gave them a correct, full and truthful statement of the facts of the
case. She could well enlighten them on the subject of outgoings, and
both men were genuinely astonished to learn that Walt Whitman had never
contributed one farthing towards the maintenance of the house,--for
repairs, supplies, furniture or fuel. She told them that while so many
had been solicitous of Mr. Whitman's comfort and interests, she felt
aggrieved that no one had ever exhibited the least consideration for
her; that she had spoken to Mr. and Mrs. George Whitman a number of
times, and they had assured her that Walt was in a position to meet all
expenses of the house, and to the best of her belief they both supposed
that he was doing this, though neither had made any inquiries of her.
She said that in addition to her giving her time as general servant to
all, her funds were rapidly diminishing, her goods going to rack and
ruin, her health failing; and she felt that she could bear the burden no
longer. She mentioned the promises Walt had made, and added that she did
not doubt that in his way of thinking, and of doing things, he still
intended to deal honestly and honorably by her; that she had endeavored
to talk with him and come to a satisfactory understanding, until she
was convinced that he avoided the subject purposely. She felt that in no
way was she secured, and it was a positive fact that two years more
would bankrupt her. What she asked was a settlement on the spot, and
that someone might be found to take her place.
_Take her place!_ Was there a woman upon earth who could or would do
this? It was a proposition that neither of her auditors would consider;
up to this time the thought of her leaving had never entered their
minds; indeed, no one had ever stopped to think that she might in time
wear out and be obliged to give up, or perhaps get discouraged and go of
her own free will. They urged her to abandon such an idea. What would
the Mickle Street house be without her? The mere suggestion was the
extreme of cruelty, for the sick man, although a little better at
present, was too low for any change, especially one that would touch him
so closely. Dr. Bucke gave her his word that he would be personally
responsible for all she had spent, and for proper payment for her
services as housekeeper both in the past and the future; he told her
that her work would be lightened immeasurably, as a regular nurse was
to be engaged; and that in case Mr. Whitman should die before matters
were settled, her interests should be carefully looked after. Relying on
this promise, she remained.
In a few days Mr. Whitman's friends spoke to him and proposed that out
of his bank account, which had grown to some thousands of dollars, he
should hereafter purchase his own wood, pay for one-half the other fuel,
keep the house in repair, and settle his private expenditures, to all of
which he gave a ready and willing assent. Next day they advised his
making a will, which he did, and it is known that in this he made some
provision for Mrs. Davis, but its full contents were never disclosed, as
he wrote it himself. On learning that according to Jersey law a woman
could be the executor of an estate, he said it was his wish and desire
that his esteemed sister-in-law, Louise Whitman, should close his. (This
will was replaced by one made in December, 1891, during his last
sickness.)
In regard to his literary matters, it was thought best that they should
be placed in the hands of three executors, Dr. Bucke being one.
When it was made known that in future Mr. Whitman was to have a regular
nurse, some of his young admirers volunteered to solicit a monthly
contribution from his numerous friends to meet this expense. The patient
made some inquiries regarding the nurse fund, and on being told that it
was all right and attended to, never alluded to the subject again. The
task of keeping the fund up fell to Horace Traubel; for when it was
first started people subscribed under the impression that it was a
temporary matter, that Mr. Whitman's life hung on a thread, and that
they would only be called upon once or twice; so all ran smoothly for a
while. But as months merged into years some donors became tired of
giving, while others found themselves unable to continue. Mr. Traubel
was indefatigable in his endeavors to serve his friend. As one
subscriber after another fell out, he called upon people or wrote to
them in order to fill the vacant places. Besides this matter, in the
four years in which he was connected with the poet he did much writing
and corresponding for him, and was of great service to him.
The sick man improved slowly, and when there were no longer any
indications of a relapse and everything had been satisfactorily
arranged, Dr. Bucke returned to his home; not however until he had again
talked with Mrs. Davis and had once more assured her that full justice
should be done, and that she need no longer feel uncertain as to her own
well-being.
While Mr. Whitman was so very ill, there was no difficulty in securing a
professional nurse. The first, a gentlemanly middle-aged man named
Musgrove, left when the patient had in a measure regained his normal
condition. Other nurses were in turn engaged, but the place was so
undesirable, the duties so varied and uncongenial, accommodations so
lacking and the remuneration so small, that after a short trial each one
left, all of them testifying to the housekeeper's goodness to them, and
to her unselfish surrender of herself to their patient.
After Mr. Musgrove's first few weeks there was not much regular nursing,
and at Mr. Whitman's request Mrs. Davis did most of this; but there
remained the heavy lifting and hard work. The wood was bought in cord
lengths and thrown through the slanting door into the cellar, where it
was sawed and split. The cellar was not only cold and damp, but the wood
was often wet and clumsy to handle. Besides sawing, splitting and
carrying the wood up two flights of stairs, the nurse was expected to do
sufficient carpentering to keep the house in repair, shovel snow in
winter, run errands for his patient, and later wheel him about the
streets in an invalid chair. This chair was purchased from the proceeds
of a birthday dinner given for the poet in his own city, May 31, 1889.
One hundred and twenty-five dollars were donated on the occasion, and as
Mr. Whitman had now become too decrepit to use his carriage, that and
the horse were disposed of, and the wheel-chair substituted.
There was so much trouble in getting a nurse who cared to remain, that
late in the fall following the shock Dr. Bucke sent a young Canadian to
fill the place. This young man, who desired to study medicine, had
accepted the position with that object in view, and coming through
personal interests alone he was naturally much engrossed in his own
affairs, and never lost sight of his own advantages. He saw that by
embracing this opportunity he could attain the necessary knowledge, keep
a roof over his head (one that generally leaked, but this did not dampen
his ardor), earn his board and clothing, and have besides the great
benefit of attending lectures in Philadelphia.
During the five months between the shock and the advent of the student
nurse, Mr. Whitman had resumed his writing, and his bedchamber became
his sanctum. Before his illness Mrs. Davis had managed to keep the upper
portion of the house in passable order. Now it was gradually assuming
the late appearance of the parlors, for here at least Mr. Whitman had
full control, and would brook no interference whatever. When the nurse
found that his best endeavors to bring about a change in this merely
meant wasted time, he quietly went his own way and left his patient to
do the same. He confessed that he thought him "the most singular mortal"
he had ever met, and said: "When I was first employed he would chat ten
minutes at a time with me; now we pass about twenty words a day. Keeps
his own business to himself, and talks but little even with his
intimates."
The young man's application to his studies appeared so commendable to
Mrs. Davis that she at once set about trying to forward his efforts. The
only method she saw was to do his washing, ironing and mending, that the
small weekly sum thus saved might go towards purchasing books he needed
and could not afford to buy. He was delighted to own the volumes so
obtained, and would pore over them for hours at a time, totally
unmindful of the fact that the real donor was performing many duties
that should justly have fallen to him. Having no room of his own, the
kitchen was necessarily his study, and in a letter he writes: "Mr.
Whitman calls me by knocking on the floor, I usually being in the room
below."
Mrs. Davis always prepared the invalid's meals, carried them to him, and
if possible sat with him when he partook of them. These were their times
for exchanging confidences and chatting on home topics. "More than
anyone else was she his confidant, and deserved to be." (_Thomas
Donaldson._)
He was interested in simple things, and little home talks never wearied
him. He used few, plain and ordinary words in conversation, and his
manner was simplicity itself. Mrs. Davis never spoke of anything
unpleasant to him, and was always on guard lest others might do so; she
was a good listener, not a loquacious talker, and her voice, naturally
soft, had a soothing effect.
His literary matters were well looked after, and he seldom called his
nurse except for some actual need. Such comments, however, as the
following are misleading: "He treats his household as by a holy law,
Mrs. Davis his housekeeper never finds him indifferent, condescending or
morose. His spirit ignores all petty household worries...." ("_In Re
Walt Whitman._")
Mrs. Davis also sat with the sick man, or within call, whether his nurse
had gone on an errand for him, or to Philadelphia on his own account.
And yet the student-nurse made no sign of reciprocating her many
kindnesses to him; took everything she did for him as his just due;
accepted any and every service she might render him, but most
emphatically refused to give one in return. He left Camden the last of
October, 1889, and returned to Canada. He parted both with Mr. Whitman
and Mrs. Davis on the most friendly terms, saying that much as he
disliked to leave them, his own worldly future depended upon other work
than nursing.
[Illustration: "_A time-worn look and scent of oak attach both to the
chair and the person occupying it_" (_Letter from Walt Whitman_)]
XII
ANCHORED
"_Am anchored helpless here all day, but get along fairly. Fortunately
have a placid, quiet, even, solitary thread quite strong in weft of my
disposition._"--WALT WHITMAN (Aug. 22, 1890).
"_Whitman's stalwart form itself luxuriates in a curious great
cane-seat chair, with posts and rungs like a ship's spars; altogether
the most imposing heavy-timbered, broad-armed and broad-bottomed
edifice of the kind possible. It was the gift of the young son and
daughter of Thomas Donaldson of Philadelphia, and was made especially
for the poet._"--WILLIAM SLOANE KENNEDY.
The long confinement to his room covering more than half of '88, and
extending into the next year, had forced Mr. Whitman to relinquish his
summer and autumn drives. This was the one thing to which he could not
be reconciled; the one thing to which he had looked forward so wistfully
all the previous winter and spring. Alas! the fatal river drive was his
last. As already explained the horse and carriage, now useless to him,
were disposed of, and the wheel-chair took their place. This chair was
indeed a boon to him, and he appreciated the thoughtful kindness of his
friends in the appropriate gift.
As soon as his strength would permit, which was some months after his
attack, he had resumed his writing. He had also read his papers and
periodicals, and thus managed to wear the long days through. The cheery
canary had done his part in helping to beguile the irksome hours, and
Watch, the coach dog, sure of a friendly greeting had made a daily call.
Towards spring the time had been less tedious, and in March the invalid
had become sufficiently strong to be assisted downstairs. At this he was
highly encouraged, for he realized the advancement he had made.
While he had been so low in the past summer, Mrs. Davis had once more
instituted a regular cleaning and renovating of the parlors. This he
must have noticed, but he made no remarks in regard to it. He was led
now to his favorite window, where stood his armchair with the white
wolf-skin thrown over the back; in this he was placed, and day after day
sat contentedly anchored. It was a sad disappointment to him when
ailments occasionally prevented his coming downstairs; here he preferred
taking his evening meal and meeting his friends. Writing materials were
always at hand on a small shelf under the window sill, but these he used
only to jot down passing thoughts or to indite a friendly line.
Soon he could come into the kitchen, where he often chose to dine.
Sometimes his friends would join him in a "jolly dinner" in the dear old
place; but things had changed--were but a semblance of what had
been--and his desire to remain undisturbed and with his housekeeper
alone during meal times grew upon him.
During the summer and fall he had incidental outings with his nurse
(Eddie Wilkins, the student). The first few were necessarily of short
duration and slow of motion, then as his strength returned they were
lengthened, and he realized the pleasure in store for him should his
life be prolonged another year.
After each ride Mrs. Davis met him with some light refreshment, after
which all he desired was rest--a long rest, sometimes of several days.
It was impossible to receive one-half of the people who called upon
him--indeed, this would have been a tax upon a strong man. Mrs. Davis
always answered the door bell; and it was no uncommon thing for him to
tell her that as he wanted to have a day of unbroken tranquillity, no
one was to be admitted to his room--excepting always a number of dear
old friends, and his ever-welcome brother and good sister-in-law.
Strange that these were often the days when visitors would flock there,
the great majority of whom would leave deeply disappointed, and for this
cause the inoffensive housekeeper--she who had to bear the brunt of
everything--incurred the displeasure, even the enmity, of some people.
So little was known to the world at large of the poet's private life and
of his state of health, that strangers would sometimes go to certain
persons in Philadelphia to inquire how they might have an audience with
him. This condition of things did not develop until after the illness of
the previous year, and much trouble resulted from it, as visitors would
show their cards or letters of introduction and insist upon going to his
room. Friends living either in Philadelphia or in Camden, especially
those who saw much of the poet, should have been mindful that so sick a
man might not at all times feel inclined to talk with strange people, or
might not be equal to it if he were so inclined. But his wishes or
needs were not conformed with, and in some cases the protestations of
Mrs. Davis were wholly disregarded.
She invariably met each individual pleasantly and never spoke hastily or
abruptly to anyone; she always gave civil answers to their questions;
often went to Mr. Whitman to intercede for them; and it was through her
influence alone that many were admitted to his presence. But if he was
not disposed to yield, her best efforts would be in vain, and the only
alternative left her was to offend others instead of him.
During the seven years she was with him she had numberless strange or
even unique experiences, but having quick perception she was seldom
deceived. Some people would haughtily demand an audience with the poet;
others would compromise by interviewing her, while the more determined
would force their way in uninvited and positively refuse to leave the
house until they had spoken with the owner. Many brought gifts which
they wished to present in person; and veterans came asking that they
might only clasp the hand that had ministered to them so tenderly at
some time during the civil war. Nor were souvenir fiends wanting, and
many trinkets, ornaments and keepsakes belonging to Mrs. Davis were
surreptitiously carried off.
A few people spoke slightingly of the housekeeper, but never in Mr.
Whitman's presence, for "Mary" was "Mary" to him at all times and in all
places.
A number who had rendered him services--those in particular who within
the last year or two had given money towards his support (as was
supposed)--were indignant that Mrs. Davis should presume to speak so
decidedly to them, believing that were their names only taken to Walt he
would be delighted to see them. And yet a visit to the poet in his own
house was to some people a decided disappointment, even when they were
able to see and talk with him. They did not find what they had been
looking for, something based on idle rumor and curious expectation,
something extraordinary or even outlandish.
One of the most noticeable things about him, says one, was "an absence
of all effort to make a good impression, or of posing." Instead of
finding a gruff old fossil, or bearding a lion in his den, they found an
everyday, quiet, dignified man.
XIII
WARREN FRITZINGER
"_He (Mr. Wilkins) left Mr. Whitman in October, 1889, and was
succeeded as nurse by Warren Fritzinger, a young man of twenty-five,
and a son of Mary O. Davis, his housekeeper and friend. Mr. Fritzinger
(Warry) remained with Mr. Whitman until his death, a faithful, earnest
man._"--THOMAS DONALDSON.
"_I get along well, am comfortable, have a fair appetite, and keep a
good oak fire._"--WALT WHITMAN.
While the question of getting another nurse was pending, Harry and
Warren Fritzinger returned to Camden. It was a mutual surprise, for the
brothers had lost trace of each other and came from different parts of
the world. It was indeed a joyful reunion, and though seven years had
elapsed since they had seen their foster-mother, their love had not
abated and each brought her a substantial gift in money. Coming from
California, Warren's gift was in gold--double eagles.
They remembered Walt Whitman as a man, but neither of them had read his
poetry, and although their mother had mentioned the change at the time
it was made, they knew nothing of the way in which she was living, and
both were much alarmed at her altered appearance. Not at all satisfied,
they urged her to resign her position; to move into a more fitting
place, and let them take care of her.
But believing, as did others, that Mr. Whitman's life was drawing to a
close, she pleaded that she could not reconcile her mind to deserting
him in his helplessness. She enlightened them in regard to financial
matters, saying that she thought it wiser to wait quietly where she was
until things were adjusted. Again, the house practically contained her
possessions only, and these she could not think of moving at a time like
the present; the sick man could not abide the confusion. She furthermore
said that the house had become homelike to her, that all of Mr.
Whitman's friends were kind to her, especially his sister-in-law, who
made weekly visits, always bringing something with her; that she had
implicit confidence in Mrs. Whitman, and knew that should any
controversy arise in the settling of affairs, this upright and capable
woman would be on her side. Again, she had pledged her word to stay; it
was expected of her; and yet the strongest argument came from her own
kind heart--the old man needed her.
In her many talks with Warren she told him how she dreaded the coming of
another strange nurse, even though his term of service was likely to be
so short; and as she could not see how a few months, at most, could make
any material difference to him, she did wish that he would make up his
mind to apply for the position. Mr. Whitman's friends and literary
executors at once caught at this, and all brought their influence to
bear, pressing the place upon him and promising that, should he remain
until Mr. Whitman's demise, they would stand by him and see him placed
in some good way of earning a livelihood.
The situation had no inducements for him; it was in fact decidedly
distasteful; but feeling assured that it couldn't really affect his
worldly career, he consented. He was not one to do things by halves, and
from the day he undertook this work until the last hour of his patient's
life, he performed his manifold duties in a cheerful, willing and most
capable manner.
He loved the sea, with its broad spaces, and soon the narrow limits of
the little house became intolerable to him. This he did not betray, and
being naturally light-hearted and always appearing happy, few who met
him realized the trial he was undergoing. He was honest and
straightforward, and believed everyone to be the same.
Mr. Whitman, who had taken to him at once, was delighted when he was
told that this bright "sailor boy" was to be his next attendant. Warren
was indeed a blessing, not only to the patient, but to his mother, for
he was always ready to assist her and to help out in times of need. But,
better than all, he soon acquired a way of quietly managing the "good
gray poet" that no other living mortal ever attained. When it was
decided that massage would benefit Mr. Whitman, he took a course in a
Philadelphia hospital and became a professional masseur, as well as
wood-sawyer and amateur carpenter.
Good places were offered him, but he was bound, and could accept none of
them. One excellent position was kept open for months and he was advised
by his friends not to let so good an opportunity go by, but Mr. Whitman
lingered on, and the place was filled. In going to sea as a boy, Warren
was at a disadvantage on land. This he realized, and in the situation
thus surrendered he had seen a way in which he could retrieve his lost
time.
Walt's literary attainments and associations were pleasant enough to
encounter, but they were of no material benefit to him, and the
remuneration was much smaller than he had ever before received. This was
a great drawback, for having met a young lady whom he hoped to marry, he
felt inclined and perfectly able to better himself.
As his predecessor's prediction, that Mr. Whitman would not outlive the
year, was not verified, and New Year's Day, 1890, not only found him
alive but in a much improved condition, with no indications of immediate
danger, it came home to Warren that he had unfortunately tied himself to
an uncertainty, and that his term of service might be years instead of
weeks. There seemed no present help, however, so he philosophically
accepted the conditions and stuck to his work with manly courage.
Warren's engagement commenced so late in the season that Mr. Whitman had
but a few outings before another winter shut him in. He had however two
or three trips to the river bank, which he enjoyed greatly; all the more
because they led to conversations on ships and ocean life. Warren was a
fluent and interesting talker, which made him an enviable companion for
anyone who, like the poet, was an ardent lover of freedom and the
boundless deep. He often referred to Warren as his "sailor boy," and
said that he was of much service to him when he was at a loss about the
names of different parts of a ship. The young "sailor boy" had a vein of
poetry in his own composition, and although he might not be qualified to
weigh the bard's words and their import in the same scale with some
others, he got a clear insight into their meaning.
The sick man had his ups and downs during this winter, but was seldom
confined to his bed more than a week at a time. When he was at all able,
he was helped downstairs to sit by the window. He spent more time in the
kitchen with Mrs. Davis, and took a lively interest in anything she
might be doing; he talked to the birds, made a playmate of the cat, had
fellowship with the dog--in short his home life resembled that of any
old man in his own home and with his own kin. He would read and write a
little at a time, or glance over his papers, but there was a perceptible
falling off in all ways, and his domestic life became more and more
dear to him; it had no jars, ran smoothly along, and was to him his
world.