook the role of those Italian Jesuits at Saint Ignatius. Some were young and dark and beautiful; others were old and white-haired and venerable; all were soft-spoken and comforting and kindly. With equal insight, Franklin Walker views Stoddard's conversion in light of both his postpublication depression and his need to find a creed elastic enough to allow for his "pagan love of life." Catholicism "answered for him, as nothing before had done, the question which was with him constantly: 'What shall I do to be saved?' When he was baptized, he felt that all his problems were solved."
15
Stoddard himself gave an explanation twenty-four years later in a letter to James Whitcomb Riley: "I couldn't help it, you see; it was born in me and was the only thing that appealed to my temperament. I believe a man's religion is nessessarily
[sic]
a matter of temperament. I couldn't be anything else than a Catholicexcept
except
a downright
savage,
and I wish to God I were that!"
16
When Stoddard spoke of his "temperament," he was alluding to the love of beauty that Walker and Starr recognize. But he was also suggesting to Riley the psychosexual implications of the word. In this regard, the consolation of Catholic confession was especially important to Stoddard, who knew very well from childhood what the Calvinists had to say about Sodom and Gomorrah. What the Presbyterians had seemed to damn in self-righteous fury the Catholics seemed to have the grace to forgive; and Stoddard sensed that one of his "temperament" would need a good deal of forgiveness for the rest of his life. Equally important to Stoddard was the "haven" aspect of the church, the sense that all over the world Catholics were warm and loving and hospitable. Years later Stoddard could recall the special balm of a young priest's touching him lightly on the shoulder, and it was mainly his sense of the church's loving embrace that made him happy to be drawn to its "majestic bosom.''
In his comments on the conversion, Franklin Walker is not exaggerating when he says that Stoddard felt "if he could not find a place in lay society, he would become a monk."
17
For the rest of his life, Stoddard
 
Page 37
relied on the comforting idea that Catholics take care of their own; and in 1867, he asked assistance from Father Accalti, the Jesuit who had been in charge of his religious instruction. He explained to this good man that although he was not quite ready for the monastery, he needed some secular employment that would be comparably contemplative.
In
For the Pleasure of His Company,
there is a scene in which Paul Clitheroe turns to the Clergy House for an answer. Father A. Venerable (modeled on Father Accalti) gives this advice:
It seems that many young men are seeking positions where they may make a respectable livelihood; they are willing to accept anything that is offered to them; there are in many cases young men of some experience; hardy, accustomed to manual labor, and stronger in body than you are, my child. . . . You cannot shovel coal; you cannot trundle freight upon the docks; you cannot drive a carriage for the coach companies in the city. . . . You are fitted to do another class of work; you are fitted to adorn literature.
It is a shame, the priest continues, that the public does not provide for struggling geniuses as it does for orphans and other unfortunates, especially since literary talent and reputation are widely considered to be insurmountable obstacles to worldly advancement: "Business men will not for a moment have a poet in their counting room, and they are no doubt right." But Father Venerable does know of one suitable opening: "There is a gentleman here who owns vast tracts of land in the southern part of the State; his flocks and herds wander broadcast over it; one might say that the 'Cattle upon a thousand hills are his.' He can offer you the lot of a shepherd"
(FPHC
46-47).
A
shepherd?
Stoddard made other plans, turning at last to Harry Edwards, the actor-manager at the Metropolitan Theater, who had noticed his flair for the theatrical and had floated the idea of his going on the stage some day. Edwards's wife, an equally good friend, had commented favorably on Stoddard's voice and way of posing; she sensed he was a born actor. Less than thrilled by the prospect of appearing before the same local critics who had ridiculed his
Poems,
Stoddard asked to join Edwards's company in Sacramento, where he could break in with minor roles.
On 13 March 1868, Stoddard made his debut as the priggish Arthur Apsley in Dion Boucicault's
The Willow Copse.
The Sacramento
Daily Union
found his appearance "encouraging," his articulation "clear and full," and his manner "natural and self-possessed."
18
Something of a hit, Stoddard, like his character Paul Clitheroe, noticed that on the
 
Page 38
streets he was an "object of interest" to some of the young men of that city. In a rare reversal of roles, Stoddard became the idol of a star-struck young clerk, who was "never so happy" as when the actor "would consent to accept a late supper at his hands, and permit him to share the midnight oyster and musty ale which usually followed the labors of the evening." Soon, however, Stoddard/Clitheroe began to struggle in memorizing all of his different parts, and he wondered if he were truly cut out for a life on the stage. The star of the company told him that "an actor who hopes to reach the top of his profession must not only have talent, voice, figure, health, energy and applicationhe should have a steam engine at the base of his brain." Stoddard's reaction to this was despair. He soon found that he could not concentrate at all. During the afternoons he slipped off to the riverbank to sun himself and to ''pore with listless eyes over the hateful text he was endeavoring to memorize"a task all the more difficult for his having chosen the very spot where the young men of Sacramento came to swim
(FPHC
59, 65-66).
Stoddard's listlessness increased, and when he heard there was an opening on the
Californian
in San Francisco, he hastily took it. The job turned out to be a menial one. The
Californian
was about to fold; and instead of writing, Stoddard was charged with keeping the books and mailing out subscribers' copies. But at least he now had rent money. At this time he was living in Oakland at the Hotel de France in grand Bohemian style. In the evenings he and other residents, including Prentice Mulford and James Bowman, would dine and drink alfresco while overlooking the Oakland waterfront. The
Californian
job also led to introductions to many of the new literary celebrities in the city, one of the most interesting of whom was Ambrose Bierce.
In 1868, Bierce was a twenty-six-year-old bachelor, "one of the handsomest men in town, with almost angelic good looks. He was a six-footer, with an erect carriage, a mop of curly golden hair, a sweeping gunfighter's moustache, fierce blue eyes, and baby-pink cheeks."
19
These attributes alone were sufficient to commend the former Union army lieutenant to Stoddard, but there was more. They could swap stories about their harrowing religious experiences as boysalthough Bierce had been more resistant to revival hysteria than had Stoddard, having once broken up a camp meeting by galloping through the congregation on a horse. Bierce also impressed Stoddard with his sardonic sense of humor. Although Stoddard prided himself on tossing an occasional
bon mot,
there was no one sharper than Bierce in stinging rep-

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