had so long been a part of his housekeeper's life to yield to this, that
he seldom had to insist upon anything. He would usually retire early
now, though this was not a stated rule. He might be in bed by eight
o'clock, or up until midnight, and he was as ingenious as ever in making
work for other people. As his massage was to be the last thing before
sleep, Warren could not calculate upon his own doings for a single
evening. He might go out before dark, make a call or do an errand, then
hasten home to wait up two or three hours or even longer; or on going
out and remaining but a little beyond eight, would on his return find
his patient in bed groaning, and saying that he had been suffering
severely for his rubbing, or "pummelling," as he called it. Suffice it
to say he was as exacting with his willing nurse as he had always been
with his faithful housekeeper. During the two and a half years that
Warren was with him, he had but a single untrammelled evening, for Mr.
Whitman wanted him always near, even when no service was required. And
so things jogged on satisfactorily to friends and admirers, but
tediously indeed to the young marine.
Horace Traubel writes: "Warren Fritzinger, who attends upon Mr. Whitman
and is provided for through a fund steadily replenished by a group of
Walt's lovers--and who finds his services a delight--attests that
whatsoever the hour or necessity, Whitman's most intimate humor is to
the last degree composed and hopeful." ("_In Re Walt Whitman._") Others
have written of this period as one of grave neglect; a time when the
aged man was deprived of the care and comfort so essential to one in his
condition. They underrated both his means and the attention lavished
upon him.
"He is old and poor," says one, "and were it not for small contributions
from time to time from friends who sympathize with him in his poverty,
age and helplessness, would actually suffer for the bare necessaries of
life. For many years his income from all sources has not exceeded an
average of two hundred dollars, which to a person in his helpless
condition goes but a little way even in supplying the roughest and
commonest of food and care." And again: "His wants are not many, for he
lives simply from necessity and choice; but in his old age and
constantly failing health, he needs that comfort and attendance which
he has not the means to procure."
The poet himself was neither discontented nor dull. As his infirmities
brought new privations, he bowed to the inevitable. He missed the
outdoor life keenly, but was grateful for such trips as he could get
under Warren's care. As for indoors, conversations if protracted wore
upon him, and he could no longer take part in them with anything of his
old enthusiasm and vim. But there was no fundamental infirmity of mind,
no childishness of senility; he was essentially young in his habits,
thought and manner, and remained so until his death. Sometimes, indeed,
the flame of mental energy rose high again; and it was never
extinguished.
"The body was fading; the vital parts seemed reluctant to die even in
their own exhaustion. The soul, the mind, the man were there, and at
times in full vigor, while the case was wrecked. Grandly and clearly his
mentality stood above the slowly straining and wasting body." (_Thomas
Donaldson._)
But others suffered with and through him. Warren had relinquished hope
after hope, had on several occasions abandoned his resolve to better
himself and get married; his mother's entreaties and the reiterated
promises and solicitations of Mr. Whitman's friends, especially his
literary executors, were more than he could combat. But with all outward
signs of contentment, the confinement soon left visible marks upon him;
a second pair of rosy cheeks faded, and from handling the icy wood in
the cellar a lasting cold was contracted.
He purchased a writing desk--one that fitted the niche between the
chimney and the window in the anteroom--and here he wrote, studied and
read when not actively employed; always busy, always within call. When
the monotony and confinement became too pressing, he purchased a violin
and took music lessons. He declared that this saved him from fits of
desperation.
Mr. Whitman himself was not the only old person dependent for comfort
upon Mrs. Davis and her sons, for the maternal grandparents of the
latter, living in Beardstown, Pennsylvania, octogenarians and both
amazingly jealous of the poet, had to be visited, looked after and
consoled.
One great annoyance to Warren was Mr. Whitman's aversion to prompt
payment. The old man had signified his willingness to purchase his own
wood, but he was so delinquent about settling for it that the
proprietor of the woodyard, a man whose heart had never been warmed by
the poet's effusions, saw no reason why he should warm his body gratis,
and so sent him bill after bill, until at length he refused to deliver a
load until the previous one was paid for. Be it understood, Mr. Whitman
intended to pay for his wood, but he intended to pay in his own time,
and not be dictated to; consequently there was a controversy when each
load was delivered. "His pride was adamant to anything that seemed
concession." (_John T. Trowbridge._)
Warren knew that the old man had money, that right was on the
wood-dealer's side, and he would not follow his mother's way of putting
people off--telling them that Mr. Whitman was too miserable to be
troubled, asking for an extension of time, etc., then paying the bill
herself and lacking the courage to present the receipt. No, "Warry"
would approach the subject in such an original fashion and hand the bill
to his patient in such an offhand way that it would appeal to him
directly, and as a rule the money was counted out with a quiet chuckle.
Eddie Wilkins wrote: "Mr. Whitman is stubborn and self-willed. You can
only get along with him by letting him have his own way." Warren would
meet the stubbornness and self-will with just as persistent good-nature,
and would usually gain his point. He was the only person Walt Whitman
never chloroformed with one of his "Ahs!"
Early in April, 1890, the poet was asked to read his Lincoln lecture at
the Art Club rooms in Philadelphia, and he agreed. He was just
recovering from a bad spell, and Mrs. Davis did her best to dissuade him
from such an undertaking, but without avail; he summoned up his
resolution once more and had his own way. With the assistance of Warren
and others, he dressed and painfully dragged himself to the place of
destination, and there, before a gay and crowded assembly, he appeared
for the last time in public as a speaker. But the effort was too great,
and when the reading was ended and the congratulations over, he was
taken home in a suffering and nearly unconscious condition and carried
to his bed, where, exhausted and worn out, he was for some days obliged
to remain. However, on May 31 he was sufficiently recovered to attend a
birthday dinner at Reiser's in Philadelphia. When the guests were
assembled--some fifty or sixty in number--Warren wheeled him into the
room, where without leaving his chair he joined in the convivialities of
the occasion. He did not fear to dissipate a little at events like this,
nor did he always pause at the point of prudence, for he knew that in
whatsoever state he might reach home the best of after-care awaited him
there.
During the spring and summer the chair rides were resumed whenever he
was at his best, and he entered into the enjoyment with zest and
appreciation. When feeling particularly well he would make up for lost
time, until the rolling chair with its distinguished occupant and
handsome boyish-looking propeller was often seen by the hour as it
passed through the streets of Camden and adjacent suburbs. This chair
stimulated the interest of the neighbors and whenever it was carried to
the sidewalk the news spread quickly, so that by the time Mrs. Davis
appeared with Warren, helping the old man down the stoop, they had a
good-sized and extremely attentive audience. No doubt they had long
since ceased to look upon Mr. Whitman as a mysterious personage, but
they comprehended that he was not one of them, and everything new
connected with him still excited their curiosity.
Warren's advent at a season when he was so needed was indeed a blessing
to his mother. Now she could count upon her time and arrange for her
work, could go out with no anxiety as to home matters, and could have
the kitchen to herself when she wished.
The heat of this summer debilitated the invalid more than that of the
previous one, or even of the famous (or dreadful) one of 1887, devoted
so exhaustingly to art. For days the old man would now be too overcome
for any outing, and would be glad instead to sit on the sidewalk, as of
old, in the shade of his cherished tree. He spent some evenings with
friends, and occasionally went out to a Sunday dinner or to meet certain
people; but this became too strenuous, and the after-effects too
serious.
The chair rides, though so often interrupted, were continued until late
in the fall.
"Was out in wheel-chair yesterday, November 8, from twelve to
two-thirty."
He made a few visits to the river, and seated in his chair took his last
boat rides across it. In October he visited Philadelphia for the last
time.
XIV
FRIENDS, MONEY, AND A MAUSOLEUM
"_Christmas Day, 1890, was spent by Walt Whitman in giving himself and
all his family a Christmas present for all eternity. He went out to
Harleigh Cemetery, a suburb of Camden, to select a site for a
tomb._"--WILLIAM SLOANE KENNEDY.
On the evening of October 21, Colonel Robert Ingersoll gave a lecture in
Horticulture Hall, Philadelphia, for the benefit of Mr. Whitman. The
subject was "Liberty in Literature."
This form of assistance to the poet was suggested to Colonel Ingersoll
by Mr. Johnston of New York, one of Walt's oldest and most valued
friends, who came to Camden to talk the matter over and make the
necessary arrangements. Mr. Whitman took unusual interest in the project
and was desirous of being present. Mr. Johnston, who had great
confidence in Mrs. Davis and much regard for her opinion, consulted her
upon the subject. She said that recent cool weather had done much for
the old man, and barring unlooked-for accidents, she believed that he
could be counted upon. Mr. Whitman himself, who was well aware that his
later appearances in public had proved a great tax upon his strength,
declared his intention of husbanding the little that remained for the
event. This he did; the evening arrived, the weather was favorable, and
all was well.
Every possible exertion had been spared him, and he started off in high
spirits. An easy carriage had been secured, and he reached the hall
without fatigue; even in better condition than had been anticipated. He
was accompanied by a friend, and by Warren and Mrs. Davis, for both Mr.
Johnston and Colonel Ingersoll had insisted upon her being one of the
party. On alighting from the carriage and entering the hall, Mrs. Davis
was given a seat in the audience not far from the stage, and Mr. Whitman
and Warren were taken behind the scenes, where the lecturer and some
gentlemen awaited them. An armchair had been placed for the poet by the
speaker's stand. A few moments before the lecture began, he came upon
the stage and seated himself. He was greeted with enthusiasm by the
overflowing house, and when the eloquent speaker had closed his fine
address, he arose, came forward and spoke a few words. This was his last
appearance in public.
Colonel Ingersoll had engaged a room in a nearby hotel, where at the
close of the lecture a small company were invited to partake of a
collation and pass an informal, social hour. When all were seated at the
table, the Colonel handed Mr. Whitman $870 as his share of the proceeds,
and upon doing so remarked to Mrs. Davis: "That sum will keep you all in
comfort this winter." But like all other sums received by Mr. Whitman,
it was deposited unbroken in the bank.
Mr. Whitman stood this exertion well, but the reaction came later; the
borrowed strength gave out, and the winter found him much the worse for
wear. He came downstairs a number of times in October and November, and
had occasional outings, but he passed the time chiefly in his own room,
and the big chair which Warren and his mother had carried up and down
stairs, to the place where it was needed for the time being, was never
again taken below. He sat up much less, however, and would lie upon his
back for hours, with his eyes partially closed and his hands crossed
upon his breast.
Letters came with kind wishes and friendly words; these he appreciated,
though he could seldom answer them. Yet he still read and wrote a
little, still looked over his newspapers and periodicals, and the
accumulating litter therefore received its weekly contributions; but at
his mother's earnest request Warren did not interfere. When little
things were carried upstairs, the old man would often ask that they
might be left. If any article were taken up he would usually say, "Leave
it a while longer; I may want it by and by." This accounts for the
soiled dishes frequently seen in his room.
Old friends and new ones were constant, and seemed to devise ways in
which they could shower attentions upon the sick man. The oysterman in
the next street sent word that he was at all times welcome to a free
share of his stock in trade, and there was no time when oysters were not
kept unopened in the cellar; but Mr. Whitman beyond doubt overstepped
the bounds of the donor's generous intentions when he treated his
company so lavishly to stews and half-shells, also when he ordered
supplies for his young men friends in return for services they rendered
him. Mrs. Davis and Warren did not approve of this, and each was ashamed
to visit the little place so many times; they without money, and the
oysters without price.
Did Mr. Whitman, in truth, have an accurate or an undeveloped knowledge
of the cost of living?
Eddie Wilkins writes: "Oh, he knows the value of money, and is very
careful with his own."
His benevolence to the sick and wounded soldiers during a great part of
the civil war is an old and often repeated story, but in this he was to
a great extent the almoner of others. His self-sacrificing labors as a
volunteer visiting nurse were his own free-will offering, and from them
came his long years of suffering, for his early paralysis was the result
of these exhaustive and unremitted efforts.
"His devotion surpassed the devotion of woman." (_John Swinton, in a
letter to the New York Herald_, April 1, 1876.)
Most of the time while he was living in Washington he occupied a small
room up three flights of stairs. He had but little furniture and no
dishes; he ate out of paper bags and subsisted upon a very meagre sum
of money. This sufficed for that period of his life, when he was in "his
splendid prime." (_John Swinton._) He had health, strength and only
himself to think of; and taking a house of his own in after
years--humble as was the one in Mickle Street--did not seem to mature in
him any realizing sense of the intrinsic value of money, or reveal to
him his own pecuniary obligations. He never seemed to question what
housekeeping involved, never seemed to pause and think that certain
responsibilities rested upon him alone, or feel that he might be
wronging others, especially those whose services he accepted and whose
embarrassments he never inquired into, never offered to relieve. But
Mrs. Davis, conservative, conscientious, and true to him, did not
disclose his domestic failures or discuss them with others. His
financial standing was not revealed to his English friends, and remained
quite a secret until the Christmas season of this year, when he was
given a site for a grave in Harleigh Cemetery.
It is not unreasonable to believe that he had special designs in putting
money so quietly aside, one of which--and the greatest, perhaps--was to
build a family vault. It has been said that it was for this very
purpose he accumulated money; hoarded, accepted and saved in the most
minute of things. Thomas Bailey Aldrich often told the delightful story
of a certain $9.00 which Whitman borrowed from him--magnificently, but
also irrevocably--in Pfoff's restaurant on Broadway.
After he had accepted and secured the site, he spoke freely of his
wishes and intentions regarding the tomb. He specified that certain
members of his family should be placed in it, and requested in
particular that his parents should be brought from Long Island to sleep
with them there.
It was to be of granite, massive and commodious; and on a projection
above the door was to be a granite statue of himself, standing. His
ideas were excessive, and the expense far beyond his means; still, he
may have thought that the proceeds accruing from his book would warrant
an extravagance for death that he never vouchsafed to life. The tomb was
begun according to his orders, but was finished on a much smaller
scale--as it now stands--and just in time to lay him therein.
When it became known that preparations had been made to erect this
costly mausoleum, it dawned upon some of his friends that he had a way
of keeping things to himself. It certainly did seem strange that some of
them should pay a monthly tax for his support when he had means of his
own, and could contemplate such an expenditure as this. In truth people
were getting tired of the constant drain upon their purses, and many had
long questioned why they should so frequently be called upon, and
wondered what _could_ become of the money that flowed in large and small
streams into the Whitman exchequer. A few even suspected Mrs. Davis of
appropriating it, and of this--unknown to her--she was accused. She was
also charged with wastefulness, neglect of the invalid, and gross
incompetence.
The poet still kept his affairs to himself, and "it may be he thought
that what he received from his admirers was but a portion of the debt
they owed him." (_William Sloane Kennedy._)
January and February of this winter were hard months to the sick man. He
suffered with severe headaches, lassitude and inertia, added to which he
had long and obstinate spells of indigestion. He remarked to some old
friends that he suffered somewhat from want of persons to cheer him up;
most visitors came to him to confess their own weakness and failures,
and to disburden themselves of their sorrows. It was just the opposite
disposition in his two constant attendants that made their companionship
so agreeable to him. Warren's witty and playful sallies always provoked
a quiet smile, and his mother's "inventive thoughtfulness" was rewarded
with an appreciative, approving look.
During March he made some gain, but it was not until April 15 that he
got out of doors to enjoy the sunshine and invigorating air. With his
rides new courage came to him, and in May he was able to be taken to the
cemetery to witness the progress made on the tomb. But in the last ten
months of his life he was so worn by pain, and had so aged, that his
restful, reliable home comforts were the dearest of all earthly things
to him.
XV
THE LAST BIRTHDAY PARTY
"_There was one more birthday dinner celebrated with his friends in
the Mickle Street house on May 31, 1891. Whitman was seventy-two. That
privacy, which is the normal privilege of old age, was one of the
kinds of happiness which he didn't experience._"--BLISS PERRY.
"_Munching a little bread dipped in champagne and talking about Death.
He had never been more picturesque._"--BLISS PERRY.
On May 31, when Mr. Whitman had reached the age of seventy-two, his last
birthday (as it proved) was celebrated by a dinner given in his own
home. This arrangement was adopted as the only means of ensuring his
presence, and the gathering was the final social event in that little
house.
The managing committee was composed of young men, most of whom knew
nothing of the limited dimensions of the place, and had not reflected
upon the incongruity of their undertaking; nor, until the plans were all
made, arrangements nearly completed and the invitations issued, was Mrs.
Davis told what was to take place. When the youngest of the three
literary executors, who had devised and was at the head of the scheme,
finally informed her, she said she feared that such a thing as seating
thirty-six people in the parlors was impracticable; however, she would
do her best in helping them to carry out their wishes.
It was by good luck that the arrangements were in the hands of
inexperienced, enthusiastic and hopeful young people, for the
difficulties to be overcome would have discouraged older and more
experienced folk at the outset. It was better still for them that they
found a well-balanced mind, willing hands and managing skill in their
home agent, as this alone saved them from ignoble failure. First the
parlor doors, double and single, together with the hall and kitchen
doors, secured with old-fashioned six-screw hinges, were removed and
carried into the yard; the spare bed put up since Mr. Whitman's last
stroke was taken down, together with the stove, and with the entire
furniture likewise removed. This was literally turning the parlors
inside out.
Mrs. Davis, as usual, succeeded in making a place for everything. Warren
did most of the hard work and lifting, while his mother swept the rooms,
cleaned the windows, put up fresh curtains and made the place so
presentable that the young men of the committee, who took kindly to her
encouraging words and wise suggestions, acknowledged that they did not
see how they could have managed without her ready and efficient
coöperation. On the morning of the birthday she was of equal service to
the waiters who, when the tables, chairs and dishes arrived, discovered
many drawbacks in such an unlooked-for banquet hall.
The head table was placed across the front parlor, in a line with the
windows, the other, the length of the back parlor, forming a T with it;
and these, with the small chairs, so completely filled the rooms that
only just sufficient space was left for the waiters to serve the guests
through the two doorways. Most of the viands came ready cooked, and the
caterer had done full justice to them; the coffee was made on the
kitchen stove, which, with the little one in the shed, was brought into
requisition for heating purposes. Mrs. Davis was usefulness itself in
getting things in readiness, advising with the caterer and helping him
out of quandaries. When the dinner had been decided upon she had been
told that it should put her to no extra work; and when she made the
matter really possible she was told that she had done her part, which
should end there, as the committee would attend to putting things to
rights afterwards.
Getting Mr. Whitman ready, and seeing that he was in no way overtaxed,
was of much importance, and it was carefully looked after. At the
appointed hour, seven P. M., the guests assembled, and there being no
reception room, each took his or her assigned place at the table; then,
when all were seated, the venerable host was brought down. He was met
with congratulations, and led to the head of the table. There were
twenty-seven men and five women present, and not until the greetings
were over did he and his old friends observe that Mrs. Davis had been
left out. Room at the table was not wanting, as three chairs were vacant
through the non-arrival of the expected occupants; besides, two of the
ladies were strangers to the poet. Mrs. Davis felt the slight, although
she could not very well have formed one of the company in any event, her
presence being indispensable elsewhere.
It was a good dinner and well served, all things considered. The day was
insufferably hot, and the windows and the front door were left wide
open. Many noticed and remarked that during the dinner no loungers were
about the front of the house, "no boys looking in, yelling or throwing
stones or mud--no curiosity gazers. Respect for Mr. Whitman possibly
prevented this." (_Thomas Donaldson._) Respect for Mr. Whitman in part,
no doubt, but a greater respect for a contract made beforehand; Mrs.
Davis had bought them off; something good for each one of them for good
conduct. She was not so successful in securing the same considerate
behavior from Watch, her coach dog, for to her great mortification, just
as one gentleman commenced to read "O Captain! my Captain!" he came into
the parlor doorway, "put his nose up in the air and uttered a series of
the most ungodly howls ever listened to." (_Thomas Donaldson._) He
continued to howl until the reading ceased, then abruptly left the room.