A View of Sorts
23/05/2007 09:57 AM
The view of the white-capped mountains
that the window in Melville’s study afforded provided, without
question, a wealth of inspiration for his best works, with extreme
emphasis on one in particular. The gently rise and fall of the
mountains provided a constant reminder of the grandeur and size of
the great white whale. I know I myself am particularly pleased his
view wasn’t that of perhaps his best-known antihero (second only to
the elusive Captain Ahab) Bartleby from the short story “Bartleby
the Scrivener.” In the short story, for those who haven’t had the
pleasure, Bartleby’s view consists of the broad, gray side of
another building. In sparing a great and lengthy discussion of one
of the great American crises, I will note that the view from
Arrowhead provided Melville freedom from the “job as prison” motif
that has been omnipresent in American life since the birth of the
Puritan work ethic. Sometimes a mere view can be the difference
between sanity and madness; a lesson I learned from Melville and
his Bartleby.
But what kind of view am I discussing? To be clearer, allow me to introduce to you, reader, the unnamed couple that joined our tour, completely oblivious to the facts that (a) it was a private tour and (b) Arrowhead was, in fact, still closed for the season. For as elitist as I am sounding now (you will understand my disgust in a moment), our group was kind enough to invite the tourists along for the guided tour. As our lively (and a bit flirtatious) guide led us gracefully from room to room, she excitedly blurted out facts about Melville’s life at Arrowhead as if they were secrets that she could only share with us. We were soaking it all in, when suddenly, from out of nowhere, the grating voice of skepticism and utter conspiracy theory filled the room. Upon discussing one of Melville’s sons who did not marry, our guide was interrupted with a harsh question.
“So he was gay, right?”
I thought I was going to have to peel Mr. Rutledge’s bottom lip from the floor. Luckily, Mr. Rutledge was not our guide. Our graceful lady leader, however, took it in stride. She must be used to leading groups of ill-behaved, obnoxious children around the farm. She answered in that tone that all adults (and most children) know. It’s the I’m-only-answering-you-to-prove-that-you’re-ignorant tone. The “No, Tommy, you may not have a cow for a house pet” voice. Our guide answered, “No, he just didn’t marry.” I secretly thanked the unwanted guest for that blast from 1982 and we moved on with our tour.
Just as we were recovering from the awkward blurt of a woman, the guide entered the subject of the death of Melville’s son. She, as most historical scholars do, pointed out that the gunshot wound that killed Melville’s son was self-inflicted and it may have been an accident. Scholars are torn on this subject. The guide was merely protecting herself, I assume, from self-important, quasi-literary buffs that claim one side or the other. Even her well-placed tact was not enough for the likes of the inquisitive lady.
“So he shot himself, right?”
This time it was my lower lip that needed adjustment.
In this case, the views of the guests are quite different. One group, the majority who arranged for the special tour, is decidedly open-minded and eager to learn about Melville. The other group, the self-imposed minority of two drifters, is, quite frankly, looking for the National Enquirer tour of Melville’s farm. I find the former method more savory. Upon embarking on this adventure, I felt ill-prepared. I had not read enough of these great American authors to even begin to understand the importance of seeing their dwelling places. Perhaps the purpose of the tabloid tourist was to show me that my seemingly meager preparations for these tours were exponentially more than many of the guests these places receive. Beyond feeling better about myself, I felt sorry for the guides. What a waste of amazing talent. The majority of our tour guides were wonderfully passionate about their landmarks. From the Longfellow-quoting romantic to the heavily accented Emerson scholar, these people make it their life’s work to share these authors with the world in the most real settings only to have people show up looking for a scandal. Perhaps I am basing my observation on limited experience. I only hope it is my skewed notations and not the reality of the situation.
But what kind of view am I discussing? To be clearer, allow me to introduce to you, reader, the unnamed couple that joined our tour, completely oblivious to the facts that (a) it was a private tour and (b) Arrowhead was, in fact, still closed for the season. For as elitist as I am sounding now (you will understand my disgust in a moment), our group was kind enough to invite the tourists along for the guided tour. As our lively (and a bit flirtatious) guide led us gracefully from room to room, she excitedly blurted out facts about Melville’s life at Arrowhead as if they were secrets that she could only share with us. We were soaking it all in, when suddenly, from out of nowhere, the grating voice of skepticism and utter conspiracy theory filled the room. Upon discussing one of Melville’s sons who did not marry, our guide was interrupted with a harsh question.
“So he was gay, right?”
I thought I was going to have to peel Mr. Rutledge’s bottom lip from the floor. Luckily, Mr. Rutledge was not our guide. Our graceful lady leader, however, took it in stride. She must be used to leading groups of ill-behaved, obnoxious children around the farm. She answered in that tone that all adults (and most children) know. It’s the I’m-only-answering-you-to-prove-that-you’re-ignorant tone. The “No, Tommy, you may not have a cow for a house pet” voice. Our guide answered, “No, he just didn’t marry.” I secretly thanked the unwanted guest for that blast from 1982 and we moved on with our tour.
Just as we were recovering from the awkward blurt of a woman, the guide entered the subject of the death of Melville’s son. She, as most historical scholars do, pointed out that the gunshot wound that killed Melville’s son was self-inflicted and it may have been an accident. Scholars are torn on this subject. The guide was merely protecting herself, I assume, from self-important, quasi-literary buffs that claim one side or the other. Even her well-placed tact was not enough for the likes of the inquisitive lady.
“So he shot himself, right?”
This time it was my lower lip that needed adjustment.
In this case, the views of the guests are quite different. One group, the majority who arranged for the special tour, is decidedly open-minded and eager to learn about Melville. The other group, the self-imposed minority of two drifters, is, quite frankly, looking for the National Enquirer tour of Melville’s farm. I find the former method more savory. Upon embarking on this adventure, I felt ill-prepared. I had not read enough of these great American authors to even begin to understand the importance of seeing their dwelling places. Perhaps the purpose of the tabloid tourist was to show me that my seemingly meager preparations for these tours were exponentially more than many of the guests these places receive. Beyond feeling better about myself, I felt sorry for the guides. What a waste of amazing talent. The majority of our tour guides were wonderfully passionate about their landmarks. From the Longfellow-quoting romantic to the heavily accented Emerson scholar, these people make it their life’s work to share these authors with the world in the most real settings only to have people show up looking for a scandal. Perhaps I am basing my observation on limited experience. I only hope it is my skewed notations and not the reality of the situation.