serious one, but while suffering from the effects of it he was obliged
to give up his jaunts and remain indoors. However, on pleasant evenings
he could sit in a chair on the sidewalk, under his one cherished shade
tree, into the bark of which he soon wore a hole with the restless
movement of his right foot. Of the passers-by there were few who did not
know him; many would pause for a moment's speech, others would
occasionally get a chair and remain for an hour's chat. He soon
recovered, but if the similar stroke he had suffered a few years before
had served "to lower his fund of strength, weaken the springs of his
constitution and almost wholly destroy his walking powers," (_Thomas
Donaldson_), there was certainly little encouragement in store for him.
His housekeeper, too, had her physical troubles. She had visibly
changed; how could it be otherwise? The back part of the house was
gloomy, at times damp and unwholesome, and she had grappled with so many
difficulties that she had lost strength and flesh, felt run down and
nervous, while the "rosy cheeks" had faded forever.
This sickness not only made Mr. Whitman even more dependent upon her
than usual, but it caused her great anxiety in another way. She
realized the great risk she had taken and was taking, for on coming into
the house she had relied upon verbal promises alone; no written contract
or agreement had been entered into.
Now month had followed month and she had waited in vain for the old man
to allude to living expenses or inquire as to her ability to meet them
longer. Strange as it may seem, since being settled in his own house
Walt had never mentioned money, or in any way broached the subject of
his financial standing.
During the first year she had not been at all disturbed in mind; she had
confidence in his integrity, and believed he had no means of meeting
present embarrassments. The next summer she saw that money was coming in
from a number of sources, but had no way of learning the amounts
received or in what way they were disbursed. This sunstroke and the
consequences that might have resulted from it were enough to arouse her
thoroughly. Not that she had lost confidence in Mr. Whitman, but it came
home to her that should he die she would be in no way secured. Before
long the bequest left her by Captain Fritzinger would be following her
own savings, which were rapidly dwindling away.
After thinking the matter over seriously, she resolved that as soon as
the sick man had somewhat recuperated she would make an effort to have
things put on a new and safer basis. She knew that from private
donations, sale of books, government pension, receipts from lectures and
so on, he had opened a bank account. She also knew he was paying
one-half the expenses of Edward at a sanitarium and was sending a weekly
remittance to his sister in Vermont,--and knowing all this, she felt
that she was being treated with injustice. She had already spoken to
Mrs. Whitman and to one or two others, and they had assured her that
Walt was abundantly able to meet all household expenses, and would
without doubt do so in his own good time.
She had never solicited his confidence, and yet while they were
strangers, or comparative strangers,--long before she had entertained
the slightest thought that she should one day exchange her home for
his,--he had talked freely, even confidentially, to her; had voluntarily
spoken of his money matters, his past disappointments and future
expectations. But since she had come into the Mickle Street house he
had never renewed these subjects, and his way of passing them over was
inexplicable to her.
When the first repairs had been made in the house, she had taken the
bill to him for approval and payment. He had simply glanced at it, and
returned it with the words: "I think it must be all right." She had
remained standing in the doorway until, silent, seemingly absorbed in
his reading and oblivious of her presence, he had made her feel so
uncomfortable that she had quietly glided away to pay the carpenter out
of her own purse. This happened so early in their housekeeping together
that she, so charitable by nature, had excused him on the ground that,
having no money, he had disliked to talk further about the bill. But a
year had passed, she understood his position better, and she could not
excuse him again on this plea. She had mentioned the urgent need of
further repairs (and when were they not needed in this little rookery?)
and he had promptly replied: "Have it done; certainly, certainly; have
everything done that is required." The result was still the same;
although ordering the work, he was just as indifferent as before in
regard to settling for it.
And so it had gone on in all cases where money had been needed, until
Mrs. Davis, who was neither dull nor obtuse, saw that it was merely a
matter of choice with him whether he paid for things promptly or not.
The receipted bills she had carefully filed away, but what proof had she
that they had been met with her own money?
At the expiration of the second year, Mr. Whitman at his own expense had
the water carried upstairs and a bathtub put in. This was a blessing to
both of them, and Mrs. Davis ungrudgingly saw a portion of her own
room--the one little back chamber--sacrificed that it might be made
possible.
Up to the time of the sunstroke she had made a number of futile attempts
to introduce the subject of finances, but he had simply uttered "Ah!"
(what a world of meaning he could put into that monosyllable!) and had
silenced her with a look.
An observer says: "I found Whitman sitting on the front stoop talking
with a negative pugnacious reformer. The poet entertained his ideas
without a trace of impatience or severity of judgment, and yet he was
capable of quietly chloroforming him if he became too disagreeable."
Another writes: "This leading trait of his character lasted until life
glimmered faintly." It was this "leading trait" that prevented Mrs.
Davis from introducing any subject not pleasing to him. Again: "He has
his stern as well as sad moods; in the former there is a look of power
in his face that almost makes one tremble." Mrs. Davis had no fear of
Mr. Whitman; he never gave her cause to tremble, but he quietly
chloroformed her times without number.
The expenses of the house were not light; amongst other things, two coal
fires in winter, and a wood fire much of the time. Wood was a luxury to
him, but it was an expensive item to his housekeeper, and the little
stove in his sleeping room devoured it like an insatiate monster. "He
enjoyed a wood fire." Then she supplied his table and entertained his
guests--his many guests. She never bothered him; was always on hand and
ready to help him to mature his plans, however inexpedient or
impracticable they might appear to her.
VIII
VISITING AND VISITORS
"_His haunt on 'Timber Creek' is one of the loveliest spots
imaginable; no element lacking to make it an ideal ground for a poet,
or study place for a lover of nature._"--WILLIAM SLOANE KENNEDY.
"_April 11, 1887. I expect to go to New York to speak my 'Death of
Lincoln' piece Thursday afternoon next. Probably the shake up will do
me good...._
"_Stood it well in New York. It was a good break from my monotonous
days here, but if I had stayed longer, I should have been killed with
kindness and attentions._"--WALT WHITMAN.
It was decided that Mr. Whitman should make one of his delightful visits
to his friends, the Staffords, in their beautiful country home, "Timber
Creek," just as soon as he was sufficiently recovered to take the trip,
and Mrs. Davis thought best to defer talking with him or considering any
definite step regarding home matters until he returned. She took pains
to get him ready, and, as she had done before, persuaded him to purchase
some new clothing and look his best. This visit, like previous ones, was
charming to the poet, and he came home much benefited. While he was away
Mrs. Davis rested and paid a short visit to the aged parents of Mrs.
Fritzinger in Doylstown, Pennsylvania. In this breathing spell she had
thought home matters over and had planned her mode of procedure; but
alas! when the poet appeared upon the spot and she had welcomed him, the
courage she had summoned up when he was out of sight deserted her. She
threw out hints, then made attempts to speak, but to no avail; an
understanding was not brought about and things went on in the old
fashion.
Much as Mr. Whitman enjoyed his visits and jaunts, coming back to his
own home was the one great joy of his life, and meeting his housekeeper
after even a brief absence was always a pleasure to him.
It was quite late in the fall when he returned. He resumed his work at
once, and the winter was not an unpleasant one to him; only somewhat
tedious, because he was so closely confined to the house. In other ways
it was made cheerful with social events and agreeable company, and it
was brightened with anticipations of the delightful drives to be enjoyed
in the spring. (It was about this time that Horace Traubel commenced to
come to the house.)
Each season had added to his popularity, until he had attained the
zenith of his most sanguine imaginations; his most potent daydreams had
truly materialized; he was fully on the crest of the wave! His
housekeeping had surpassed his fondest expectations, for to him his home
was ideal. Deprivation was a thing of the past; there was no lack of
means, as private contributions were sent to him amounting to many
hundreds of dollars. That he was poor and needy, and "was supported in
his final infirmities by the kind interest of his friends, who
subscribed each his mite that the little old frame house in Camden might
shelter the snowy head of the bard to the end," was the universal
belief, and a kindly feeling was manifested towards him in his own home
and in England. It is to be regretted that he was not better fitted
physically to enjoy all his later blessings.
Out-of-doors life seemed essential to him, and after a number of outings
he was able, as early as April 6, 1887, to read his Lincoln lecture--the
last he gave in his own city. It was well attended, and listened to with
deep attention. On the 12th of the same month he went to New York for
the purpose of reading his lecture there. He was accompanied by William
Duckett, a young friend who acted as valet and nurse, and it was on his
arm the old man leaned as he came forward on the stage and stood a few
minutes to acknowledge the applause of the audience. When the tumult had
subsided, the poet sat down beside a stand, laid his cane on the floor,
put on his glasses and proceeded to read from a little book, upon whose
pages the manuscript and printed fragments were pasted.
"The lecturer was dressed in a dark sack coat, with dark gray waistcoat
and trousers, low shoes, and gray woollen socks. The spotless linen of
his ample cuffs and rolling collar was trimmed with a narrow band of
edging, and the cuffs were turned up over the ends of his sleeves." Thus
says the New York _Tribune_ of the next day, and it cannot be denied
that his appearance did credit to his housekeeper's attention at this
time, as it did on all other public occasions. The "spotless linen,"
however, was unbleached cotton, one of the six new shirts Mrs. Davis had
made for him.
The lecture was very successful. At the close, a little girl, Laura
Stedman, the five year old granddaughter of the "banker poet," walked
out upon the stage and presented Mr. Whitman with a basket of lilac
blossoms. The New York _Times_ had this account of the event the next
morning:
"Forth on the stage came a beautiful basket of lilac blossoms, and
behind it was a little bit of a maiden in a white Normandy cap and a
little suit of Quaker gray, her eyes beaming, and her face deeply
impressed with the gravity of the occasion. She walked to where he sat
and held out her gift without a word. He started, took it and then
took her.
"It was December frost and May-time blossom at their prettiest
contrast, as the little pink cheek shone against the snow-white beard,
for the old man told his appreciation mutely by kissing her and
kissing her again, the audience meanwhile applauding sympathetically."
Mr. Whitman then recited his poem "O Captain!" and the curtain
fell--fell to shut him from the sight of a New York audience forever.
Mrs. Davis always dreaded Mr. Whitman's New York visits, and this
episode caused her extra anxiety. She knew that his many and influential
friends would give him a warm welcome and a great reception, and she
also knew how prone the poet was to go beyond the bounds of prudence. He
could stand only a little fatigue and excitement now. He returned in
good condition, however, and she flattered herself that a quiet summer
was before them. He had told her that this lecture (which increased his
bank account by six hundred dollars) was to be his last public function,
but she had no knowledge of something else he had in near view;
something he had already arranged for.
IX
A BUST AND A PAINTING
"_Sidney Morse has made a second big head (bust), an improvement, if I
dare to say so, on the first. The second is the Modern Spirit Awake
and Alert as well as Calm--contrasted with the antique and Egyptian
calmness of the first._"--WALT WHITMAN.
"_Oh, that awful summer of 1887!_"--MARY DAVIS.
Early in the summer, when he had fully recovered from his exertions in
New York, Mr. Whitman received a letter from a sculptor, Mr. Sidney
Morse, requesting the privilege of coming to Camden at once, to make a
plaster bust of him. The promise had been given to Mr. Morse for the
summer, but the actual date had not been fixed upon.
Eleven years before this artist had made a very unsatisfactory bust of
Walt, one he had always wished to improve upon. On the first occasion
Walt had not entertained the thought of such an undertaking in his
brother's house, but had gone to Philadelphia for the sittings. This
time, as before, the choice of location had been left to him; and it
seemed almost incredible that he, who had been initiated in this line of
art, should have imposed upon his housekeeper to the extent of giving
his own stuffy little house the preference over a more suitable place.
He had answered Mr. Morse's letter, telling him he would cheerfully put
himself at his disposal; the summer was before them, and nothing else
impending. In short, he would engage himself to him for the summer, and
he was confident the result would be better this time.
About two weeks elapsed, and nothing had been said to Mrs. Davis on the
subject when one morning to her surprise the artist arrived, prepared to
go to work without delay. Had she been consulted, she could have made
preliminary preparations; had she been better informed she would have
persuaded Mr. Whitman to select a different place, and had she been
fully enlightened she would have insisted upon it.
Mr. Morse writes: "I found Mr. Whitman more crippled and quieter in
manner than when we met before. Eleven years had wrought their changes.
He was however in a less perturbed frame of mind."
Naturally so; in his own home, contradicted in nothing, with his own
carriage, and a devoted woman to wait upon him,--one who never intimated
that there existed such exigencies as living expenses or household
entanglements. It was left to the artist to tell Mrs. Davis the purpose
for which he had come. He said that he was desirous of beginning his
work as soon as was compatible with Mr. Whitman's convenience, and the
poet seeing no obstacle in the way of an immediate commencement, it was
decided that the first sitting should take place the following
afternoon. Mrs. Davis was somewhat enlightened as to what the making of
a bust implied when a load of mysterious and cumbersome articles drove
up to the door in the morning. Puzzled both as to their use and where
they could be housed, she had them delivered at the back gate and piled
up in the yard.
Mr. Morse kept his appointment with promptitude, and after a few
minutes' conversation with his subject, he summoned the housekeeper, and
then, "the litter of everything under heaven was poked aside" to make a
clearing by the window. Mrs. Davis assisted him in bringing some of the
articles from the yard, such as boards and boxes upon which to fashion
the clay; then when the necessity came for something in which to mix
it, her wash tubs were at once appropriated, and as smaller vessels were
from time to time required, many of her dishes and kitchen utensils were
one by one pressed into service.
During the first afternoon the work was put well in progress, and what a
time was thus inaugurated! Before the week ended there was clay and
plaster on all sides. The two men, interested in the bust alone, were
oblivious to everything else, and passed the time chatting in a lively
strain. The artist was satisfied with his work and delighted with the
prospect of being undisturbed until its completion. He writes: "My deep
satisfaction overflowed to the housekeeper, who admonished me that there
was an element of uncertainty in Mr. Whitman's programme nowadays"--and
sooner than he had counted upon, her words were verified, for on the
morning following her mild warning a telegram came and "the damper
fell," as Mr. Morse says. This was the telegram: "Am in New York and may
arrive in Camden at any moment. Herbert Gilchrist."
"He's coming to paint me," said Mr. Whitman on reading the message; "I
had forgotten about him. We will put him over there somewhere; I don't
see what I can do to stop it; he has come all the way from England--from
England, Sidney, to paint me. Make the best of it, share the crust with
him." "The damper fell" for Mrs. Davis as well, when Mr. Whitman in his
usual off-hand manner announced the news to her. Another artist coming!
a portrait painter! And Mr. Whitman who had known of this for an
indefinite time had given her no warning, had taken her unaware. She was
completely overcome, and not a little indignant. Had he really forgotten
it, or had he thought it a matter of too little importance to mention?
It was not often that Mrs. Davis shed tears in self-pity, but now they
were her only relief. It was not the extra work and expense that
troubled her most; it was Mr. Whitman's indifference towards her.
Mr. Morse was also touched, and confesses that in his disappointment he
was half inclined to pack his traps and go. For a moment the
housekeeper's mind tended in the same direction. "But," continues Mr.
Morse, "when the young man appeared on the scene in person, I was calm
once more and ready to be pacified." Mrs. Davis also calmed herself
and, as was her disposition, concealed her feelings and roused herself
to meet the emergency. "The litter of everything under heaven" was poked
still further aside, the stove was taken down and put into the cellar,
things heaped and packed higher in the corners or carried out of the
room, and a place made for the newcomer.
Mr. Gilchrist proved to be an agreeable, enthusiastic young man, and one
never to get into another's way. Mr. Morse could keep his place at the
window, and Mr. Gilchrist could place his easel a little way back, so
that the sitter didn't need to change his position to be in a good light
for both. But what of Mrs. Davis when paint and oil were added to
plaster and the other refuse pervading the parlors? Had the confusion
been confined to these rooms alone it could have been held in check, but
for lack of room the kitchen soon became an auxiliary to the improvised
studio. Again quoting Mr. Morse: "For a week we kept it up, working
some, talking more, Mr. Whitman's wistful eye on us both."
This favorable state of affairs was, however, of short duration, for
after the first week the progress of the artists was unsatisfactory;
they were hindered by constant interruptions, and as company began to
pour in upon them, some days would pass and find little accomplished by
either. It seemed a fatality that so many people should have chosen this
very time to make their visits, especially people from abroad. Before
long the strain of it told visibly on Mr. Whitman. Mr. Morse observed
not only this, but the anxious look on Mrs. Davis's face as well, and on
consulting her found she was much alarmed, and feared that their subject
would give out unless some change could be made. The change was made
when early the next morning the sculptor betook himself with his effects
to the yard. This arrangement not merely gave additional space in the
parlors where two or three spectators could sit or stand, but it also
removed from them their chief attraction.
Some of Mr. Whitman's friends called daily, several twice or even three
times in a single day.
Mr. Morse was satisfied with the new order of things and says: "In the
cool shadow of the house, under a propitious sky (when it was
propitious), with high boarded fence, and a grape vine wreathing itself
into a pear tree for a background, my work proceeded. Occasional
excursions to the studio in front for memory sketches seemed to be
serving me all right."
Up to this time Mrs. Davis had had undisputed possession of the yard,
and this constant running back and forth was almost unendurable to her.
For the excursions were not confined to the sculptor; all comers, casual
or constant visitors, old friends and strangers, even ordinary
passers-by--following the lead of others--deliberately took the right of
way through the hall and kitchen, until it might as well have been a
public passage from street to yard. Then in unfavorable weather, when
the work could not go on, came another complication, as the unwieldy
appurtenances had to be brought into the little canvas-covered alcove,
shed and kitchen, obstructing everything. It was worse still in case of
a sudden shower, when the things had to be hustled in anywhere and
anyhow. But the front of the house! It was vacation time, and the
"plaster man" and "painter man" at Whitman's were the great source of
entertainment in the neighborhood. Children thronged the cellar doors
from early morning until late at night; babies were held up to look in,
and there was a general scramble for the best point of view.
Pedestrians, market people and others passing the house were attracted
by this manifest excitement, and there was scarcely one of them who did
not pause to satisfy his or her inquisitiveness with a peep. From a
distance it was difficult to discern what could be taking place at the
poet's, and everybody, old and young, even the halt and the lame, seemed
to have time to walk an extra block or two to ascertain. However, as
there was no alternative, Mrs. Davis was willing to bear it all
patiently for a few weeks at most, as she supposed.
Mr. Morse, pressed by his host, fell into the habit of remaining to
lunch; Mr. Gilchrist often joined them; and as in the course of
conversation interesting subjects would come up, the day's work for both
frequently ended at noon. Should incidental visitors arrive during meal
time, they were invited without ceremony or apology to the kitchen, and
Mr. Whitman always pressed them to eat something, regardless of the time
of day or what might be upon the table. His talk was animated and
arresting. He would usually begin with current events, then run into
discussions on various themes, often intricate, and the two artists
felt themselves extremely fortunate to be the privileged recipients of
some of his most striking thoughts and phrases.