Читать книгу Cecil Dreeme - Theodore Winthrop - Страница 7

Peter Coviello

Earlyish in Cecil Dreeme, a novel written by a young man named Theodore Winthrop and published posthumously by the prominent Boston firm Ticknor and Fields in 1861, we are introduced to a minor character called Towner. He is for Robert Byng, our protagonist and narrator, a glancing acquaintance at best, the friend of a friend. But Byng himself needs all the friends he can find. Having returned only recently from travels in Europe, the young and rootless Byng—unmarried and underemployed, adrift as much in his fatherlessness as in the heathenish dens of lower Manhattan—spends much of the opening portions of the novel wondering over his ongoing attraction to the man who befriended him on his shipboard journey across the sea. This is the sinister and magnetic Densdeth, a figure of insinuating charisma and, we are given to know, resolutely bad intention. Once on shore, and housing himself in rooms at “Chrysalis College” (a thinly veiled New York University), Byng fortuitously encounters John Churm, an old family friend. Churm is, by contrast, avuncular, steadying, and solid of character, and promises precisely the sort of wholesome patriarchal tutelage that might oppose the dire influences of a scoundrel like Densdeth. It is Churm who introduces our young narrator to Towner, and he does so, we could say, to scare him straight. “He is lying perdu here,” Churm says of Towner,

hid from Densdeth and the world. He has been a clerk, agent, tool, slave, of the Great Densdeth. The poor wretch has a little shrivelled bit of conscience left. It twinges him sometimes, like a dying nerve in a rotten tooth. (ch. 5)

Toward the end of the book the victim of “the Great Densdeth” speaks in propia persona, and the portrait of a young man rotted out by depravity is complete: “The first time he saw me,” Towner confesses, “he laid his finger on the bad spot in my nature, and it itched to spread. I’ve been his slave, soul and body, from that moment” (ch. 26). Corrupted in soul and in body, the victim of a corrosive touch, “a bloodless, unwholesome being, sick of himself,” Towner acts here as a kind of living prophecy, a frightful harbinger of the horrors that might visit our uncommitted protagonist should he venture nearer to Densdeth than he already is. “No one ever showed me how to keep straight,” Towner says in neat summary, “and naturally I went crooked” (ch. 26).

Of all the things Cecil Dreeme might be said to be, straight it is not. An extravagant, overheated, splendidly heterodox genre mash-up of a novel, it is also frankly perverse and, as you very quickly discover, indelibly queer. Towner, for instance, appears to have leapt into decaying life directly from the pages of anti-onanist literature, a wonderful midcentury genre in which terrible prophecies about the fate of those undone by carnal indulgence hold space with what are also, as a keen student of the genre like Walt Whitman well knew, portraits of the awesome, world-shaking power of sex. (Whitman would shed the prohibitiveness while embracing the aggrandizement of the erotic, eventually fashioning a plan to gather up the rootless young men of America—men just like Robert Byng—and fuse them into loving cohesion under the sign of what he called comradeship.) There is no deficit of ardent comradeship in Cecil Dreeme, nor of Gothic dread. And yet if this is a frontally perverse novel, in which dramas of temptation and submission hover at all points just fractionally beneath the level of sexual explicitness, it is so in ways that are nevertheless a bit bedeviling to the commonplace languages of erotic deviance we might incline to bring to it.

One wishes to say from the first: Cecil Dreeme is, without question, a queer novel. It is, simultaneously, a range of other things as well: a Gothic novel, a campus novel, a proto-trans novel, an urban-underground novel, a knockoff Dickensian pastiche, and much besides. But what does it mean to nominate as queer a novel published not in 1919 or 1954 but 1861, in mid-nineteenth-century America? This is not a passage of sexual history especially easy to finesse into clarity. Cecil Dreeme speaks to us from a moment well before the solidification of taxonomic identity categories like “the homosexual”—“homosexuality” in its specific modern senses did not, properly speaking, exist in 1861—but in which the elements of those modern conceptual vocabularies for sex were beginning, in their halting and diffuse way, to coalesce. You might say that one of the great pleasures of the book for twenty-first-century readers comes with the chance it affords us to look squarely at imaginings of erotic life, and especially of erotic errancy, in that intriguing in-between time, before they became stabilized under the now-familiar signs of modern sexuality (signs like “gay” and “homosexuality”) but in which the gravitational pull of those ways of organizing and conceiving sex was, if not yet arrived, impending. Which is perhaps another way of saying that Cecil Dreeme, however devoutly it may at moments inhabit the familiar narrative postures of moralizing horror, is also a novel committed, with remarkable tenacity, to its perversities.

* * *

Consider the man who stands at the dark heart of the novel, the domineering, magnetic, altogether Mephistophelean Densdeth. If in Towner we find the archetype of a man destroyed by a carnality insufficiently self-regulated, just as prescribed in the hygienic discourses of anti-onanism, in Densdeth we find a figure no less typological, no less indebted to the stock figures of the midcentury. He is the very type of Gothic villainy: cynical and charming, evil and without remorse, as rich and ruthless as he is elaborately depraved. Any reader of the Gothic will quickly recognize him and the whole atmosphere of unspeakable crime that surrounds him. And yet, for all that familiarity, in Cecil Dreeme the sexualization of Densdeth’s depravity, which reaches toward startling degrees of explicitness, resonates with a unique intensity. Watch as Byng attempts both to resist Densdeth’s seductive authority and to explain it to himself:

Densdeth was studying me, with a covert expression,—so I felt or fancied. I interpreted his look,—“Young man, I saw on the steamer that you were worth buying, worth perverting.”

He goes on, stricken with a temptation he feels powerless to resist,

“What does it mean,” thought I, “this man’s strange fascination? When his eyes are upon me, I feel something stir in my heart, saying, ‘Be Densdeth’s! He knows the mystery of life.’ I begin to dread him. Will he master my will? What is this potency of his? How has he got this lodgment in my spirit? Is he one of those fabulous personages who only exist while they are preying upon another soul, who are torpid unless they are busy contriving a damnation? Why has he been trying to turn me inside out all the voyage? Why has he kept touching the raw spots and the rotten spots in my nature?” (ch. 5)

Sketched out here, with an almost diagrammatic precision, is what Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick long ago described as the sexual panic that structures male intimacy in the fraught terrain of the Gothic. Byng encounters his own flaring desires, which in this moment are desires to be touched and turned inside out and in fact to submit to being Densdeth’s, almost as if they originated less in himself than in the other man’s devilish magnetism, his eerie potency, his half-hypnotic power over him. It is, as Byng tells it to himself, Densdeth who is “contriving a damnation,” and not the contrivance of his own wishes. As Byng himself seems to recognize, Densdeth potentiates all that is queer within him, all his desires for ruination. Unable either to countenance or to forswear entirely those desires in himself, Byng twists in a kind of erotic bafflement, one made more intricate with each encounter with Densdeth. We wonder very little at his growing dread.

We might yet have room to wonder, though, at Densdeth—or rather, at how overfull Densdeth’s character manages to be with the sexual menace proper to one man claiming dominion over another man, from soul to carnal body, and yet how free from, how unmarked by, any typifying language that might specify him for us as a type defined by that sexual perversity. Perverted without being gay, sick in soul without being homosexual, Densdeth is a figure who stands intriguingly aslant of these styles of erotic determination. He offers us instead the rich spectacle of a sexual malignancy only barely not ripened into the modern taxonomical character “the homosexual”—just as in Byng’s longing to be possessed soul and body is the portrait of a desire that is perverse, errant, surely endangering, and very possibly ruinous, but is also not quite, not yet, legible as simply “gay.”

These taxonomic designations were coming over the horizon—the hugely publicized Wilde trials of 1895 would do an immense amount to crystalize “the homosexual” as a type of being, defined with a sweeping character-synthesizing depth by a new possession of the self, called “sexuality”—and it is mostly through their clarities, hardened as they have over the century, that we encounter the extravagant ardors of the novel. Those clarities may thus be rather more ours than those of our antebellum counterparts, though this is not to say what passions we find there are therefore out of bounds, insusceptible to our critical gaze, and not to be approached as anything but chaste-until-proven-otherwise. The interpretive possibilities here are a good deal livelier. After all, Cecil Dreeme is far from the only piece of literature in nineteenth-century America to be marked by these queer desires, some of them trembling on the edge of a legibility not yet arrived, and others skewing toward greater obscurity in the vocabularies of sexual being and sexual practice that would eventually rise to hegemonic prominence. Indeed, another of the real pleasures of Cecil Dreeme, another of the open avenues of its interpretability, is to be found in the curious way it seems to reach out and touch virtually every queerly resonant text in the canon of white male authors of the later nineteenth century. One hears Walt Whitman in the urban erotics of rootless young men, Edgar Allan Poe and George Lippard in the Gothic sensationalism, but also something of the Herman Melville of Billy Budd. (“To a bad man—to some bad men,” Cecil tells Byng, “every pure soul is a perpetual reproach, and must be sullied,” in a phrase we might expect to find appended to John Claggart, the conniving master-at-arms who is mysteriously “down on” the beatific Billy Budd.)

Perhaps the strongest echoes bring us back to Nathaniel Hawthorne, not only in the novel’s fascination with the horror of secret sin but in precisely those projective fantasies, those rescriptings of perverse desire as a menace from without, that we’ve seen in Byng’s interactions with Densdeth. Had he been looking for it, Theodore Winthrop could have found just such a dynamic played out in the pages of Hawthorne’s Blithedale Romance, whose narrator finds himself both powerfully attracted to the unconventional and erotically abundant people he meets at a commune of radicals and, in turn, repelled by that attraction, horrified by what they may portend for him. (“As I look back upon this scene,” Hawthorne’s narrator says of his near-allegiance to the man professing love to him, “there is still a sensation as if [he] had caught hold of my heart, and were pulling it towards him with an almost irresistible force. It is a mystery to me how I withstood it.”) Queer desires may not have come into cohesion as an identity in the middle of the century but, as Cecil Dreeme demonstrates quite as vividly as Hawthorne, this did not mean they were not full of titillation, or menace, or—in those wonderful, rarer cases—possibilities for pleasures too great and enticing to be easily forsworn.

Cecil Dreeme is that rarer case. Consider again the predicament in which we find our narrator. As the novel makes clear from its first scene, Robert Byng is a young man dangerously unmoored, failing conspicuously at his heteroreproductive duties to the nation and the race. “Why then haven’t you been five years at the bar, or ten years at the desk?” his old friend Harry Stillfleet asks him, having been ushered into his rooms by one of the degenerated Irish (a “Patrick” we are told). “Where is your wife?” Where indeed. Like other queer protagonists to come in American literature, Byng seems doomed to suffer the fate of the man who should make a saving peace with the rituals of heterosexuality but, alas, cannot bring himself to it. The portions of the novel involving his intimacy with Emma Denman are something like Henry James’s Beast in the Jungle in Gothicized miniature. Byng feels in relation to her less the passion of attraction than the persistent, curious failure of that attraction to present itself with any especially persuasive force, despite the normative imperative that it do so, and quick. “It was she whom I felt that I did not love,” he says, “yet ought to love” (ch. 18, emphasis added). Despite the urgency of his need for some bulwark against his own queerer compulsions, the charms of male-female romance fail to seduce him. By this point in the novel, this may not be too terribly surprising, and not only because of his attachment to Densdeth. Byng has already offered his sense of married life, in one of the most delightful of the book’s many winning sentences:

Antagonistic natures do not necessarily make man and woman hostile, even when they are imprisoned for life in matrimony; domestic life stirs and stirs, slow and steady, and at last the two mix, like the oil and mustard in a mayonnaise. (ch. 5)

It is not immediately obvious how one could better figure marriage as the opposite of a scene of ardor, ecstasy, dissolving intensity. It is, at best, a dull domestic equilibrium, a prison perhaps, but not the worst sort. Small wonder then that Emma, whom he cannot help but feel is nearly perfect for him, fails to secure Byng’s heart, producing in him only “a hesitant resolve to be her lover,” which he will renounce almost immediately (ch. 24).

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.