And so, with a life of bland imprisonment on one side and the ruinous depravity of submission to Densdeth on the other, Robert Byng appears before us in Cecil Dreeme as the very emblem of imperiled white masculinity, as fantasized by midcentury moralists of many stripes. The fate of the nation and the race rests in his hands, but there he stands, paralyzed by indecision, his irresolution making him each day more vulnerable to catastrophe. What’s a Young American to do?
In Cecil Dreeme the solution arrives, as so often it does, in the form of a beautiful young man. Sensitive and artistic, world-weary and private, the young man in question, called Cecil Dreeme, lounges and paints and converses with what Melville calls “fraternal unreserve” with Byng, who is quickly a good deal more than charmed. “I loved him too much, and with too peculiar a tenderness,” Byng tells us of his reluctance to discuss with this sterling new friend his entangled affair with Emma Denman, “to tell him that I had fancied I loved even a woman better than him” (ch. 24). And why should his “peculiar tenderness” not be the largest ardor of his life? If matrimony is unappetizing and the enticements of Densdeth polluting, Cecil Dreeme appears to offer to Byng the possibility of a life at once unobjectionable in the eyes of the scrutinizing world but also, in its singular strangenesses, at a saving distance from the deadlier conventionalities of normative living. Is theirs a male friendship raised a power by the vitalizing presence of desire, of sex? Or are they something nearer to a sexual coupling, a marriage, though happily free of the more imprisoning antagonisms of gender difference? For Byng it hardly matters. Of course by the end of the novel we learn, in a confession that is likely to surprise very few readers, that Cecil Dreeme was born Clara Denman, sister of Emma, and had gone into hiding as a man to escape the cruel machinations of none other than Densdeth. But then Cecil’s gender transitivity had never not been the case, throughout the course of his intimacy with the beguiled Byng: “I did not quite give up my womanhood, as Cecil,” Cecil-now-Clara reminds him. And at any rate Clara’s having-been Cecil does not leave her either, certainly not in the eyes of Byng, who continues to call him “Cecil” after the confession. Cecil may have been born Clara, but it is precisely Cecil/Clara’s transitivity—his having been a man possessing an unsurrendered womanhood, a woman marked indelibly by having-been-a-man—that unlocks Byng’s attraction, and makes his desire possible.
Like the many other Gothic novels among which it takes its place, Cecil Dreeme does not want for passages of moral fulmination, the better part of them occasioned by Densdeth. Yet its heart, we could say, clearly lies elsewhere. If anything, the Gothic mode provides a formal means to give full voice to the suspicion that a life outside the confinements of matrimony, reasonable affection, and civilized reproductivity might have a gorgeousness, a sensual vitality and unrivaled intensity, that it would be a tremendous grief to forswear. This is what Byng has to say while looking upon the corpse of Densdeth, the putative villain of the novel, whose attractions extend even beyond the threshold of death:
There was the man whom I should have loved if I had not hated, dead at last, with this vulgar death. Only a single stab from another, and my warfare with him was done. I felt a strange sense of indolence overcome me. Was my business in life over, now that I had no longer to struggle with him daily? (ch. 28)
Freed at last from what he has described to himself as the menace of Densdeth, Byng suffers his demise with an altogether post-coital diminishment of spirit. What he feels here is something sharper than mere ambivalence. We can be forgiven, I think, for reading this and wondering if it isn’t the queer life that, really, he has loved all along: the struggle, the transgression, the intoxicating possibility of annihilation. Densdeth may be evil. But as Byng writes it, to do without the turbulent vitality of queer love is its own kind of death, a consignment to the dreariness of the ordinary, a mayonnaise life.
But then, saving him from all that, there is Cecil Dreeme. It is Cecil who keeps alive for our protagonist the delirious possibility—fine, fine, the dream—of an intimacy that may be straight and narrow by the lights of Knickerbocker New York but that carries within it still the errancy, the unexpurgated queerness, without which there is only, for this Young American, ardorless obedience, paralysis, that familiar midcentury life of quiet desperation. That there were not easily-to-hand nominations for the weirder loves that so flourish in Cecil Dreeme—“gay” or “homosexual” or any of their satellite designations—does not diminish them, or render them superfluous. Nor does it make attention to their depiction any less edifying, or the novel in which they appear any less queer.
Biographical Sketch of the Author
From the Original 1861 Edition
George William Curtis
Theodore Winthrop’s life, like a fire long smouldering, suddenly blazed up into a clear, bright flame, and vanished. Those of us who were his friends and neighbors, by whose firesides he sat familiarly, and of whose life upon the pleasant Staten Island, where he lived, he was so important a part, were so impressed by his intense vitality, that his death strikes us with peculiar strangeness, like sudden winter-silence falling upon these humming fields of June.
As I look along the wooded brook-side by which he used to come, I should not be surprised if I saw that knit, wiry, light figure moving with quick, firm, leopard tread over the grass,—the keen gray eye, the clustering fair hair, the kind, serious smile, the mien of undaunted patience. If you did not know him, you would have found his greeting a little constrained,—not from shyness, but from genuine modesty and the habit of society. You would have remarked that he was silent and observant, rather than talkative; and whatever he said, however gay or grave, would have had the reserve of sadness upon which his whole character was drawn. If it were a woman who saw him for the first time, she would inevitably see him through a slight cloud of misapprehension; for the man and his manner were a little at variance. The chance is, that at the end of five minutes she would have thought him conceited. At the end of five months she would have known him as one of the simplest and most truly modest of men.
And he had the heroic sincerity which belongs to such modesty. Of a noble ambition, and sensitive to applause,—as every delicate nature veined with genius always is,—he would not provoke the applause by doing anything which, although it lay easily within his power, was yet not wholly approved by him as worthy. Many men are ambitious and full of talent, and when the prize does not fairly come they snatch at it unfairly. This was precisely what he could not do. He would strive and deserve; but if the crown were not laid upon his head in the clear light of day and by confession of absolute merit, he could ride to his place again and wait, looking with no envy, but in patient wonder and with critical curiosity, upon the victors. It is this which he expresses in the paper in the July number of the Atlantic Monthly Magazine, “Washington as a Camp,” when he says, “I have heretofore been proud of my individuality, and resisted, so far as one may, all the world’s attempts to merge me in the mass.”
It was this which made many who knew him much, but not truly, feel that he was purposeless and restless. They knew his talent, his opportunities. Why does he not concentrate? Why does he not bring himself to bear? He did not plead his ill-health; nor would they have allowed the plea. The difficulty was deeper. He felt that he had shown his credentials, and they were not accepted. “I can wait, I can wait,” was the answer his life made to the impatience of his friends.
We are all fond of saying that a man of real gifts will fit himself to the work of any time; and so he will. But it is not necessarily to the first thing that offers. There is always latent in civilized society a certain amount of what may be called Sir Philip Sidney genius, which will seem elegant and listless and aimless enough until the congenial chance appears. A plant may grow in a cellar; but it will flower only under the due sun and warmth. Sir Philip Sidney was but a lovely possibility, until he went to be Governor of Flushing. What else was our friend, until he went to the war?
The a
ge of Elizabeth did not monopolize the heroes, and they are always essentially the same. When, for instance, I read in a letter of Hubert Languet’s to Sidney, “You are not over-cheerful by nature,” or when, in another, he speaks of the portrait that Paul Veronese painted of Sidney, and says, “The painter has represented you sad and thoughtful,” I can believe that he is speaking of my neighbor. Or when I remember what Sidney wrote to his younger brother,—“Being a gentleman born, you purpose to furnish yourself with the knowledge of such things as may be serviceable to your country and calling,”—or what he wrote to Languet,—“Our Princes are enjoying too deep a slumber: I cannot think there is any man possessed of common understanding who does not see to what these rough storms are driving by which all Christendom has been agitated now these many years,”—I seem to hear my friend, as he used to talk on the Sunday evenings when he sat in this huge cane-chair at my side, in which I saw him last, and in which I shall henceforth always see him.
Nor is it unfair to remember just here that he bore one of the few really historic names in this country. He never spoke of it; but we should all have been sorry not to feel that he was glad to have sprung straight from that second John Winthrop who was the first Governor of Connecticut, the younger sister colony of Massachusetts Bay,—the John Winthrop who obtained the charter of privileges for his colony. How clearly the quality of the man has been transmitted! How brightly the old name shines out again!
He was born in New Haven on the 22d of September, 1828, and was a grave, delicate, rather precocious child. He was at school only in New Haven, and entered Yale College just as he was sixteen. The pure, manly morality which was the substance of his character, and his brilliant exploits of scholarship, made him the idol of his college friends, who saw in him the promise of the splendid career which the fond faith of students allots to the favorite classmate. He studied for the Clark scholarship, and gained it; and his name, in the order of time, is first upon the roll of that foundation. For the Berkeleian scholarship he and another were judged equal, and, drawing lots, the other gained the scholarship; but they divided the honor.
In college his favorite studies were Greek and mental philosophy. He never lost the scholarly taste and habit. A wide reader, he retained knowledge with little effort, and often surprised his friends by the variety of his information. Yet it was not strange, for he was born a scholar. His mother was the great-granddaughter of old President Edwards; and among his relations upon the maternal side, Winthrop counted six Presidents of colleges. Perhaps also in this learned descent we may find the secret of his early seriousness. Thoughtful and self-criticising, he was peculiarly sensible to religious influences, under which his criticism easily became self-accusation, and his sensitive seriousness grew sometimes morbid. He would have studied for the ministry or a professorship, upon leaving college, except for his failing health.
In the later days, when I knew him, the feverish ardor of the first religious impulse was past. It had given place to a faith much too deep and sacred to talk about, yet holding him always with serene, steady poise in the purest region of life and feeling. There was no franker or more sympathetic companion for young men of his own age than he; but his conversation fell from his lips as unsullied as his soul.
He graduated in 1848, when he was twenty years old; and for the sake of his health, which was seriously shattered,—an ill-health that colored all his life,—he set out upon his travels. He went first to England, spending much time at Oxford, where he made pleasant acquaintances, and walking through Scotland. He then crossed over to France and Germany, exploring Switzerland very thoroughly upon foot,—once or twice escaping great dangers among the mountains,—and pushed on to Italy and Greece, still walking much of the way. In Italy he made the acquaintance of Mr. W. H. Aspinwall, of New York, and upon his return became tutor to Mr. Aspinwall’s son. He presently accompanied his pupil and a nephew of Mr. Aspinwall, who were going to a school in Switzerland; and after a second short tour of six months in Europe he returned to New York, and entered Mr. Aspinwall’s counting-house. In the employ of the Pacific Steamship Company he went to Panama and resided for about two years, travelling, and often ill of the fevers of the country. Before his return he travelled through California and Oregon,—went to Vancouver’s Island, Puget Sound, and the Hudson Bay Company’s station there. At the Dalles he was smitten with the small-pox, and lay ill for six weeks. He often spoke with the warmest gratitude of the kind care that was taken of him there. But when only partially recovered he plunged off again into the wilderness. At another time he fell very ill upon the plains, and lay down, as he supposed, to die; but after some time struggled up and on again.
He returned to the counting-room, but, unsated with adventure, joined the disastrous expedition of Lieutenant Strain. During the time he remained with it his health was still more weakened, and he came home again in 1854. In the following year he studied law and was admitted to the bar. In 1856 he entered heartily into the Fremont campaign, and from the strongest conviction. He went into some of the dark districts of Pennsylvania and spoke incessantly. The roving life and its picturesque episodes, with the earnest conviction which inspired him, made the summer and autumn exciting and pleasant. The following year he went to St. Louis to practise law. The climate was unkind to him, and he returned and began the practice in New York. But he could not be a lawyer. His health was too uncertain, and his tastes and ambition allured him elsewhere. His mind was brimming with the results of observation. His fancy was alert and inventive, and he wrote tales and novels. At the same time he delighted to haunt the studio of his friend Church, the painter, and watch day by day the progress of his picture, the Heart of the Andes. It so fired his imagination that he wrote a description of it, in which, as if rivalling the tropical and tangled richness of the picture, he threw together such heaps and masses of gorgeous words that the reader was dazzled and bewildered.
The wild campaigning life was always a secret passion with him. His stories of travel were so graphic and warm, that I remember one evening, after we had been tracing upon the map a route he had taken, and he had touched the whole region into life with his description, my younger brother, who had sat by and listened with wide eyes all the evening, exclaimed with a sigh of regretful satisfaction, as the door closed upon our story-teller, “It’s as good as Robinson Crusoe!” Yet, with all his fondness and fitness for that kind of life, or indeed any active administrative function, his literary ambition seemed to be the deepest and strongest.
He had always been writing. In college and upon his travels he kept diaries; and he has left behind him several novels, tales, sketches of travel, and journals. The first published writing of his which is well known is his description, in the June (1861) number of the Atlantic Monthly Magazine, of the March of the Seventh Regiment of New York to Washington. It was charming by its graceful, sparkling, crisp, off-hand dash and ease. But it is only the practised hand that can “dash off” effectively. Let any other clever member of the clever regiment, who has never written, try to dash off the story of a day or a week in the life of the regiment, and he will see that the writer did that little thing well because he had done large things carefully. Yet, amid all the hurry and brilliant bustle of the articles, the author is, as he was in the most bustling moment of the life they described, a spectator, an artist. He looks on at himself and the scene of which he is part. He is willing to merge his individuality; but he does not merge it, for he could not.
So, wandering, hoping, trying, waiting, thirty-two years of his life went by, and they left him true, sympathetic, patient. The sharp private griefs that sting the heart so deeply, and leave a little poison behind, did not spare him. But he bore everything so bravely, so silently,—often silent for a whole evening in the midst of pleasant talkers, but not impertinently sad, nor ever sullen,—that we all loved him a little more at such times. The ill health from which he always suffered, and a flower-like delicacy of temperament, the yearning desire to be of some ser
vice in the world, coupled with the curious, critical introspection which marks every sensitive and refined nature and paralyzes action, overcast his life and manner to the common eye with pensiveness and even sternness. He wrote verses in which his heart seems to exhale in a sigh of sadness. But he was not in the least a sentimentalist. The womanly grace of temperament merely enhanced the unusual manliness of his character and impression. It was like a delicate carnation upon the cheek of a robust man. For his humor was exuberant. He seldom laughed loud, but his smile was sweet and appreciative. Then the range of his sympathies was so large, that he enjoyed every kind of life and person, and was everywhere at home. In walking and riding, in skating and running, in games out of doors and in, no one of us all in the neighborhood was so expert, so agile as he. For, above all things, he had what we Yankees call faculty,—the knack of doing everything. If he rode with a neighbor who was a good horseman, Theodore, who was a Centaur, when he mounted, would put any horse at any gate or fence; for it did not occur to him that he could not do whatever was to be done. Often, after writing for a few hours in the morning, he stepped out of doors, and, from pure love of the fun, leaped and turned summersaults on the grass, before going up to town. In walking about the island, he constantly stopped by the road-side fences, and, grasping the highest rail, swung himself swiftly and neatly over and back again, resuming the walk and the talk without delay.
I do not wish to make him too much a hero. “Death,” says Bacon, “openeth the gate to good fame.” When a neighbor dies, his form and quality appear clearly, as if he had been dead a thousand years. Then we see what we only felt before. Heroes in history seem to us poetic because they are there. But if we should tell the simple truth of some of our neighbors, it would sound like poetry. Winthrop was one of the men who represent the manly and poetic qualities that always exist around us,—not great genius, which is ever salient, but the fine fibre of manhood that makes the worth of the race.
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