Walt Whitman in Mickle Street Part 4

VII

BROOMS, BILLS AND MENTAL CHLOROFORM

"_He detested a broom. He considered it almost a sin to sweep, and always made a great fuss when it was done._"--EDDIE WILKINS.

"_The tremendous firmness of Walt Whitman's nature grew more inflexible with advancing years._"--HORACE TRAUBEL.

The second winter in Mickle Street pa.s.sed much like the previous one. To Mr. Whitman it brought heavier mail, an increase of complimentary notes and invitations, more numerous requests for autographs, steady progress with revision-work, a little new and profitable composition, the delightful companionship of old friends, the pleasure of making new ones, and the comfortable a.s.surance that come what might, there was a capable captain at the helm, who would on all occasions guide the ship of affairs smoothly along. To Mrs. Davis it brought the same old round of work.

The next spring and part of the summer were charming seasons to the poet. In them he revelled in his turnout; was sought after, eulogized and lauded. His day-star was truly in the ascendant.

This acknowledged popularity was a revelation to Mrs. Davis, who often asked herself, "Where were these friends--the ones in particular who have always lived in Camden--when a short time ago poor old Mr. Whitman, homeless and uncared for, so much needed their help?"

But as his popularity increased and grew more marked, as letters and invitations came pouring in, and as at certain gatherings she knew him to be the honored guest, it began to dawn upon her that his poetry--the poetry she had so often heard derided--might mean something after all, and she set herself a.s.siduously to studying it. Finding so much that was beyond her comprehension, she sometimes sought elucidation from the author. This he never vouchsafed, and gave but one reply to all her questions: "Come, you tell me what it means." Unable to comply, she soon laid the book aside and gave her time and attention to other matters.

Thus, failing to understand anything of his "soul flights," she no doubt was the better prepared to minister to his mundane needs. A domestic angel in the house she certainly could be. An intellectual angel might have worried Mr. Whitman.

Yes, his day-star was truly shining. It was no will-o'-the-wisp he was chasing the day he came hungry and cold, weary and desolate to a good woman's door. Evidently he might have done better with his "little money" at that time, even if it was "only in sight," as "driblets were occasionally coming in." With these driblets he might have kept himself more presentable, seemed less of a derelict. But he had one preeminent need: he needed Mary Davis, and he got her.

She had not peered into the future with his prophetic insight, and in helping to open the way for the good times to come--times he had told her so much about--she had been governed by her kind heart alone. Her a.s.sociates had never spoken of her protege in any too flattering terms, and weighing all poets by his local standard, had congratulated themselves that not one of them was in danger of ever degenerating into such genius.

By midsummer Mr. Whitman had visited in and near Camden, and had made two or three trips to Atlantic City and New York. Everyone was kind and considerate to him, wherever he might be, and as a reliable person always accompanied him on these expeditions, Mrs. Davis was never uneasy on his account, and his absences were her opportunities for resting up and putting the house to rights. Nor did she altogether skip the parlors, for she had somewhat lost her confidence in Mr. Whitman's gift of missing the very thing that was gone. Another Mary--an unfortunate woman; but who ever attached themselves to Mrs. Davis who were not in some trouble or other?--used to come in to a.s.sist when extra help was required. Her field of action ended at the kitchen door when the master was at home, for she stood in great awe of him and knew better than to appear in his presence with any order-restoring implement in her hands, especially a broom. But how she exulted when he was at a distance; when she could pa.s.s the old boundary unchallenged, and could rub and polish to her heart's desire, and according to her own ideas of cleanliness.

She was often heard to remark that Mr. Whitman was the most "unthrifty"

man she had ever met.

Mr. Whitman might be able to control the use of brooms about his own premises, but his authority did not extend beyond. How the women of the locality learned of his antipathy to sweeping, either in or out of doors, is not known. Probably in some unguarded moment he had condemned it in their hearing. "He was extremely annoyed by the habit the women of his neighborhood had of coming out two or three times a day with their brooms, and stirring up the water in the gutter. He thought it caused malaria. If they would only let it alone!" (_Thomas Donaldson._)

It may be that the women made their brooms an excuse for tantalizing "The Poet." He was no less opposed to their sweeping in dry weather, and one morning when six or seven appeared simultaneously and set to sweeping with a will, he knew that it was nothing less than a concerted plan, and this he would not endure. Irritated beyond self-control, he let his indignation fly out of the window in pa.s.sionate and pointed sentences, which the sweepers totally ignored.

In 1867, about four years after his general breakdown, he had commenced to give occasional lectures. This spring (1886) he delivered two, the first on March 1, in Morton Hall, Camden, the second on the afternoon of April 15, in the Chestnut Street Opera House, Philadelphia. Both lectures were upon the same subject, his favorite theme: Abraham Lincoln.

He was not an orator, and his audiences were at all times made up of people more curious perhaps to see than to hear him. This second lecture--his last appearance but one as a speaker in the "Quaker City"--was a greater strain than he had calculated upon, although the arrangements had been made for him by his friends, and he was conveyed from his own house direct to the back door of the theatre.

He always remained in his carriage while crossing the river.

Few people attended this lecture, and out of the $692 it netted him, only $78.25 was received at the door. The rest was made up by appreciative admirers. Two gentlemen gave each $100, four gave $50 each, eight gave $10, two $5, and a society--The Acharon--gave $45. The money was handed to Mr. Whitman in a large white envelope as he left the stage. It was not removed from the envelope until the next forenoon, when it was deposited unbroken in the bank.

During the summer Mr. Whitman sustained a sunstroke, fortunately not a serious one, but while suffering from the effects of it he was obliged to give up his jaunts and remain indoors. However, on pleasant evenings he could sit in a chair on the sidewalk, under his one cherished shade tree, into the bark of which he soon wore a hole with the restless movement of his right foot. Of the pa.s.sers-by there were few who did not know him; many would pause for a moment's speech, others would occasionally get a chair and remain for an hour's chat. He soon recovered, but if the similar stroke he had suffered a few years before had served "to lower his fund of strength, weaken the springs of his const.i.tution and almost wholly destroy his walking powers," (_Thomas Donaldson_), there was certainly little encouragement in store for him.

His housekeeper, too, had her physical troubles. She had visibly changed; how could it be otherwise? The back part of the house was gloomy, at times damp and unwholesome, and she had grappled with so many difficulties that she had lost strength and flesh, felt run down and nervous, while the "rosy cheeks" had faded forever.

This sickness not only made Mr. Whitman even more dependent upon her than usual, but it caused her great anxiety in another way. She realized the great risk she had taken and was taking, for on coming into the house she had relied upon verbal promises alone; no written contract or agreement had been entered into.

Now month had followed month and she had waited in vain for the old man to allude to living expenses or inquire as to her ability to meet them longer. Strange as it may seem, since being settled in his own house Walt had never mentioned money, or in any way broached the subject of his financial standing.

During the first year she had not been at all disturbed in mind; she had confidence in his integrity, and believed he had no means of meeting present embarra.s.sments. The next summer she saw that money was coming in from a number of sources, but had no way of learning the amounts received or in what way they were disbursed. This sunstroke and the consequences that might have resulted from it were enough to arouse her thoroughly. Not that she had lost confidence in Mr. Whitman, but it came home to her that should he die she would be in no way secured. Before long the bequest left her by Captain Fritzinger would be following her own savings, which were rapidly dwindling away.

After thinking the matter over seriously, she resolved that as soon as the sick man had somewhat recuperated she would make an effort to have things put on a new and safer basis. She knew that from private donations, sale of books, government pension, receipts from lectures and so on, he had opened a bank account. She also knew he was paying one-half the expenses of Edward at a sanitarium and was sending a weekly remittance to his sister in Vermont,--and knowing all this, she felt that she was being treated with injustice. She had already spoken to Mrs. Whitman and to one or two others, and they had a.s.sured her that Walt was abundantly able to meet all household expenses, and would without doubt do so in his own good time.

She had never solicited his confidence, and yet while they were strangers, or comparative strangers,--long before she had entertained the slightest thought that she should one day exchange her home for his,--he had talked freely, even confidentially, to her; had voluntarily spoken of his money matters, his past disappointments and future expectations. But since she had come into the Mickle Street house he had never renewed these subjects, and his way of pa.s.sing them over was inexplicable to her.

When the first repairs had been made in the house, she had taken the bill to him for approval and payment. He had simply glanced at it, and returned it with the words: "I think it must be all right." She had remained standing in the doorway until, silent, seemingly absorbed in his reading and oblivious of her presence, he had made her feel so uncomfortable that she had quietly glided away to pay the carpenter out of her own purse. This happened so early in their housekeeping together that she, so charitable by nature, had excused him on the ground that, having no money, he had disliked to talk further about the bill. But a year had pa.s.sed, she understood his position better, and she could not excuse him again on this plea. She had mentioned the urgent need of further repairs (and when were they not needed in this little rookery?) and he had promptly replied: "Have it done; certainly, certainly; have everything done that is required." The result was still the same; although ordering the work, he was just as indifferent as before in regard to settling for it.

And so it had gone on in all cases where money had been needed, until Mrs. Davis, who was neither dull nor obtuse, saw that it was merely a matter of choice with him whether he paid for things promptly or not.

The receipted bills she had carefully filed away, but what proof had she that they had been met with her own money?

At the expiration of the second year, Mr. Whitman at his own expense had the water carried upstairs and a bathtub put in. This was a blessing to both of them, and Mrs. Davis ungrudgingly saw a portion of her own room--the one little back chamber--sacrificed that it might be made possible.

Up to the time of the sunstroke she had made a number of futile attempts to introduce the subject of finances, but he had simply uttered "Ah!"

(what a world of meaning he could put into that monosyllable!) and had silenced her with a look.

An observer says: "I found Whitman sitting on the front stoop talking with a negative pugnacious reformer. The poet entertained his ideas without a trace of impatience or severity of judgment, and yet he was capable of quietly chloroforming him if he became too disagreeable."

Another writes: "This leading trait of his character lasted until life glimmered faintly." It was this "leading trait" that prevented Mrs.

Davis from introducing any subject not pleasing to him. Again: "He has his stern as well as sad moods; in the former there is a look of power in his face that almost makes one tremble." Mrs. Davis had no fear of Mr. Whitman; he never gave her cause to tremble, but he quietly chloroformed her times without number.

The expenses of the house were not light; amongst other things, two coal fires in winter, and a wood fire much of the time. Wood was a luxury to him, but it was an expensive item to his housekeeper, and the little stove in his sleeping room devoured it like an insatiate monster. "He enjoyed a wood fire." Then she supplied his table and entertained his guests--his many guests. She never bothered him; was always on hand and ready to help him to mature his plans, however inexpedient or impracticable they might appear to her.

VIII

VISITING AND VISITORS

"_His haunt on 'Timber Creek' is one of the loveliest spots imaginable; no element lacking to make it an ideal ground for a poet, or study place for a lover of nature._"--WILLIAM SLOANE KENNEDY.

"_April 11, 1887. I expect to go to New York to speak my 'Death of Lincoln' piece Thursday afternoon next. Probably the shake up will do me good...._

"_Stood it well in New York. It was a good break from my monotonous days here, but if I had stayed longer, I should have been killed with kindness and attentions._"--WALT WHITMAN.

It was decided that Mr. Whitman should make one of his delightful visits to his friends, the Staffords, in their beautiful country home, "Timber Creek," just as soon as he was sufficiently recovered to take the trip, and Mrs. Davis thought best to defer talking with him or considering any definite step regarding home matters until he returned. She took pains to get him ready, and, as she had done before, persuaded him to purchase some new clothing and look his best. This visit, like previous ones, was charming to the poet, and he came home much benefited. While he was away Mrs. Davis rested and paid a short visit to the aged parents of Mrs.

Fritzinger in Doylstown, Pennsylvania. In this breathing spell she had thought home matters over and had planned her mode of procedure; but alas! when the poet appeared upon the spot and she had welcomed him, the courage she had summoned up when he was out of sight deserted her. She threw out hints, then made attempts to speak, but to no avail; an understanding was not brought about and things went on in the old fashion.

Much as Mr. Whitman enjoyed his visits and jaunts, coming back to his own home was the one great joy of his life, and meeting his housekeeper after even a brief absence was always a pleasure to him.

It was quite late in the fall when he returned. He resumed his work at once, and the winter was not an unpleasant one to him; only somewhat tedious, because he was so closely confined to the house. In other ways it was made cheerful with social events and agreeable company, and it was brightened with antic.i.p.ations of the delightful drives to be enjoyed in the spring. (It was about this time that Horace Traubel commenced to come to the house.)

Each season had added to his popularity, until he had attained the zenith of his most sanguine imaginations; his most potent daydreams had truly materialized; he was fully on the crest of the wave! His housekeeping had surpa.s.sed his fondest expectations, for to him his home was ideal. Deprivation was a thing of the past; there was no lack of means, as private contributions were sent to him amounting to many hundreds of dollars. That he was poor and needy, and "was supported in his final infirmities by the kind interest of his friends, who subscribed each his mite that the little old frame house in Camden might shelter the snowy head of the bard to the end," was the universal belief, and a kindly feeling was manifested towards him in his own home and in England. It is to be regretted that he was not better fitted physically to enjoy all his later blessings.

Out-of-doors life seemed essential to him, and after a number of outings he was able, as early as April 6, 1887, to read his Lincoln lecture--the last he gave in his own city. It was well attended, and listened to with deep attention. On the 12th of the same month he went to New York for the purpose of reading his lecture there. He was accompanied by William Duckett, a young friend who acted as valet and nurse, and it was on his arm the old man leaned as he came forward on the stage and stood a few minutes to acknowledge the applause of the audience. When the tumult had subsided, the poet sat down beside a stand, laid his cane on the floor, put on his gla.s.ses and proceeded to read from a little book, upon whose pages the ma.n.u.script and printed fragments were pasted.

"The lecturer was dressed in a dark sack coat, with dark gray waistcoat and trousers, low shoes, and gray woollen socks. The spotless linen of his ample cuffs and rolling collar was trimmed with a narrow band of edging, and the cuffs were turned up over the ends of his sleeves." Thus says the New York _Tribune_ of the next day, and it cannot be denied that his appearance did credit to his housekeeper's attention at this time, as it did on all other public occasions. The "spotless linen,"

however, was unbleached cotton, one of the six new shirts Mrs. Davis had made for him.