materials. His old way of writing in bed was to be firmly propped up,
with a pillow before him on which to rest a light smooth-covered book.
Now he was too weak to hold the book, and although well supported at the
back he found it an almost insurmountable task to indite even a few
words. Mrs. Davis believed he could do much better were something
devised on which the paper before him could rest firmly. She was equal
to the occasion, for going to a young artist and teacher of painting (a
young lady named Miss Button) next door she procured a drawing board, to
which she had legs attached,--two short stationary ones in front, and
two longer at the back, fastened with hinges--thus making it adjustable
to almost any angle. The invention worked well, and the next day, when
he again requested pen and ink, it was placed before him. He was
surprised and pleased, and all he could say was, "Just the thing; just
the thing"; then looking at the nurse he added: "_That's Mary_; that's
Mary; just the right thing at the right time." Not Mary the efficient
housekeeper or capable manager, but just the right woman in the right
place.
It was on this board that Walt Whitman's last words were inscribed.
His book, which had been completed, was out of the press, and a few
copies had been hurried through that he might see the work as it would
go out into the world. Mr. D. McKay, his publisher, brought them over
one evening, and the dying poet expressed to him the great satisfaction
he felt at the manner in which the edition had been produced. He asked
to have fifty copies bound at once in Manila paper covers, that he might
give or send them to certain friends. This was done; he designated the
people who were to receive them, and Mr. Traubel attended to the
inscriptions. The last thing Walt wrote for printing was a notice in
regard to this edition. His writing board was of the greatest service to
him in accomplishing this task; without it, not only this notice, but
his last written words to his friends at large, his farewell Greeting or
Salutation, would never have been written.
When he had completed the notice, making numerous alterations until he
seemed satisfied, he called for Mrs. Davis, who on coming into the room
held a secret "confab" with him, after which she got ready and left the
house. The following afternoon she again left the house and on her
return handed Walt a printed proof. In this, as of old, he made some
corrections, and it was again taken out and again called for. These were
Mary's last visits to the "quaint little printing office," and the "old
fellow acquaintance's" last acts of kindness to his dying patron.
In the two days intervening between the writing of this notice and its
ultimate approval, Walt wrote his last words to all--the final Greeting
just mentioned to his friends at large. He wrote it himself on post
office paper, and when he had covered one piece, he called for mucilage
with which to add a second. He had measured the little printed slip, and
had left a space for it. He worked intently until the task was
completed. His tendency to recline backward made it difficult for him to
use the pen properly, therefore Mrs. Davis or the nurse usually sat
behind him, and by leaning forward and holding him in her arms supported
him in a more comfortable and convenient position. While one assisted
him in this way, the other held the inkstand near him, as he could no
longer reach it from its accustomed place, the chair beside his bed.
When the Greeting was finished, the printed notice was pasted in its
place. The original writing was sent to Mr. Bolton of England, with the
request that he would have it facsimiled and distributed amongst all
Walt's friends. Here is the letter Horace Traubel wrote conveying the
poet's wishes.
CAMDEN, N. J., February 8th, 1892
"W. asked me this ev'g to give you this counsel.--'If entirely
convenient, facsimile the letter of February 6th, and send it
copiously to European and American friends and friends
anywhere,'--letting us have copies here as well. It was a great
struggle to get this letter written and he wishes it to go out as his
general salutation of friends to whom his strength will not permit him
specially to write. It was framed with that end in view."
The request was promptly complied with and an exact reproduction was
made, even to the use of two pieces of paper pasted together, as in the
original. The desired copies arrived before Walt's death, and he gave or
sent them to his friends, as he had done with the author's copies of his
book. He evinced much interest in doing this, and kindly presented his
nurses with both a facsimile and a book.
As may be supposed, everyone was on the alert to secure his last
signature, and the nurse, who had the advantage of being on the spot
when he was able to write, had this honor. Selecting one of the numerous
photographs with which his room abounded--she subsequently learned that
this was his own favorite ("_Mr. Whitman was not vain as to pictures of
himself. He seemed to like best the photograph showing him sitting in a
chair with a butterfly in his hand._"--_Thomas Donaldson_)--she kept it
near his bed, and when the watched-for opportunity came, one morning
after he had signed some papers and had written a kindly word to his
sister (Mrs. Heyde of Burlington, Vt.), while she sat behind him as a
support, she reached for it, telling him that she would like to own it,
and hoped if he were not too fatigued he would autograph it for her. He
willingly complied, saying: "Yes, for you; but I would do it for no one
else." (I gave this picture, with feelings of gratitude for kindness
shown me, to Dr. Lucien Howe, of Buffalo, New York.--E. L. K.) The
signature was written with a blue pencil, as he had now discarded ink.
Only once again did he sign his name in full, and this was in a business
document. He used simply his initials in his last effort to write to
his sister.
Unhappily, a change of care was in prospect, for Mrs. Keller was to
leave him the second week in March, in consequence of an engagement
previously made. She had mentioned this to Dr. Bucke, who had assured
her that it could not possibly conflict with his friend's case. But when
the sick man lingered until late in February, it was seen that some
steps must be taken. And yet his span of life was so uncertain, that
even at this late day it was deemed wiser not to mention the subject to
him until it could no longer be postponed. The matter was talked over
between his executors, his sister-in-law and the doctors, and all agreed
that under the circumstances a stranger in the house would not be
desirable. Mrs. Davis in particular dreaded it, and had made provision
against it. The friend who had before kept house for her, while she made
her trip to Southern California, was to come again to do the housework,
so that her own undivided time and attention might be given to the dying
man.
The nurse left on March 8. From this time on Mr. Whitman grew more and
more uneasy in bed, and as he could now lie upon his left side but a
few moments at a time, he required almost constant turning; and for
eighteen days and nights his two faithful attendants did this. A water
bed was bought for him; he only had the comfort of it for a single
night.
"March 25, 1.15 A. M., 1892.--We put him on the water bed at twelve
o'clock. I have turned him twice since, and I can assure you from
present indications if it does the old man no good, it will us. He turns
just as easy again; can turn him with one hand, and then it does away
with the ring. He was turned sixty-three times in the last twenty-four
hours; how is that for business? Kind of beats when you were here....
Mama has one of her old headaches, has had it since yesterday, but hopes
to be clear of it by morning.... We had a run of visitors to-day, and
the old gent had four letters in the morning mail, of which three were
applications for autographs." (_Extracts from Warren's letter to Mrs.
Keller._)
His last days were a repetition of the preceding ones; a flaring up of
the torch, and a dying down; a fainter flare, and a gentle going out.
On the evening of March 26 a little card was printed and widely
circulated.
Camden, N. J., March 26, '92.
Whitman began sinking at 4.30 P. M. He continued to grow worse and
died at 6.43 P. M. The end came peacefully. He was conscious until the
last.
There were present at the bedside when he died--Mrs. Davis, Warren
Fritzinger, Thos. B. Harned, Horace L. Trauble and myself.
Alex. McAlister, M. D.
This young physician saw much of Mr. Whitman during the last three
months of his life, and his faithful services were given without price.
The evening previous to his death Mr. Whitman requested to see Mr.
Donaldson, the trusted friend who had done so much to make his home life
a success. He came at once, and they had a long last interview. Mrs.
Davis promised to notify him if the patient grew worse, and the next day
at three P. M. she wrote for him to come, saying that Mr. Whitman was
surely "slipping away" from them. He died before his friend reached the
house. His last words were addressed to his faithful "sailor boy":
"Shift, Warry." It was the time for the final turn, from life into
death. Mrs. Davis closed his eyes.
XVIII
WINDING UP
"_... the grand old man whose kindly face we never shall
forget._"--DR. ALEX. MCALISTER (_In a letter to Mrs. Keller_).
"_These promises are fair, the parties sure._"
--SHAKESPEARE (_I King Henry IV_).
On the morrow the little parlors were again cleared--this time to make
room for a coffin--and Walt Whitman, at last free from pain, was brought
downstairs. An artist was in waiting to take a cast of his face, and
later a post-mortem was held. Mrs. Davis thought the latter something
dreadful, believing as she did that it was either prompted by curiosity
or was done simply for the sake of a newspaper article. When all
preliminaries were over, the poet, clothed in his accustomed style, was
laid in his coffin. This, of heavy oak, was placed in the centre of one
room, and all through the afternoon friends and acquaintances came to
see him. The following day the public was admitted, and thousands
thronged in to look at the familiar form and face: that placid face,
telling that the long sought-for rest was at last attained. People
entered through one parlor door, then passing around the coffin left by
the other.
During the morning Mrs. Davis made a hurried run to Philadelphia to
procure some needful things for the funeral, and on her return was
surprised and horrified to find that during her absence a load of empty
barrels had arrived, and that into these the literary executors--Dr.
Bucke having arrived the night before--were hastily packing all the
movable contents of the two upper rooms. This, to her, heartless
expediency was more than she could bear, and going upstairs she asked
why Mr. Whitman's things might not remain undisturbed until after he was
buried. Dr. Bucke told her curtly that his own time was limited, and it
was not convenient for _him_. Overcome with grief, she sought her own
room. She knew that Mr. Whitman's literary effects belonged legally to
his executors, but she felt that his home was sacred to him while he
remained in it. The barrels containing his writings and some articles
coming under the head of personal property, such as books, pictures, his
knapsack, the inkstand Mrs. Davis had bought for him while on her
journey, and by him returned to her, etc., were taken from the house
while he, the owner, lay there sleeping in his coffin.
Of Walt Whitman's funeral much has been said and written. It was
arranged and conducted by friends, and was attended by many celebrated
people. Warren was sick and worn out, but kept up bravely and was at
everybody's bid and "on deck" throughout all; then he was obliged to
yield to a heavy cold and utter exhaustion. Mrs. Davis was little better
off, but was able to be around.
It has been said that in Mr. Whitman's will he provided generously for
his housekeeper. He left her one thousand dollars; not one-fourth of the
sum she had expended for him, without taking into consideration her
seven years of unpaid service--and such service! The only additional
bequest to her was the free rentage of the house for the term of one
year.
In a few months Mrs. Louise Whitman followed her brother-in-law, and the
will went into other hands. Still a few months later Edward Whitman died
in the asylum and was buried from the undertaker's, with no services
whatever. But three people followed him to the grave: his brother
George, Mrs. Davis, and Warren Fritzinger.
When the professional nurse left Camden, Mrs. Whitman, to simplify
matters, settled with her from her own private bank account. This she
did in anticipation of the winding-up of the estate at the expiration of
one year after the death of her brother-in-law. She had talked with Mrs.
Davis on this subject and had instructed her to put in her claim at the
proper time. The year expired, but Mrs. Davis on presenting the claim
was told that it was thought that in all ways full justice had been done
her, and that no demands whatever of hers would be recognized;
furthermore, that it was the wish of the executors that she should
vacate the premises _at once_.
This was an unexpected blow, and although her regard for Dr. Bucke
personally was lessened, her confidence in his integrity remained
unshaken, and she immediately wrote to him. Unmindful of his promises
that all should be well for her, and that he would be personally
responsible, he coolly refused to take any part in the matter, saying
that it was something which did not in the least concern him; she must
settle it with those at hand. She saw no way of redress, and was given
barely time in which to find another house. What an exit!
Watch, the dog, showed more resistance, and was determined to remain in
his old quarters. He absolutely refused to leave, and as a last resort
was carried away in a securely locked cab.
Warren was no better dealt with than his mother. Sadly changed from the
once robust sailor boy, he tramped the streets of Camden and
Philadelphia in search of work. _Any_ work this time; any work but
nursing! He applied to those who had been Mr. Whitman's most active
friends when anything of note was going on, but no encouragement was
given him; some went so far as to tell him that his services to his late
patient had about incapacitated him for many kinds of employment. He
solicited and applied, but no helping hand was held out to him. He took
soap orders, then accepted the only thing that presented itself, the
position of night watchman in a Camden bank. After awhile a tea
merchant--one of the most kind-hearted of men and a friend of both his
mother and Mr. Whitman--offered him a clerkship in his store. He would
have preferred outside work, but had no choice and gladly accepted. In a
year he married, and notwithstanding disappointments and
discouragements, was the same bright cheerful Warry to the end of his
short life. He died after a few days' sickness in October, 1899, aged
thirty-three years.
XIX
THE TRIAL
"_'Tis called ungrateful
With dull unwillingness to repay a debt._"
--SHAKESPEARE (_Richard III_).
"_Proceed in justice, which shall have due course._"
--(_The Winter's Tale_).
But to go back. Mrs. Davis's friends, many of Mr. Whitman's, and a
number of outsiders were disgusted and indignant at the treatment she
had received and united in urging her to sue the estate and take her
case into court. She was loath to do this, and hesitated for a long
while; but in 1894 the unsolicited offer of an eminent judge to
represent her without a fee (he said she was the worst used woman he had
ever met) and the continued persuasions of her friends roused her at
last to stand up for herself, and for once to take her own part. The
loss of her money did not trouble her so much as the thought of what
might be (and had been) said against her. She was confident that had
Mrs. Whitman lived all would have been different. But Mrs. Whitman had
not lived, and she had to face a problem that perplexed and saddened
her, darkening her view of human nature, and throwing a shadow over the
past and the future. The whole thing seemed so impossible, so hopelessly
unfair.
The trial came off in the county court house, Camden, in April, 1894.
Mrs. Davis's witnesses came voluntarily to her aid--the tea merchant
only, and at his own request, being subpoenaed. There was the former
orphan girl, now a wife and mother, who told the story of the poet's
coming to the widow's door; of her many kind offices to him, and his
appreciation; of his repeated promises to repay her if she would come to
live with him, and his urgent appeals to her to do so. She gave the
particulars of the transfer into the Mickle Street house, and much that
followed after; the purchases Mrs. Davis had made, and the expense she
had been put to. The first professional nurse, Mr. Musgrove, came
forward that he might speak his good word for the late housekeeper, and
the second and last trained nurse (Mrs. Keller) was glad to testify in
public to the plaintiff's devotion to her distinguished patient, and his
great regard for her. Warren told the plain and convincing story of Mr.
Whitman's intentions, as expressed to himself, of repaying his mother
for the money she had spent. When asked how he knew that she had spent
her own money, he answered that he had recognized at least the new gold
pieces he had given her--the double eagles--which had gone one by one
during the last two years. Then when the defendant's lawyer asked, in a
very insinuating manner, what had become of the champagne left in the
cellar at the time of Mr. Whitman's death, the young artist who lived
next door told how some boys had made their way into the cellar one day,
had drunk the wine and become hopelessly intoxicated.
The friend who had kept house on the two special occasions, and who had
been a constant visitor there for seven years; neighbors who had seen
Mrs. Davis helping the old man in and out of his carriage and rolling
chair, and carefully covering and protecting him while he was sitting
out of doors; and others who knew of her unremitting attentions, all
spoke for her, while quite a number of citizens told her that her case
was so strong they would not volunteer as witnesses, but were with her
heart and soul. Among these was the young doctor.
On the opposite side were the two literary executors, George Whitman,
and a few others. The oyster man was there to tell of the quantity of
oysters he had taken or sent to the house--more than one man, a sick man
at that, could possibly consume; the object was to accuse Mrs. Davis by
suggestion of getting them for herself in a dishonorable manner; but
when on the stand the man could not speak, and after the trial went to
her and begged her pardon.
Much interest was manifested in the case, which lasted two days; the
court room was crowded at each session, and it was not difficult to tell
on which side lay the sympathy. Her opponents could bring no charge
against her; they could only try to slur her and belittle what she had
done.
The testimony taken, Mrs. Davis's counsel called his client forward,
placed a chair for her in the sight of all, and then in touching,
eloquent words summed up the case, saying that many among those present
had seen Walt Whitman going about the streets of Camden, alone, cold and
neglected, that it was a well-remembered sight, just as it was a
well-known fact that this good woman's heart and home alone had been
opened to him.
As was expected, Mrs. Davis won her case; she received a fair sum of
money, and the congratulations, spoken or written, of all who knew her
sterling worth and the true story of her years of service.
XX
CONCLUSION
"_Which makes her story true, even to the point of her
death._"--SHAKESPEARE (_All's Well That Ends Well_).
"_A virtuous and a Christian-like conclusion._"--(_Richard III_).
If, profiting from past experience, Mrs. Davis had learned to realize
that into all lives there comes a time when self has the right of
consideration, she could have avoided further complications. But the
early precepts were too deeply implanted, and before she had left the
Mickle Street house a selfish uninteresting woman had in some insidious
way fastened upon her. This burden she carried to the end.
Nor were money troubles wanting, grave and crippling, and due of course
to the same fatal habit of helping others at her own expense. One day
there came to her in great agitation an admirer of her late friend and
patient, saying that he was threatened with financial ruin, even
defamation of character, unless a certain sum of money was at once
forthcoming; simply a loan for a few months; it would be faithfully
repaid. Mrs. Davis had long contemplated purchasing a small home; she
had the means of doing so, and this money was at once offered and
accepted, but never returned. Warren's death followed, and her one
strong prop was gone.
Mrs. Davis was not much of a correspondent; but notwithstanding this,
she and the nurse, Mrs. Keller, occasionally exchanged letters, and the
most friendly relations existed between them. After there had been a
longer silence than usual, Mrs. Keller wrote to Dr. McAlister, asking
him if their friend still lived in Berkley Street (the house she went to
from Mickle Street, and the only one she lived in after that), and if
so, requesting him to call and learn why she did not write. He did so,
and replied that he had found Mrs. Davis about as usual, that she had
sent much love and the promise of writing soon. Another long interval of
silence followed, and finally came this letter--the last communication
that passed between them.
"434 Berkley Street, CAMDEN, N. J.
October 16, 1908.
"DEAR MRS. KELLER,
I am just in receipt of your letter. Yes, Dr. McAlister did call last
spring and I told him I would write you in a few days, which I fully
intended to do, but it so turned out that I went to France with a
friend, where I spent the summer; I have been home about three weeks.
My going away was entirely unexpected, and I had but a few hours to
get in readiness; left everything at loose ends, and one vexatious
oversight was I forgot my address book. I thought about you many
times, and would have written to you from over there had I had your
address. I was delighted to hear from you--will write to you in a few
days. I am wrestling with a bad cold. Hope you are well.
"Lovingly,
"M. O. DAVIS."
Mrs. Davis had always wished to see Niagara Falls, and Mrs. Keller,
whose home was near that city, hoped that the long looked-for and
talked-of visit was at last near at hand; would take place in the
following summer. Instead, at the expiration of a month she received a
black-edged envelope, the contents reading:
"Yourself and family are respectfully invited to attend the funeral of
Mary O. Davis on Monday, November 23, at 3 P. M., from the son's
residence--H. M. Fritzinger, 810 State Street, Camden, N. J. Interment
at Evergreen Cemetery."
On November 20, 1908, the following notice appeared in several papers.
WHITMAN'S LAST NURSE DEAD
Woman Who Cared for Poet Succumbs Too.
Mrs. Mary L. Davis, who nursed Walt Whitman, the "Good Gray Poet,"
during his last illness, and was with him at his death, at No. 328
Mickle street, Camden, died last night in Cooper Hospital of
intestinal troubles. She was the widow of Levin J. Davis.
After the death of Whitman Mrs. Davis resided for a short time at No.
432 Clinton street, Camden, and then she went to live with a wealthy
family in New York City. About a year ago she developed intestinal
troubles. The family she was living with took her to Paris for
treatment by eminent specialists. She returned a month ago and went to
Camden to visit Henry M. Fritzinger, of No. 810 State street. There
Mrs. Davis was taken ill with the affliction from which she suffered
so much, and was removed to Cooper Hospital.
The nurse who had cared for him in his last illness!--not his "faithful
housekeeper, nurse and friend." But the brief report, it will be seen,
had more than one error.
Perhaps the best way of giving a clear picture of the concluding stages
will be to quote a letter from her son--as he was always called;
Warren's brother Harry. It is a very human document.
"DEAR FRIEND,
I am convinced that you think this letter should have been written
long before, but on account of how things have gone I can assure you
that I was taxed to the utmost. Mother died on the 18th of November;
buried on the 23rd. You would be surprised how people who were her
friends through money have changed....
"When Mother moved from Mickle Street to 434 Berkley Street she lived
there until she died, although I tried for years to get her to come
and live with me, as she would have been company for my wife when I
was away. She had a party living with her by the name of Mrs. H----, a
big lazy impostor. She waited on her, carried coal and water upstairs,
ashes and slops downstairs, until she worked herself into the
condition which she died from.