Walt Whitman in Mickle Street Part 5

The lecture was very successful. At the close, a little girl, Laura Stedman, the five year old granddaughter of the "banker poet," walked out upon the stage and presented Mr. Whitman with a basket of lilac blossoms. The New York _Times_ had this account of the event the next morning:

"Forth on the stage came a beautiful basket of lilac blossoms, and behind it was a little bit of a maiden in a white Normandy cap and a little suit of Quaker gray, her eyes beaming, and her face deeply impressed with the gravity of the occasion. She walked to where he sat and held out her gift without a word. He started, took it and then took her.

"It was December frost and May-time blossom at their prettiest contrast, as the little pink cheek shone against the snow-white beard, for the old man told his appreciation mutely by kissing her and kissing her again, the audience meanwhile applauding sympathetically."

Mr. Whitman then recited his poem "O Captain!" and the curtain fell--fell to shut him from the sight of a New York audience forever.

Mrs. Davis always dreaded Mr. Whitman's New York visits, and this episode caused her extra anxiety. She knew that his many and influential friends would give him a warm welcome and a great reception, and she also knew how p.r.o.ne the poet was to go beyond the bounds of prudence. He could stand only a little fatigue and excitement now. He returned in good condition, however, and she flattered herself that a quiet summer was before them. He had told her that this lecture (which increased his bank account by six hundred dollars) was to be his last public function, but she had no knowledge of something else he had in near view; something he had already arranged for.

IX

A BUST AND A PAINTING

"_Sidney Morse has made a second big head (bust), an improvement, if I dare to say so, on the first. The second is the Modern Spirit Awake and Alert as well as Calm--contrasted with the antique and Egyptian calmness of the first._"--WALT WHITMAN.

"_Oh, that awful summer of 1887!_"--MARY DAVIS.

Early in the summer, when he had fully recovered from his exertions in New York, Mr. Whitman received a letter from a sculptor, Mr. Sidney Morse, requesting the privilege of coming to Camden at once, to make a plaster bust of him. The promise had been given to Mr. Morse for the summer, but the actual date had not been fixed upon.

Eleven years before this artist had made a very unsatisfactory bust of Walt, one he had always wished to improve upon. On the first occasion Walt had not entertained the thought of such an undertaking in his brother's house, but had gone to Philadelphia for the sittings. This time, as before, the choice of location had been left to him; and it seemed almost incredible that he, who had been initiated in this line of art, should have imposed upon his housekeeper to the extent of giving his own stuffy little house the preference over a more suitable place.

He had answered Mr. Morse's letter, telling him he would cheerfully put himself at his disposal; the summer was before them, and nothing else impending. In short, he would engage himself to him for the summer, and he was confident the result would be better this time.

About two weeks elapsed, and nothing had been said to Mrs. Davis on the subject when one morning to her surprise the artist arrived, prepared to go to work without delay. Had she been consulted, she could have made preliminary preparations; had she been better informed she would have persuaded Mr. Whitman to select a different place, and had she been fully enlightened she would have insisted upon it.

Mr. Morse writes: "I found Mr. Whitman more crippled and quieter in manner than when we met before. Eleven years had wrought their changes.

He was however in a less perturbed frame of mind."

Naturally so; in his own home, contradicted in nothing, with his own carriage, and a devoted woman to wait upon him,--one who never intimated that there existed such exigencies as living expenses or household entanglements. It was left to the artist to tell Mrs. Davis the purpose for which he had come. He said that he was desirous of beginning his work as soon as was compatible with Mr. Whitman's convenience, and the poet seeing no obstacle in the way of an immediate commencement, it was decided that the first sitting should take place the following afternoon. Mrs. Davis was somewhat enlightened as to what the making of a bust implied when a load of mysterious and c.u.mbersome articles drove up to the door in the morning. Puzzled both as to their use and where they could be housed, she had them delivered at the back gate and piled up in the yard.

Mr. Morse kept his appointment with prompt.i.tude, and after a few minutes' conversation with his subject, he summoned the housekeeper, and then, "the litter of everything under heaven was poked aside" to make a clearing by the window. Mrs. Davis a.s.sisted him in bringing some of the articles from the yard, such as boards and boxes upon which to fashion the clay; then when the necessity came for something in which to mix it, her wash tubs were at once appropriated, and as smaller vessels were from time to time required, many of her dishes and kitchen utensils were one by one pressed into service.

During the first afternoon the work was put well in progress, and what a time was thus inaugurated! Before the week ended there was clay and plaster on all sides. The two men, interested in the bust alone, were oblivious to everything else, and pa.s.sed the time chatting in a lively strain. The artist was satisfied with his work and delighted with the prospect of being undisturbed until its completion. He writes: "My deep satisfaction overflowed to the housekeeper, who admonished me that there was an element of uncertainty in Mr. Whitman's programme nowadays"--and sooner than he had counted upon, her words were verified, for on the morning following her mild warning a telegram came and "the damper fell," as Mr. Morse says. This was the telegram: "Am in New York and may arrive in Camden at any moment. Herbert Gilchrist."

"He's coming to paint me," said Mr. Whitman on reading the message; "I had forgotten about him. We will put him over there somewhere; I don't see what I can do to stop it; he has come all the way from England--from England, Sidney, to paint me. Make the best of it, share the crust with him." "The damper fell" for Mrs. Davis as well, when Mr. Whitman in his usual off-hand manner announced the news to her. Another artist coming!

a portrait painter! And Mr. Whitman who had known of this for an indefinite time had given her no warning, had taken her unaware. She was completely overcome, and not a little indignant. Had he really forgotten it, or had he thought it a matter of too little importance to mention?

It was not often that Mrs. Davis shed tears in self-pity, but now they were her only relief. It was not the extra work and expense that troubled her most; it was Mr. Whitman's indifference towards her.

Mr. Morse was also touched, and confesses that in his disappointment he was half inclined to pack his traps and go. For a moment the housekeeper's mind tended in the same direction. "But," continues Mr.

Morse, "when the young man appeared on the scene in person, I was calm once more and ready to be pacified." Mrs. Davis also calmed herself and, as was her disposition, concealed her feelings and roused herself to meet the emergency. "The litter of everything under heaven" was poked still further aside, the stove was taken down and put into the cellar, things heaped and packed higher in the corners or carried out of the room, and a place made for the newcomer.

Mr. Gilchrist proved to be an agreeable, enthusiastic young man, and one never to get into another's way. Mr. Morse could keep his place at the window, and Mr. Gilchrist could place his easel a little way back, so that the sitter didn't need to change his position to be in a good light for both. But what of Mrs. Davis when paint and oil were added to plaster and the other refuse pervading the parlors? Had the confusion been confined to these rooms alone it could have been held in check, but for lack of room the kitchen soon became an auxiliary to the improvised studio. Again quoting Mr. Morse: "For a week we kept it up, working some, talking more, Mr. Whitman's wistful eye on us both."

This favorable state of affairs was, however, of short duration, for after the first week the progress of the artists was unsatisfactory; they were hindered by constant interruptions, and as company began to pour in upon them, some days would pa.s.s and find little accomplished by either. It seemed a fatality that so many people should have chosen this very time to make their visits, especially people from abroad. Before long the strain of it told visibly on Mr. Whitman. Mr. Morse observed not only this, but the anxious look on Mrs. Davis's face as well, and on consulting her found she was much alarmed, and feared that their subject would give out unless some change could be made. The change was made when early the next morning the sculptor betook himself with his effects to the yard. This arrangement not merely gave additional s.p.a.ce in the parlors where two or three spectators could sit or stand, but it also removed from them their chief attraction.

Some of Mr. Whitman's friends called daily, several twice or even three times in a single day.

Mr. Morse was satisfied with the new order of things and says: "In the cool shadow of the house, under a propitious sky (when it was propitious), with high boarded fence, and a grape vine wreathing itself into a pear tree for a background, my work proceeded. Occasional excursions to the studio in front for memory sketches seemed to be serving me all right."

Up to this time Mrs. Davis had had undisputed possession of the yard, and this constant running back and forth was almost unendurable to her.

For the excursions were not confined to the sculptor; all comers, casual or constant visitors, old friends and strangers, even ordinary pa.s.sers-by--following the lead of others--deliberately took the right of way through the hall and kitchen, until it might as well have been a public pa.s.sage from street to yard. Then in unfavorable weather, when the work could not go on, came another complication, as the unwieldy appurtenances had to be brought into the little canvas-covered alcove, shed and kitchen, obstructing everything. It was worse still in case of a sudden shower, when the things had to be hustled in anywhere and anyhow. But the front of the house! It was vacation time, and the "plaster man" and "painter man" at Whitman's were the great source of entertainment in the neighborhood. Children thronged the cellar doors from early morning until late at night; babies were held up to look in, and there was a general scramble for the best point of view.

Pedestrians, market people and others pa.s.sing the house were attracted by this manifest excitement, and there was scarcely one of them who did not pause to satisfy his or her inquisitiveness with a peep. From a distance it was difficult to discern what could be taking place at the poet's, and everybody, old and young, even the halt and the lame, seemed to have time to walk an extra block or two to ascertain. However, as there was no alternative, Mrs. Davis was willing to bear it all patiently for a few weeks at most, as she supposed.

Mr. Morse, pressed by his host, fell into the habit of remaining to lunch; Mr. Gilchrist often joined them; and as in the course of conversation interesting subjects would come up, the day's work for both frequently ended at noon. Should incidental visitors arrive during meal time, they were invited without ceremony or apology to the kitchen, and Mr. Whitman always pressed them to eat something, regardless of the time of day or what might be upon the table. His talk was animated and arresting. He would usually begin with current events, then run into discussions on various themes, often intricate, and the two artists felt themselves extremely fortunate to be the privileged recipients of some of his most striking thoughts and phrases.

It was at this juncture that one day an English gentleman accompanied by two ladies rang at the open door. Mr. Whitman had never met them, but seeing them from his seat at the table he welcomed them with these words: "Oh, darlings, come right this way, come right this way." On their complying he continued: "Herbert, Sidney, move a little. Mary, lay the plates and bring the chairs." (The extra ones hanging in the shed.) Then came a hitching and shuffling of chairs, and a crowding together.

At first the party looked a little annoyed, but when they were fairly seated they soon became so absorbed in the poet's talk and in his a.s.sociates that, unconsciously to everyone except the housekeeper, lunch merged into dinner. But this was no unusual occurrence. Indeed there were days when Mr. Whitman would remain at the table from lunch until a very late hour, company coming and leaving in relays. This summer, and for some time previous, he had dispensed with the regular breakfast, taking an early cup of coffee and a piece of toast in his own room. But the other meals certainly involved plenty of work and patience. Well might he say: "Mrs. Davis has a knack of antic.i.p.ating what I want, and in case of emergency at the dinner table knows right well how to make the best of it. She has rare intelligence and her tact is great." She indeed had tact. "Jolly dinners you have here," quoth one distinguished visitor, notwithstanding they were served in the little heated kitchen.

Mrs. Davis always waited upon the guests in a pleasant genial manner, and few knew to whom it was due that the "jolly dinners" ran so agreeably along. Her watchful eye detected when any article of food was getting low, either for present company or when their places were about to be taken by newcomers. A thousand times she slipped out quietly to the little side gutter and ran (she always ran) to procure a loaf of bread, an extra supply of b.u.t.ter, crackers or cheese. The home-made supplies rarely gave out, as she provided bountifully for all. Mr.

Whitman had good reason for going on to say, as he did: "I am well pleased with my housekeeper. She does better for me than a whole retinue of pompous bothering waiters. I detest the critters; bowing and watching"--and probably expecting their just remuneration--for to complete his appreciation of her virtues he could have added: "And she furnishes the means."

Yes; the lingering lunches and "jolly dinners" were paid for out of her fast decreasing bank account, as was everything else. It was doubtful if Mr. Whitman realized in how many ways he was indebted to her, or if the idea ever occurred to him that he could ask too much of her. So confident was he of her always making "the best of it" that nothing agitated or worried him. Yet this entertaining anyone and everyone in the kitchen often placed her in unpleasant and embarra.s.sing predicaments. Of these he seemed to have no knowledge, as he never made an attempt to extricate her from one. Visitors were often more observing, and no doubt most of them saw under what disadvantages she was placed. Some of them kindly helped her over difficulties, and others just as kindly pa.s.sed awkward little occurrences by apparently unnoticed.

Although Mr. Whitman did not mind what people said or thought about him, Mrs. Davis was sensitive and criticism hurt her feelings. She knew full well that she was sometimes blamed, by visitors who did not understand the conditions, for things for which she was not at all responsible. She knew that to her charge was laid the air of negligence that pervaded the house, and even Mr. Whitman's bluntness towards certain people.

"There were grim and repellent traits in Walt Whitman. He was naked of manners and suave apologies as the scarred crag of the Matterhorn of verdure."

That physical suffering was many times the key to the old man's roughness Mrs. Davis understood, and she had a mild way of smoothing it over and putting other people at ease. She always spoke highly of both the artists, and in many ways they were more considerate of her than was their host. With things going on as they did, both were r.e.t.a.r.ded in their work, and each in turn became discouraged. Mr. Whitman would sometimes be out of humor for sitting, or so worn out and ill that he could not come downstairs until late in the day; or again, when all looked promising he would order his carriage, drive off and leave them in the lurch.

Consequently each work of art required more time for its completion than had been calculated. Mrs. Davis did her best to encourage both the sculptor and the painter, and in every way she could devise, endeavored to forward their work. She removed obstacles; she influenced their sitter, and persuaded him to be quieter, to avoid over-exertion and excitement, to see less company and to lie down during the heat of the day.

At length both bust and picture were finished. Each proved to be highly satisfactory, and by many they are thought to be the most lifelike representations of the original. Of the bust Mr. Whitman himself said: "I am quite clear _this_ is the typical one; modern, reaching out, looking ahead, democratic, more touch of animation, unsettledness, etc., etc. Not intended to be polished off, left purposely a little in the rough."

X

REST--AND ROUTINE

"_Heat, heat, heat, day and night!... I am still getting along through the hot season--have things pretty favorable here in my shanty, with ventilation (night and day), frequent bathing, light meals, all of which makes it better for me in my shattered helpless condition to tug it out here in Mickle Street, than to transfer myself somewhere, to seash.o.r.e or mountains. It is not for a long time, anyway._"--WALT WHITMAN.

Mr. Whitman had reached the limit of endurance when the artists bid him and Camden adieu, while Mrs. Davis, with the constant demands upon her time and strength, the condition of the house, unlimited entertaining and lengthened working hours, had completely succ.u.mbed. Another thing that had been to their disadvantage was the extreme heat, for it had been and still was an extremely hot summer--a Jersey summer. Each was prostrated, and for awhile rest and relaxation alone could be thought of. A short lull that followed the recent turmoil, however, and succeeding cool weather, did much towards their recuperation; but unfortunately sick-headaches, which had been occasional with Mrs.

Davis, now became persistent; her vitality was gone, and her courage was on the wane. In fact she never fully recovered, nor did she ever forget "that awful summer of 1887."

But while she was so miserable and ill she was not forgotten by her old friends, who rallied at once to her a.s.sistance, and it was through their thoughtfulness and kind attentions that a general and final collapse was avoided. None of them had been willing to give her up altogether when she moved into the Mickle Street house. She for her part had never willingly neglected them; one or another, understanding this, had run in the back way at odd times, and if by chance they had found the kitchen in her undisputed possession, had gladly remained to lend her a helping hand.

Nor with her multiplicity of new duties and in her new surroundings had she been unmindful of her habit of protectiveness, and this house became, as her own had been, the temporary shelter for some orphan girl or boy, some friendless woman or stranded young man. Crowded as it was, the little Whitman home could make room for an emergency case.

As the owner was just now confined for some weeks to his sleeping apartment, Mrs. Davis could lie upon the kitchen lounge when the kind ministrations of her friends relieved her of immediate household duties; then in turn rouse herself, drag herself upstairs and attend to the wants of the sick man there. Her helpers were glad to prove their friendship for her, but it didn't reach the extent of waiting upon the disabled poet; this rested with her alone. Not that they were afraid of him, or that he had ever been rude or impolite to them, but not one of them was exactly at ease in his presence.

By good fortune, at this opportune time a gentleman and his wife invited Mrs. Davis to accompany them upon an excursion to Southern California.

At first she declined the invitation; the distance seemed so great, and Mr. Whitman was so poorly, there was no telling what might happen during her absence. But she was still pressed to go, and unknown to her the project was broached to Mr. Whitman, who highly approved of it. Finally she accepted the proffered kindness; her friends a.s.sisted her in her preparations, and she set off with pleasurable antic.i.p.ations. This journey was the one great delight of her life, and she returned much benefited. But how about the good little woman who had strongly urged her going, who had added her earnest persuasions to those of the others, and who had offered her own and her daughter's services in place of hers? Poor little woman, she did her best willingly and uncomplainingly; but she did openly avow at the expiration of the three weeks that had Mary stayed another day, she would have gone insane.