down the toasts, responses, scraps of conversation, etc. But while these
were at their height, one compliment, one little speech, was not
recorded. Mr. Whitman looked around the table as if seeking something,
and on being asked, "Is there anything you want, Walt?" replied, "Yes, I
want a piece of _Mary's bread_." It was brought to him. Mr. Whitman, no
doubt, feeling that Mary had been slighted, took this peculiar way of
his own to show his regard for her.
The next day the tables and chairs were taken away, but the committee's
promises of assistance were probably forgotten, for regardless of the
poor days Mr. Whitman passed in consequence of the dinner, and his need
of extra care, no help whatever was proffered and Mrs. Davis and Warren
were left to right the house by degrees, working as they could.
The summer following the invalid was glad to pass quietly in his room.
The heat overcame him, for he had lost all his resistant power, and
truly needed the attention and care that it was his good fortune to
receive. Part of the time he was up and dressed, but he seldom felt
equal to more than this. His outings were few in number, the reading
fell off, and the writing was nearly discontinued. However, this did not
prevent the litter in his room from mysteriously increasing in the same
slow, sure, steady ratio. As this did not bother him, and he was
inclined to be tranquil and satisfied, no one disturbed him, or
interfered in any way with his idiosyncrasies.
His world had become contracted to still smaller dimensions; the four
walls of his own room enclosed it. He had relinquished his hold upon
outside life with its bustle and excitement, and more than ever wished
to be left alone, left to himself. He was his own best company,
apparently, for he often evinced disapprobation on being roused from one
of his long reveries. At intervals he would seem to be the old-time man,
would rouse up and talk, even jest, after which would follow spells of
depression or dreaded indigestion. In the latter case, day would succeed
day when his only nourishment would be a light cup-custard or a small
glass of iced buttermilk.
The fall did little for him, and there was an unmistakable and steady
decline until December 17, when after a number of miserable days he was
seized with a chill, the precursor of pneumonia. For a week his life
hung in the balance; friends and relatives were summoned, and the best
medical advice was procured. Each hour the final call seemed at hand;
then came a pause, and the issue was uncertain; next there was a slight
improvement.
The burden of all this fell mainly upon Warren, who was only relieved
temporarily day or night by his no less worn-out mother. Believing that
each day would be the last, each had held up and gone on, until on the
28th the limit of endurance was reached, and they asked for assistance.
As the patient's symptoms were tending toward a protracted illness
rather than a speedy death, his friends saw that this was imperative,
and Dr. Bucke, who had recently arrived in Camden, went to Philadelphia
to engage a professional nurse.
XVI
THE NEW NURSE
"_Well, I told you doctors when I was so very bad, 'let me go; let me
die.' I felt you would not listen to a word ... you would not think of
it for a moment, and here I am._
"_I chose to go. I may pull through it and have it all to go through
again; it looks more so to-day than for a fortnight. You are all
making a strong pull for me, I can see that._"--WALT WHITMAN.
The requirements in the nurse were maturity, experience in the care of
sick men, and the ability to take notes and keep a careful record. Dr.
Bucke engaged a suitable person, and talked freely and unreservedly to
her about the patient, his physical condition and his eccentric habits.
He said it was his firm belief that his life could not last more than a
few days longer, and that he was confident that another such room as the
one he was in, littered and uncared for, did not exist upon the face of
the earth. He further said that his poor old friend had been in wretched
health for some years past, that he was in no way able to look out for
himself, and that he was in the hands and at the mercy of a designing
and unprincipled woman,--the unrefined and ignorant widow of a
sailor,--who as a housekeeper was unreliable and dishonest, and who
alone was responsible for the condition in which the sick room was to be
found. He added that it had been arranged that the nurse should go out
to all her meals at the expense of the patient's friends; that she was
to have nothing whatever to do with the housekeeper, _and above all
things she was not to allow her to enter the sick man's room_. To put
the matter to her concisely, she was, during the entire engagement, long
or short as it might prove, to speak to but three persons, these being
the two literary executors living in Camden, Mr. Harned and Mr. Traubel,
and her own colleague, Warren Fritzinger. He told her that the first
things he desired her to do were to get the sick room into order, and to
begin recording the daily transactions; she must be careful to note all
Mr. Whitman's words as they were uttered, and to write them down
faithfully. Dr. Bucke spoke as one having full authority, and the nurse
had no reason for disbelieving anything he had said. (And ever after
believed that Mrs. Davis had been cruelly maligned (but by whom?) and
that Dr. Bucke, who lived at a distance and saw little of his friend's
home life, had been deceived and misled.) He assured her that _money in
abundance_ would be supplied for all the sick man's needs, and that it
was the wish of his friends that he should have every comfort possible
until the end.
By a second appointment Dr. Bucke met the nurse at the ferry, and they
set out together for the dying poet's home, the Doctor, while crossing
the Delaware, repeating and dwelling upon what he had previously said.
The ring at the door was answered by a pleasant, ladylike woman, between
whom and the Doctor there was a show of mutual good feeling. The back
parlor was given to the nurse as her room, and when she had laid her
wraps aside Dr. Bucke led the way upstairs. To the relief of all Mr.
Whitman had made no objections to a lady as nurse, and when she entered
his room he extended his hand. A number of gentlemen were present, among
them his brother George and the two literary executors, who had remained
to take leave of Dr. Bucke. An artist who had just completed some
etchings of the poet had sent him six complimentary copies, one of which
he presented to his departing friend, at whose request he was raised up
to autograph it. This, it was supposed, would be his last signature.
The prospect being that he would not only survive the night, but would
pass it in comparative comfort, his friends and relatives left,
excepting only his niece, Miss Jessie Whitman, the daughter of his
brother Jefferson.
Poor Warren was overjoyed at the idea of going to bed, for in the last
four days and nights he had had no rest, and since the chill, ten days
before, had not found time to change or remove his clothing. While
giving the nurse her instructions he confessed that he was completely
done up, that such a siege as he had just passed through was worse than
a storm at sea; nevertheless he wished and expected to be called at any
moment if his services were required.
Mrs. Davis, totally unconscious of any ill feeling toward her and
disposed to show every courtesy to the nurse, prepared a nice supper to
which she invited her to come. What could the nurse do? No way had been
opened for her to go outside to her meals--at least for the present--and
no one except Dr. Bucke had mentioned such a thing; it was dark, she was
in a strange city and ravenously hungry. She could not make up her mind
to refuse and run off at once to seek a restaurant, especially at a time
like this; could not risk leaving a patient so dangerously ill, even for
a minute; nor could she desert the two weary people who were looking to
her for relaxation and relief. No; she would sooner fast for the night.
But fasting was not necessary; so descending the stairs, passing through
the hall and running headlong into the flour barrel, she entered the
little cabin-like kitchen.
Mrs. Davis was so worn out for sleep that even while standing her
eyelids would close. She apologized, saying that she had been awake so
many hours she was not at all herself. The nurse begged her to lie down
at once, believing this weary, sad-looking woman must be a relative of
her patient's, or a dear friend who had come there to bridge over the
present crisis. Dr. Bucke had not mentioned the housekeeper's name, and
the kindly, hospitable person who had been introduced as Mrs. Davis
belied in every way the description of the sailor's unrefined widow.
Besides, Warren called her mother.
The sick man required but few attentions during the night, and was so
painfully still the nurse went to his bedside a number of times to
assure herself that he was breathing. Warren came in twice to
reconnoitre and turn him over, and when morning peeped into the window
of the dull little anteroom and he found that no new complications had
developed and that Mr. Whitman had not suffered from the change, he was
jubilant over it.
After preparing breakfast, Mrs. Davis, as was her custom, went upstairs
to sit with the patient while the others were below. She entered his
room, and he--who up to this time had lain with downcast eyes,
speechless, almost immovable--looked up, smiled, and exclaimed in a
pleased voice, "Ah, Mary!" There was no mistaking the friendly relation
between these two people, and before noon the nurse learned that the
coarse housekeeper, the _dreaded_ housekeeper, was no other than this
pleasant, tired-out woman, whose kindness she appreciated because she
had at once made her feel so much at home. What did the nurse think!
When Mr. Whitman was supposed to be dying, Mrs. Davis had in a way
managed to meet the emergencies of the occasion; when a rubber sheet was
called for, and no one offered to procure or order one, she gave her
own oilcloth table cover to supply the need. When extra sheets were in
demand and were not forthcoming from any quarter, she bought a piece of
cloth, tore off the lengths, and was obliged to use them unlaundered and
unhemmed, for even in this trying time only one person, besides her
personal friends, had offered her the least assistance or inquired as to
the straits to which she was put. This single exception was Mr.
Whitman's sister-in-law, who had left a sick bed to come to Camden and
do what she could.
When with the coming of the nurse, and cessation from immediate anxiety,
Mrs. Davis found time to look around, she discovered more than an
abundance of work. An enormous wash had accumulated, her boiler had
given out, and damp and cloudy weather necessitated drying everything
within doors. Then as the eaves trough had fallen down, and the kitchen
ceiling leaked, Warren's skill in carpentering was in instant demand.
They found the nurse willing to assist in any way, and the housekeeper
was delighted that she was plain spoken and matter-of-fact, and knew
almost nothing of her patient as a writer; that she regarded him only as
a sick and helpless old man, needing personal care, and not the
adulation with which he was surfeited. Mr. Whitman himself took kindly
to her, for like Mrs. Davis she never questioned him, and if she spoke
at all, always touched upon the most simple, commonplace subjects.
On one occasion she ventured to say to him: "I suppose you would be
disgusted with me if I told you that I had never heard of _Leaves of
Grass_ until I came here?" He laughed a little and replied: "I guess
there are plenty of people in the world who can say the same. _Leaves of
Grass_ was the aim of my life. In these days and nights it is different:
my mutton broth--my brandy--to be turned promptly and kept clean--are
much more to me and appeal to me more deeply."
Little by little, much was accomplished; the sheets were hemmed, and the
nurse with part of the small and only sum of money given to her soon had
a new boiler on the stove; then when the table cover, which had become
stiff, wrinkled and ruined, was replaced with a smooth rubber sheet, and
a rubber ring purchased, which gave the patient great relief, and a few
trifling articles secured, the money was exhausted. Mrs. George Whitman
added some things to the supply, after which it fell to Mrs. Davis to
resort to her own means as of old, and one by one the gold
pieces--Warren's gift--melted away.
In the course of a couple of weeks the nurse learned that she was
boarding at the expense of the housekeeper, and finding that no
arrangements had been made to this effect she wrote to Dr. Bucke, laying
the matter before him, as it had been agreed that she should write to
him semi-weekly and in full confidence. In her next letter she told him
of her own belief in Mrs. Davis as a most excellent woman; she enlarged
upon her devotion to Mr. Whitman and his fondness for her, and expressed
her great astonishment that a man of his experience could be so mistaken
in anyone. In reply he wrote that he was pleased to know that he had
been misled.
Mrs. Davis was much distressed in regard to the cleaning of the sick
room. She feared it would make Mr. Whitman unhappy, and she felt that as
his life was to end in so short a time, further indulgence might be
granted him. But he was found to be not at all disposed to make
objections; indeed, he was passive in the extreme, and when the nurse in
any doubt or difficulty would occasionally appeal to him, he had but
one reply: "Ask Mary."
To the surprise of everyone he lingered on, improving instead of growing
worse, and by the end of the month had regained something of his former
condition. He even wrote a few short letters, autographed the five
remaining etchings, and a photograph for the nurse.
When the ominous symptoms had disappeared and he was not only out of
danger, but quite comfortable, and Mrs. Davis had got the most pressing
work well in hand, things assumed an almost unbroken routine. Warren
took the night work, as reporters often came to the house at late hours
and he was accustomed to meeting them; even friends would come thus
unseasonably to inquire for the poet and perhaps beg for admittance to
his room.
Yet there were many nights during the long sickness--lasting to March
26--when following a number of good days he would sink into a state of
collapse, and then both nurses would remain up together.
As Warren did his home work in the forenoon, which was also his mother's
busiest time, the nurse prepared the patient's breakfast and gave it to
him; but seeing that he really preferred Mary's presence to her own,
she often exchanged work with her, and the only actual difference was
that Walt had three nurses instead of two.
Getting the sick room into order was a tedious task. The nurse was
directed to leave every scrap of paper with writing upon it in the room,
to remove only the newspapers, magazines, circulars, bound books,
wrapping papers and so on. Then there were days when it was evident that
Mr. Whitman wished to be alone, other days when he was very low and
could not be disturbed, still other days when he had long visits from
friends; and the work would have to be postponed for the time being.
All the newspapers and magazines were stacked upon the landing outside
the anteroom door; the books--usually dropped anywhere, open--were
placed upon the pine shelves; the manuscripts were piled upon one side
of the sick room, and the old envelopes, wrapping paper and odds and
ends of string alone were thrown away.
Warren's desk came in nicely, and seated at this the nurse wrote her
record, going into the details and minutiæ of the case, as she had been
instructed. In this Warren took his part, and as he knew most of the
people who called, his information and night notes were a valuable
addition. A cot under the shelves in the anteroom, which had served as a
bed for the nurses at night and a settee by day, was taken out and a
comfortable lounge substituted, which had been hidden from view under
the débris in the other room. This gave both rooms a better appearance,
besides providing a more comfortable seat and sleeping place.
Mr. Whitman did not take medicine with regularity; only when some acute
pain or persistent discomfort rendered it essential. His temperature was
never taken, his pulse and respiration but seldom; and in no way was he
roused up, except for an unavoidable cause, or perhaps to meet company.
He fully understood his own condition, and pleaded for but one thing:
rest.
When he had his poor days--when it seemed that he could not again
rally--he saw no one, and in the last two months he wished to see few
beside his nurses, his two doctors (Dr. Alex. McAlister of Camden, and
Dr. Longaker of Philadelphia), and his faithful Mary. He said that
others tired him, and yet many saw him and held conversations with him,
even at this late stage in his life. Colonel Ingersoll came twice, and
sent him a basket of champagne, of which he took sparingly from time to
time.
It was not so lonesome for Warren when there was someone associated with
him in his work, and the nurse listened with interest to the stories he
told of his early escapades, and of his subsequent adventures in strange
countries and at sea. He could boast of having saved two fellow
creatures from drowning, that is, if he were at all inclined to boast,
which he was not. After awhile he confided the disappointments of his
love affair, saying he thought it hard that after being engaged for over
two and a half years, he had not, since he had assumed the care of Mr.
Whitman, had the opportunity and pleasure of inviting and escorting his
fiancée to an evening entertainment. The nurse thought so too; she
sympathized with him; and his one untrammelled evening was when, unknown
to his mother, she slipped over to Philadelphia, bought tickets and
secured seats that he might have the gratification of taking "Coddie" to
the theatre. This plot was several days in maturing, and when the secret
was disclosed Mrs. Davis was terribly exercised, fearing that something
dreadful might come up just at that particular time. She tried to
dissuade Warren from going, but it was two against one, and he went.
Nothing eventful occurred; Mr. Whitman was at his best, and when he
asked for "Warry," and was told where he had gone, he was perfectly
satisfied.
But day by day the patient steadily declined, and as one of his lungs
was nearly useless, it affected his breathing to such an extent that his
only relief was in change of position--"shifting," as he called it when
he was being turned from one side to the other. He could eat while lying
down, but could drink only when his head was raised with the pillow to
support it. Often when Mrs. Davis went into the room to turn him, or to
take him some little home-made delicacy, she came out in tears. What was
said when the two were alone--if they spoke at all--was never repeated,
never reported.
Mr. Whitman did not know that the nurse kept an account of his words, or
wrote anything whatever regarding him; for of all things he disliked,
the worst was to feel that there was someone at hand or just out of
sight with pencil and paper in readiness for instant use.
One day Warren told him that his brother Harry's Christmas present was a
little boy that he had named for him: Walt Whitman Fritzinger. This
pleased the sick man, and he expressed a wish to see his little
namesake. The child was kept in readiness for a week; then early one
evening, when Mr. Whitman was feeling better than usual, he was sent
for. His nurse brought him over, carried him into the sick room and laid
him in the arms of the old man, who kissed the little fellow, held him a
few minutes and repeated a number of times: "Well, well, Little Walt
Whitman, Little Walt Whitman." There were present the child's mother and
nurse, Mrs. Davis, Warren, and Mrs. Keller, Mr. Whitman's nurse. He
never saw the child again, but often inquired after him, and added a
codicil to his will bequeathing him two hundred dollars. (My name is on
the codicil as witness to the signature.--E. L. K.)
The invalid had never bought himself a new mattress, and the one given
him by Mrs. Davis seven years before--too wide for the bedstead and
extending several inches beyond it at the back--had from long and
constant usage become hollow in the centre, making it difficult to turn
him from one side to the other, for he would often slip back into the
hollow place. Warren once said: "When I come on this side of the bed
you slip away from me." "Ah, Warry," he replied, "one of these fine
mornings I shall slip away from you forever."
One evening a member of the editorial staff of the New York _Evening
Telegram_ visited him. Mr. Whitman knew that he was coming, and had made
up a little roll of his writings to give him. (Mr. Traubel always made
these engagements, met the parties and accompanied them to the house.)
Upon leaving, the gentleman said that the paper had raised a fund
wherewith to purchase flowers for the poet's room. Afterwards learning
that the defective lung made the fragrance of flowers stifling to him,
the paper requested that the money be applied in some other way. Mrs.
Davis suggested a longer bed and a firm, level mattress. This was agreed
to, the money came duly to hand, and the two nurses went together to
select the bed. The one decided upon was a single one, made of oak and
standing at least three inches higher than the old one; the mattress was
of sea-grass. When the useful gift, which was a surprise to Mr. Whitman,
arrived and was being set up--February 22, 1892--Walt was seated for the
last time in his big chair.
Warren said it would be a pity to have this bedstead battered up as the
old one had been--for the old man still kept his cane within reach and
often pounded upon the footboard; so he rigged up a bell in the
anteroom, and carried the wire over the door and into the sick room,
where a drop string came down to the bed. Mr. Whitman found this an
easier way of summoning aid; it was the "quaint bell" mentioned by two
or three writers.
When the patient was settled on the new bed, he looked at Mrs. Davis and
said: "You can have the old one, Mary."
The _Evening Telegram_ gift was a great acquisition, and it is to be
regretted, for the sake both of the invalid and those who waited upon
him, that it did not come in some way years before.
XVII
"SHIFT, WARRY"
"_Come, lovely and soothing death,
Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,
In the day, in the night, to all, to each,
Sooner or later, delicate death._"
--WALT WHITMAN.
"_She was his loyal friend and nurse. She stood by him in life, and
closed his eyes in death._"--THOMAS DONALDSON.
In January, when Mr. Whitman first rallied, wrote the few short letters
and autographed the pictures, his friends were much encouraged; but
subsequent sinking spells destroyed their hopes, and his extremely low
condition led them to believe that he would wield his pen no more. In
his poor days scarcely a word was spoken in the house, and his three
nurses worked silently, almost mechanically, about him. Then with
another temporary reaction, hopes were again renewed and a change in
everything was manifest; even the dull little anteroom seemed brighter.