Van Vechten Carl 1880-1964 - Peter Whiffle : his life and works

First Modern Library Edition

1929

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UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

Manufactured in the United States of America

Sound for THE MOUKRN LIBRARY by H. JVolff

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"'Tingling is the test/ said Babhalanja, 'Yoomy, did you tingle,

Herman Melville: Mardi.

"ff^e ivork in the darkwe do what

"Les existences les plus belles sont peut-etre celles qui ont subi tous les extremes, qui ont traverse toutes les temperatures, rencontri toutes les sensations exces-sives et tous les sentiments contradictoires,"

Remy de Gourmont: Le Chat de Mis^re.

"The man vt>ho satisfies a ceaseless intellectual cur^ iosity probably squeezes more out of life in the long run than any one else."

Edmund Gosse: Books on the Table.

O mother of the hills, forgive our towers; O mother of the clouds, forgive our dreams**

Edwin Ellis.

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Preface

So few people were acquainted with Peter Whiffle that the announcement, on that page of the New York Times consecrated to wedding, birth, and obituary notices, of his death in New York on December 15, 1919, awakened no comment. Those of my friends who knew something of the relationship between Peter and myself, probably did not see the slender paragraph at all. At any rate none of them mentioned it, save, of course, Edith Dale, whose interest, in a sense, was as special as my own. Her loss was not so personal, however, nor her grief so deep. It was strange and curious to remember that however infrequently we had met, and the chronicle which follows will give evidence of the comparative infrequency of these meetings, yet some indestructible bond, a firm determining girdle of intimate understanding, over which Time and Space had no power, held us together. I had become to Peter something of a necessity, in that through me he found the proper outlet for his artistic explosions- I was present, indeed, at the bombing of more than one discarded theory. It was under the spell of sucK ^lV'^'mwnsJ^ trivial znd external matters that omt l-txca^i^^

Preface

developed and, while my own interests often fi in other directions, Peter certainly occupied as i portant a place in my heart as I did in his, probat in some respects, more important. Nevertheh when I received a notification from his lawyer tl I had been mentioned in Peter's will, I was o siderably astonished. My astonishment increas when I was informed of the nature of the beque Peter Whiffle had appointed me to serve as literary executor.

Now Peter Whiffle was not, in any accepted sei of the epithet, an author. He had never publisl: a book; he had never, indeed, written a book, the end he had come to hold a somewhat mys theory in regard to such matters, which he h only explained to me a few moments before he di" I was, however, aware, more aware than any c else could possibly have been, that from time to tii he had been accustomed to take notes. I was familiar, I suppose, as any one could be, with t trend of his later ideas, and with some of 1 major incidents in his earlier life he had acquaint me, although, here, I must confess, .there w( lacunsB in my knowledge. Still, his testament: request, unless I might choose to accept it in sense, I am convinced, entirely too flattering to i slender talents, seemed to be inconsistent with t speculative idea which haunted him, at least wards the end of his life. This contradiction a ^/r enlarging sense of the mystet\o\x% Ocl?lt?i^v^t

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reface

Ac assignment were somewhat dispelled by a letter, dated June 17, 1917, which, a few days after the reading of the will, his lawyer placed in my hands and which indicated plainly enough that Peter had decided upon my appointment at least two years and a half before he died. This letter not only confirmed the strange clause in the will but also, to some extent, explained It and, as the letter is an essential part of my narrative, I offer it in evidence at once.

Dear Carlso It read:

I suppose that some day I shall die; people do die. If there h^^ b<;^n nnf 8rt purpose in my life, it hasIieen. R0t_ taJiav* purpose. ~That, you alone, perhaps, understand. You know how I have always hesitated to express myself definitely, you know how I have refrained from writing, and you also know, perhaps, that I can write; Indeed, until recently, you thought I was writing, or would write. Bat I think you realize now what writing has come to mean to me, definition, constant definition, although It Is as apparent as anything can be that life, nature, art, whatever one writes about, are fluid and mutable things, perpetually undergoing change and, even when they assume some semblance of permanence, always presenting two or more faces. There are those who are not appalled by these conditions, those who confront them with bravery

Kd even with impertinence. \ ou Wn e. \i?.e,'c\ ':.wix-:ous. You have published seveiaX^jooVA"^^^^^

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Preface I

have read with varying shades of pleasure, and you have not hesitated to define, or at any rate discuss, even that intangible, invisible, and noisy art called Music.

I have begun many things but nothing have I ever completed. It has always seemed unnecessary or impossible, although at times I have tried to carry a piece of work through. On these occasions a restraining angel has held me firmly back. It might be better if what I have written, what I have said, were permitted to pass into oblivion with me, to become a part of scoriae chaos. It may not mean anything in particular; if it means too muchi to that extent I have failed.

Thinking, however, of death, as I sometimes do, I have wondered if, after all, behind the vapoury curtain of my fluctuating purpose, behind the orphlc wall of my indecision, there did not lurk some vague shadow of intention. Not on my part, per* haps, but on the part of that being, or that condition, which is reported to be interested in such matters. This doubt, I confess, I owe to you. Sometimes, in those extraordinary moments between sleeping and awakeningand once in the dentist's chair, after I had taken gasthe knots seemed to unravel, the problem seemed as naked as Istar at the seventh gate. But these moments arc difficult, or impossible, to recapture. To recapture them I should have been compelled to

vent a new style, a style as capricious and vibrr

Preface

tory as the moments themselves. In this, however, as you know, I have failed, while you have succeeded. It is to your success, modest as it may appear to you, that I turn in my dilemma. To come to the point, cannot you explain, make out some kind of case for me, put me on my feet {or in a book), and thereby prove or disprove something? Shameless as I am, it would be inconceivable, absurd, for me to ask you to do this while I am yet living and I have, therefore, put my request into a formal clause in my will. After I am dead, you may search your memory, which I know to be very good, for such examples of our conversations as will best be fitted to illuminate your subject, which I must insistyou, yourself, will imderstand this, too, sooner or later is not tne at all.