two ladies rang at the open door. Mr. Whitman had never met them, but
seeing them from his seat at the table he welcomed them with these
words: "Oh, darlings, come right this way, come right this way." On
their complying he continued: "Herbert, Sidney, move a little. Mary, lay
the plates and bring the chairs." (The extra ones hanging in the shed.)
Then came a hitching and shuffling of chairs, and a crowding together.
At first the party looked a little annoyed, but when they were fairly
seated they soon became so absorbed in the poet's talk and in his
associates that, unconsciously to everyone except the housekeeper, lunch
merged into dinner. But this was no unusual occurrence. Indeed there
were days when Mr. Whitman would remain at the table from lunch until a
very late hour, company coming and leaving in relays. This summer, and
for some time previous, he had dispensed with the regular breakfast,
taking an early cup of coffee and a piece of toast in his own room. But
the other meals certainly involved plenty of work and patience. Well
might he say: "Mrs. Davis has a knack of anticipating what I want, and
in case of emergency at the dinner table knows right well how to make
the best of it. She has rare intelligence and her tact is great." She
indeed had tact. "Jolly dinners you have here," quoth one distinguished
visitor, notwithstanding they were served in the little heated kitchen.
Mrs. Davis always waited upon the guests in a pleasant genial manner,
and few knew to whom it was due that the "jolly dinners" ran so
agreeably along. Her watchful eye detected when any article of food was
getting low, either for present company or when their places were about
to be taken by newcomers. A thousand times she slipped out quietly to
the little side gutter and ran (she always ran) to procure a loaf of
bread, an extra supply of butter, crackers or cheese. The home-made
supplies rarely gave out, as she provided bountifully for all. Mr.
Whitman had good reason for going on to say, as he did: "I am well
pleased with my housekeeper. She does better for me than a whole retinue
of pompous bothering waiters. I detest the critters; bowing and
watching"--and probably expecting their just remuneration--for to
complete his appreciation of her virtues he could have added: "And she
furnishes the means."
Yes; the lingering lunches and "jolly dinners" were paid for out of her
fast decreasing bank account, as was everything else. It was doubtful if
Mr. Whitman realized in how many ways he was indebted to her, or if the
idea ever occurred to him that he could ask too much of her. So
confident was he of her always making "the best of it" that nothing
agitated or worried him. Yet this entertaining anyone and everyone in
the kitchen often placed her in unpleasant and embarrassing
predicaments. Of these he seemed to have no knowledge, as he never made
an attempt to extricate her from one. Visitors were often more
observing, and no doubt most of them saw under what disadvantages she
was placed. Some of them kindly helped her over difficulties, and others
just as kindly passed awkward little occurrences by apparently
unnoticed.
Although Mr. Whitman did not mind what people said or thought about him,
Mrs. Davis was sensitive and criticism hurt her feelings. She knew full
well that she was sometimes blamed, by visitors who did not understand
the conditions, for things for which she was not at all responsible. She
knew that to her charge was laid the air of negligence that pervaded the
house, and even Mr. Whitman's bluntness towards certain people.
"There were grim and repellent traits in Walt Whitman. He was naked of
manners and suave apologies as the scarred crag of the Matterhorn of
verdure."
That physical suffering was many times the key to the old man's
roughness Mrs. Davis understood, and she had a mild way of smoothing it
over and putting other people at ease. She always spoke highly of both
the artists, and in many ways they were more considerate of her than was
their host. With things going on as they did, both were retarded in
their work, and each in turn became discouraged. Mr. Whitman would
sometimes be out of humor for sitting, or so worn out and ill that he
could not come downstairs until late in the day; or again, when all
looked promising he would order his carriage, drive off and leave them
in the lurch.
Consequently each work of art required more time for its completion than
had been calculated. Mrs. Davis did her best to encourage both the
sculptor and the painter, and in every way she could devise, endeavored
to forward their work. She removed obstacles; she influenced their
sitter, and persuaded him to be quieter, to avoid over-exertion and
excitement, to see less company and to lie down during the heat of the
day.
At length both bust and picture were finished. Each proved to be highly
satisfactory, and by many they are thought to be the most lifelike
representations of the original. Of the bust Mr. Whitman himself said:
"I am quite clear _this_ is the typical one; modern, reaching out,
looking ahead, democratic, more touch of animation, unsettledness, etc.,
etc. Not intended to be polished off, left purposely a little in the
rough."
X
REST--AND ROUTINE
"_Heat, heat, heat, day and night!... I am still getting along through
the hot season--have things pretty favorable here in my shanty, with
ventilation (night and day), frequent bathing, light meals, all of
which makes it better for me in my shattered helpless condition to tug
it out here in Mickle Street, than to transfer myself somewhere, to
seashore or mountains. It is not for a long time, anyway._"--WALT
WHITMAN.
Mr. Whitman had reached the limit of endurance when the artists bid him
and Camden adieu, while Mrs. Davis, with the constant demands upon her
time and strength, the condition of the house, unlimited entertaining
and lengthened working hours, had completely succumbed. Another thing
that had been to their disadvantage was the extreme heat, for it had
been and still was an extremely hot summer--a Jersey summer. Each was
prostrated, and for awhile rest and relaxation alone could be thought
of. A short lull that followed the recent turmoil, however, and
succeeding cool weather, did much towards their recuperation; but
unfortunately sick-headaches, which had been occasional with Mrs.
Davis, now became persistent; her vitality was gone, and her courage was
on the wane. In fact she never fully recovered, nor did she ever forget
"that awful summer of 1887."
But while she was so miserable and ill she was not forgotten by her old
friends, who rallied at once to her assistance, and it was through their
thoughtfulness and kind attentions that a general and final collapse was
avoided. None of them had been willing to give her up altogether when
she moved into the Mickle Street house. She for her part had never
willingly neglected them; one or another, understanding this, had run in
the back way at odd times, and if by chance they had found the kitchen
in her undisputed possession, had gladly remained to lend her a helping
hand.
Nor with her multiplicity of new duties and in her new surroundings had
she been unmindful of her habit of protectiveness, and this house
became, as her own had been, the temporary shelter for some orphan girl
or boy, some friendless woman or stranded young man. Crowded as it was,
the little Whitman home could make room for an emergency case.
As the owner was just now confined for some weeks to his sleeping
apartment, Mrs. Davis could lie upon the kitchen lounge when the kind
ministrations of her friends relieved her of immediate household duties;
then in turn rouse herself, drag herself upstairs and attend to the
wants of the sick man there. Her helpers were glad to prove their
friendship for her, but it didn't reach the extent of waiting upon the
disabled poet; this rested with her alone. Not that they were afraid of
him, or that he had ever been rude or impolite to them, but not one of
them was exactly at ease in his presence.
By good fortune, at this opportune time a gentleman and his wife invited
Mrs. Davis to accompany them upon an excursion to Southern California.
At first she declined the invitation; the distance seemed so great, and
Mr. Whitman was so poorly, there was no telling what might happen during
her absence. But she was still pressed to go, and unknown to her the
project was broached to Mr. Whitman, who highly approved of it. Finally
she accepted the proffered kindness; her friends assisted her in her
preparations, and she set off with pleasurable anticipations. This
journey was the one great delight of her life, and she returned much
benefited. But how about the good little woman who had strongly urged
her going, who had added her earnest persuasions to those of the others,
and who had offered her own and her daughter's services in place of
hers? Poor little woman, she did her best willingly and uncomplainingly;
but she did openly avow at the expiration of the three weeks that had
Mary stayed another day, she would have gone insane.
During his housekeeper's brief absence, Mr. Whitman had found how truly
his home was not home without her. He frankly told her this, and
acknowledged to her that no one living could fill her place to him; that
others around him irritated him--unconsciously, he knew--while she
instinctively soothed and quieted him, overwrought and impatient as he
might sometimes feel. Furthermore, he presented her with a nice gold
ring.
Soon after her return, Walt, who was quite himself once more, paid
another visit to the Staffords, and getting him ready for this trip was
her first work on reaching home. "Timber Creek" was his favorite resort,
a haunt he so thoroughly enjoyed that it flashed across the mind of a
friend while sauntering about with him there, that it would be a capital
idea to raise a "Walt Whitman Cottage Fund," and build him a little
summer home there. On cautiously sounding Walt upon the subject, he
eagerly responded: "Oh, how often I have thought of it!"
So it was decided to build a cottage here, or by the seaside somewhere,
where he could spend part of the year with nature and away from the
noise and turmoil of the city. Eight hundred dollars were quickly raised
towards the fund; the site for building, tiles for the chimney and plan
by the architect were donated; but alas, it was seen that it was too
late in his life for the scheme to be feasible, and the money was
cheerfully given to him by the contributors to be used as he thought
best.
On this particular occasion Mrs. Davis was more than glad to be alone.
The parlors were much as the artists had left them, and a general
housecleaning was instituted. And such a cleaning! Everything had to be
handled and looked over, discarded or packed away. It was a
disheartening task. Dried paint and plaster were on every side and
resisted all attempts at removal, as though they had learned the lesson
of persistency from the late sitter; besides, some repairs had to be
made against the coming winter, and the stove had rusted in the cellar.
In good time all was accomplished and order again restored. Mr. Whitman
returned refreshed, and oh, so glad to get back to his own home once
more. But as a matter of course he acted as though beside himself for
awhile, and the old act of hunting for lost or missing articles was
repeated. Mrs. Davis, however, who had taken more than one lesson from
him, passed his perturbation by without apparent notice. She knew the
time was not far in the future when rapidly failing health would
altogether prevent his leaving home; he would probably be confined to
the upper part of the house, perhaps to his bed; and she thought it wise
to be in readiness for whatever was in store.
Although he had been situated so auspiciously for his comfort, and in a
way to attain the great object he desired, Mr. Whitman's past four years
had not been all sunshine. He had had spells of deep depression, days
when he felt no inclination to come downstairs, or even to speak; and
during the winter of this year the dark cloud hovered more persistently
above him than ever before. For one thing, there were weeks when
extremely cold or stormy weather prevented his going out of doors. Mrs.
Davis had much sympathy for him while the dreary mood lasted, and in
many ways endeavored to dispel it. During the inclement weather she
found in her cheery canary bird a valued assistant, and knowing the old
man's fondness for the little fellow, she would at times stealthily
place the cage in his room, "and let the sun shine out for a moment,
this bird would flood the room with trills of melody." (The canary
outlived Mr. Whitman, and through his long sickness, lasting from the
summer of 1888 to the spring of 1892, it was always a welcome visitor in
his room.) This would act as an inspiration, and Mr. Whitman would often
take this time to write to some friend, always mentioning the singing of
the bird and the shining of the sun.
"Pleasant weather as I write seated here by the window, my little canary
singing like mad."
"Sunny and summery weather here, and my canary is singing like a house
on fire."
"Dull weather, the ground covered with snow, but my little bird is
singing as I write."
Good cheer may have been another comforting agent, for he writes: "We
have (Mrs. Davis has) just had a baking. Oh! how I do wish I could send
the dear frau one of our nice pumpkin pies, a very little ginger, no
other spice."
"A cold freezing day. Have had my dinner of rare stewed oysters, some
toasted Graham bread, and a cup of tea."
"Have had a bad spell of illness again, but am better to-day. Have just
eaten a bit of dinner for the first time in over a week--stewed rabbit
with a piece of splendid home-made bread, covered with stew-gravy."
"Have just had my dinner--a great piece of toasted Graham bread, salted
and well buttered with fresh country butter, and then a lot of panned
oysters dumped over it, with hot broth; then a nice cup custard, and a
cup of coffee. So if you see in the paper that I am starving (as I saw
the other day), understand how."
In speaking of Mrs. Davis in a letter of the previous summer, he writes:
"Very hot weather here continued. I am feeling badly, yet not so badly
as you might fancy. I am careful and Mrs. Davis is very good and cute."
"Am idle and monotonous enough in my weeks and life here; but on the
whole am thankful it is no worse. My buying this shanty and settling
down here on half, or one-fourth pay, and getting Mrs. Davis to cook for
me, might have been bettered by my disposing some other way, but I am
satisfied it is all as well as it is."
Through the winter Mr. Whitman plodded on with his literary work, and by
spring the parlors were once more transformed into a regular printing
and mailing establishment. To these over-filled rooms he had added an
oil portrait of an ancestor, a life-size bust of Elias Hicks, and a
seated statuette of himself. He was very careful of the two latter works
of art, and to protect them from dust kept them partially encased in
newspapers. When a caller once slyly lifted the paper from the
statuette, he found a colony of ants had made the lap of it their home.
The bust of Hicks was very conspicuous, and looked spectral in its paper
headgear. Mrs. Davis would occasionally remove the yellow and time-worn
papers, and replace them with clean ones. The owner no doubt noticed
this, but he had ceased to be too observant of some things, and had
become more lenient where "Mary" was the offender. And Mary had learned
just how far she could go with impunity. In a way their lives had merged
together.
It was a custom with Mr. Whitman to have his manuscripts set up in type
before sending them away--even his "little bits" of newspaper
contributions. This was done in a "quaint little printing office" in
town, the proprietor of which was "an old fellow acquaintance" of
Walt's. In this matter, as in all others, he was very impatient, for the
moment anything was ready for the press he would summon Mrs. Davis,
regardless of time, weather or her own occupations, saying: "Take this
to the printer's, Mary, and tell him I want it _immediately_"; and
although most of this work was done gratuitously, the "old fellow
acquaintance" was decidedly accommodating to his honored patron, and
often laid other jobs aside for his "odd bits." He was as well always
courteous to Mrs. Davis. It may be that he could not withstand her
appeals for haste, and was willing to incommode himself to save her from
fruitless trips to the office; for he knew that in an unreasonably short
time the poet would demand his printed bit. In fact, so impatient would
the writer often become, that to pacify him his good housekeeper would
make half a dozen trips to the office. Frequently he would correct the
proof and return it for a second, perhaps a third or fourth printing,
and frequently he would say: "Don't come back without it, Mary; wait for
it."
It would have been inconsistent with Mrs. Davis's natural activity for
her to remain sitting in a printing office for an unlimited time,
therefore she usually took advantage of these opportunities to do a
little shopping, make a friendly call, or even a hasty run to
Philadelphia. The corrected copies were never destroyed, but, like
everything else, were dropped on the floor. It was no wonder that "to
some Walt Whitman's house was a sort of conglomerated dime museum."
Strangers who called drew their own inferences and reported accordingly,
and in this way contradictory stories were told and sent out into the
world. Much that was false was believed, until the prevailing impression
was that "he was living in poverty and neglect."
He was extremely non-committal, and his housekeeper never intruded her
knowledge upon anyone, so it was natural that errors as to his home life
should creep in. It was certainly difficult to credit that from sheer
preference any human being could live in and enjoy the state of
disorder that was found in the Whitman house, thanks to the poet's
peculiarities. But this manner of living suited him, and in it he found
true comfort. It must be confessed that things were outwardly so
indicative of neglect that mistakes were bound to be made, while little
of the actual life was known or understood, except by intimate friends.
"The junk shop jumble of those lonesome rooms," writes one; and again:
"I found the venerable poet in his garret, living in neglect and want,
cooking soup in a yellow bowl on a sheet-iron stove nearby." (_S. T.
Packard in a magazine article._) (The bowl merely contained clean water
for the purpose of moistening the overheated atmosphere of the room.)
Still further he writes: "Whenever his strength permitted he rose from
his armchair with the rough bear-robe thrown over the back." It was
really a white wolf-skin robe, a present to Mr. Whitman and of great
service to him.
In truth the elucidation, explanation and straightening out of the
various stories concerning the life of Walt Whitman in Mickle Street
would require a volume in itself. No fancifulness, however, on the part
of more or less observant visitors could rival that of their subject,
for "His imagination could and did convert the narrow walls of the house
in Camden into boundaries of nations, seas, oceans, mountain-chains,
vistas of Eden, forests, cities, palaces, landscapes, hovels, homes of
the rich, and art galleries, so that Whitman was thus of the great world
while out of it."
"A peculiar feature of Walt Whitman's rooms, those I mean which his
housekeeper is not allowed to put into order, is the chaos and confusion
in which his papers are coiled. The bump of order does not exist in his
cranium." (_William Sloane Kennedy._)
But visitors were left to their own impressions, and these were too
often unjust to the woman who always did her best to prevent the
confusion from growing still worse confounded.
XI
A SHOCK, AND SOME CHANGES
"_You have a good housekeeper._"--E. L. KELLER.
"_Yes, good, square--tip-top--devoted to me. Behind all she has spunk,
very sensitive, the least word sets her off. A good woman._"--WALT
WHITMAN.
"_Sunsets and sunrises to his soul were almost equal to food for his
body._"--THOMAS DONALDSON.
At last the long tedious winter ended, and never was a spring more
welcome to Mr. Whitman, for his acme of enjoyment was still to be out of
doors. During the months when he was so closely confined to the house he
had become even more dependent upon his housekeeper, had more often
sought her companionship, had been more confidential towards her, and
had repeatedly expressed his thankfulness that he was in his own
domicile, and was so fortunate as to have her efficient services. He
would saunter more frequently into the kitchen for a social chat, and
preferred to take his meals there whenever he felt equal to it.
Altogether, he was much more domesticated. Still, he had been able to
go out sometimes, had taken part in a number of social gatherings, where
he had enjoyed the pleasure of congenial company, had even had "some
jolly dinners" in his own house; but nothing could compete with the
delight he experienced when he was under the blue sky. His drives were
absolutely joyful to him, and the first one set all his recuperative
forces in action. His rapid gain was distinctly perceptible, and
everything looked hopeful and promising.
On May 31, 1888--his sixty-ninth birthday--a lawyer, one of his later
friends (_Mr. Thomas B. Harned, Horace Traubel's brother-in-law_), and
one at whose hospitable board he was often found, gave a reception and
supper in his honor. It was a most enjoyable affair.
But four days later, after a lengthened drive Mr. Whitman was tempted to
visit the river bank to contemplate the setting sun. He imprudently
prolonged his stay until the evening dampness caused him to feel a
sensation of chilliness, which increased momentarily until upon his
reaching home it terminated in a real chill, followed by still more
serious consequences, for from it resulted a paralytic shock. It was not
a heavy shock, but was quite violent enough to cause alarm. At the
first symptom Mrs. Davis summoned a physician, and did everything in her
own power to alleviate his sufferings. He was seriously ill throughout
the night, and next day had two recurrences of the shock, one in the
morning and the other at noon. After the third it was believed, even by
his physicians, that the termination of all was near at hand. For hours
he was speechless, and to every appearance in a comatose condition.
His friend Dr. R. M. Bucke of Canada--who had come to Camden to attend
the birthday celebration--had not yet returned home, and hurried at once
to the bedside, where he was unremitting in his care and attention. Dr.
Bucke was a skilful physician and a man of great executive ability, and
his timely presence was a great blessing to all. His appreciation of Mr.
Whitman as a writer, and his personal friendship for him, were of long
standing.
To the surprise and relief of everybody, an unlooked-for reaction took
place, and the sick man's first words on recovering his speech were: "It
will soon pass over, and if it does not it will be all right." He was
carried to his sleeping apartment, and from this time to his death he
used the front parlor only as a sitting room.
Dr. Bucke and Mr. Donaldson had talked much while their old friend was
lying in the comatose state, and both were troubled that things were so
complicated, and that no one in particular seemed to have the least
supervision over him or his personal belongings. Both were surprised
when they learned that he had never made a will, and had never offered a
suggestion or given any directions in regard to his literary affairs.
They were anxious as well, because they knew that in case of death,
which seemed so close at hand, his papers and manuscripts would be
scattered and lost. As to home matters, Dr. Bucke said that Mrs. Davis
was worn out and a permanent nurse must be provided. This point Mr.
Donaldson cordially endorsed. Of Mr. Whitman's pecuniary standing the
Doctor had no knowledge, but Mr. Donaldson was better informed in regard
to the sums he had received, and after consultation both fully agreed
that the time had come when someone must take charge of affairs and no
longer allow them to run on in the old haphazard way.