Walt Whitman in Mickle Street Part 6

During his housekeeper's brief absence, Mr. Whitman had found how truly his home was not home without her. He frankly told her this, and acknowledged to her that no one living could fill her place to him; that others around him irritated him--unconsciously, he knew--while she instinctively soothed and quieted him, overwrought and impatient as he might sometimes feel. Furthermore, he presented her with a nice gold ring.

Soon after her return, Walt, who was quite himself once more, paid another visit to the Staffords, and getting him ready for this trip was her first work on reaching home. "Timber Creek" was his favorite resort, a haunt he so thoroughly enjoyed that it flashed across the mind of a friend while sauntering about with him there, that it would be a capital idea to raise a "Walt Whitman Cottage Fund," and build him a little summer home there. On cautiously sounding Walt upon the subject, he eagerly responded: "Oh, how often I have thought of it!"

So it was decided to build a cottage here, or by the seaside somewhere, where he could spend part of the year with nature and away from the noise and turmoil of the city. Eight hundred dollars were quickly raised towards the fund; the site for building, tiles for the chimney and plan by the architect were donated; but alas, it was seen that it was too late in his life for the scheme to be feasible, and the money was cheerfully given to him by the contributors to be used as he thought best.

On this particular occasion Mrs. Davis was more than glad to be alone.

The parlors were much as the artists had left them, and a general housecleaning was inst.i.tuted. And such a cleaning! Everything had to be handled and looked over, discarded or packed away. It was a disheartening task. Dried paint and plaster were on every side and resisted all attempts at removal, as though they had learned the lesson of persistency from the late sitter; besides, some repairs had to be made against the coming winter, and the stove had rusted in the cellar.

In good time all was accomplished and order again restored. Mr. Whitman returned refreshed, and oh, so glad to get back to his own home once more. But as a matter of course he acted as though beside himself for awhile, and the old act of hunting for lost or missing articles was repeated. Mrs. Davis, however, who had taken more than one lesson from him, pa.s.sed his perturbation by without apparent notice. She knew the time was not far in the future when rapidly failing health would altogether prevent his leaving home; he would probably be confined to the upper part of the house, perhaps to his bed; and she thought it wise to be in readiness for whatever was in store.

Although he had been situated so auspiciously for his comfort, and in a way to attain the great object he desired, Mr. Whitman's past four years had not been all sunshine. He had had spells of deep depression, days when he felt no inclination to come downstairs, or even to speak; and during the winter of this year the dark cloud hovered more persistently above him than ever before. For one thing, there were weeks when extremely cold or stormy weather prevented his going out of doors. Mrs.

Davis had much sympathy for him while the dreary mood lasted, and in many ways endeavored to dispel it. During the inclement weather she found in her cheery canary bird a valued a.s.sistant, and knowing the old man's fondness for the little fellow, she would at times stealthily place the cage in his room, "and let the sun shine out for a moment, this bird would flood the room with trills of melody." (The canary outlived Mr. Whitman, and through his long sickness, lasting from the summer of 1888 to the spring of 1892, it was always a welcome visitor in his room.) This would act as an inspiration, and Mr. Whitman would often take this time to write to some friend, always mentioning the singing of the bird and the shining of the sun.

"Pleasant weather as I write seated here by the window, my little canary singing like mad."

"Sunny and summery weather here, and my canary is singing like a house on fire."

"Dull weather, the ground covered with snow, but my little bird is singing as I write."

Good cheer may have been another comforting agent, for he writes: "We have (Mrs. Davis has) just had a baking. Oh! how I do wish I could send the dear frau one of our nice pumpkin pies, a very little ginger, no other spice."

"A cold freezing day. Have had my dinner of rare stewed oysters, some toasted Graham bread, and a cup of tea."

"Have had a bad spell of illness again, but am better to-day. Have just eaten a bit of dinner for the first time in over a week--stewed rabbit with a piece of splendid home-made bread, covered with stew-gravy."

"Have just had my dinner--a great piece of toasted Graham bread, salted and well b.u.t.tered with fresh country b.u.t.ter, and then a lot of panned oysters dumped over it, with hot broth; then a nice cup custard, and a cup of coffee. So if you see in the paper that I am starving (as I saw the other day), understand how."

In speaking of Mrs. Davis in a letter of the previous summer, he writes: "Very hot weather here continued. I am feeling badly, yet not so badly as you might fancy. I am careful and Mrs. Davis is very good and cute."

"Am idle and monotonous enough in my weeks and life here; but on the whole am thankful it is no worse. My buying this shanty and settling down here on half, or one-fourth pay, and getting Mrs. Davis to cook for me, might have been bettered by my disposing some other way, but I am satisfied it is all as well as it is."

Through the winter Mr. Whitman plodded on with his literary work, and by spring the parlors were once more transformed into a regular printing and mailing establishment. To these over-filled rooms he had added an oil portrait of an ancestor, a life-size bust of Elias Hicks, and a seated statuette of himself. He was very careful of the two latter works of art, and to protect them from dust kept them partially encased in newspapers. When a caller once slyly lifted the paper from the statuette, he found a colony of ants had made the lap of it their home.

The bust of Hicks was very conspicuous, and looked spectral in its paper headgear. Mrs. Davis would occasionally remove the yellow and time-worn papers, and replace them with clean ones. The owner no doubt noticed this, but he had ceased to be too observant of some things, and had become more lenient where "Mary" was the offender. And Mary had learned just how far she could go with impunity. In a way their lives had merged together.

It was a custom with Mr. Whitman to have his ma.n.u.scripts set up in type before sending them away--even his "little bits" of newspaper contributions. This was done in a "quaint little printing office" in town, the proprietor of which was "an old fellow acquaintance" of Walt's. In this matter, as in all others, he was very impatient, for the moment anything was ready for the press he would summon Mrs. Davis, regardless of time, weather or her own occupations, saying: "Take this to the printer's, Mary, and tell him I want it _immediately_"; and although most of this work was done gratuitously, the "old fellow acquaintance" was decidedly accommodating to his honored patron, and often laid other jobs aside for his "odd bits." He was as well always courteous to Mrs. Davis. It may be that he could not withstand her appeals for haste, and was willing to incommode himself to save her from fruitless trips to the office; for he knew that in an unreasonably short time the poet would demand his printed bit. In fact, so impatient would the writer often become, that to pacify him his good housekeeper would make half a dozen trips to the office. Frequently he would correct the proof and return it for a second, perhaps a third or fourth printing, and frequently he would say: "Don't come back without it, Mary; wait for it."

It would have been inconsistent with Mrs. Davis's natural activity for her to remain sitting in a printing office for an unlimited time, therefore she usually took advantage of these opportunities to do a little shopping, make a friendly call, or even a hasty run to Philadelphia. The corrected copies were never destroyed, but, like everything else, were dropped on the floor. It was no wonder that "to some Walt Whitman's house was a sort of conglomerated dime museum."

Strangers who called drew their own inferences and reported accordingly, and in this way contradictory stories were told and sent out into the world. Much that was false was believed, until the prevailing impression was that "he was living in poverty and neglect."

He was extremely non-committal, and his housekeeper never intruded her knowledge upon anyone, so it was natural that errors as to his home life should creep in. It was certainly difficult to credit that from sheer preference any human being could live in and enjoy the state of disorder that was found in the Whitman house, thanks to the poet's peculiarities. But this manner of living suited him, and in it he found true comfort. It must be confessed that things were outwardly so indicative of neglect that mistakes were bound to be made, while little of the actual life was known or understood, except by intimate friends.

"The junk shop jumble of those lonesome rooms," writes one; and again: "I found the venerable poet in his garret, living in neglect and want, cooking soup in a yellow bowl on a sheet-iron stove nearby." (_S. T.

Packard in a magazine article._) (The bowl merely contained clean water for the purpose of moistening the overheated atmosphere of the room.) Still further he writes: "Whenever his strength permitted he rose from his armchair with the rough bear-robe thrown over the back." It was really a white wolf-skin robe, a present to Mr. Whitman and of great service to him.

In truth the elucidation, explanation and straightening out of the various stories concerning the life of Walt Whitman in Mickle Street would require a volume in itself. No fancifulness, however, on the part of more or less observant visitors could rival that of their subject, for "His imagination could and did convert the narrow walls of the house in Camden into boundaries of nations, seas, oceans, mountain-chains, vistas of Eden, forests, cities, palaces, landscapes, hovels, homes of the rich, and art galleries, so that Whitman was thus of the great world while out of it."

"A peculiar feature of Walt Whitman's rooms, those I mean which his housekeeper is not allowed to put into order, is the chaos and confusion in which his papers are coiled. The b.u.mp of order does not exist in his cranium." (_William Sloane Kennedy._)

But visitors were left to their own impressions, and these were too often unjust to the woman who always did her best to prevent the confusion from growing still worse confounded.

XI

A SHOCK, AND SOME CHANGES

"_You have a good housekeeper._"--E. L. KELLER.

"_Yes, good, square--tip-top--devoted to me. Behind all she has s.p.u.n.k, very sensitive, the least word sets her off. A good woman._"--WALT WHITMAN.

"_Sunsets and sunrises to his soul were almost equal to food for his body._"--THOMAS DONALDSON.

At last the long tedious winter ended, and never was a spring more welcome to Mr. Whitman, for his acme of enjoyment was still to be out of doors. During the months when he was so closely confined to the house he had become even more dependent upon his housekeeper, had more often sought her companionship, had been more confidential towards her, and had repeatedly expressed his thankfulness that he was in his own domicile, and was so fortunate as to have her efficient services. He would saunter more frequently into the kitchen for a social chat, and preferred to take his meals there whenever he felt equal to it.

Altogether, he was much more domesticated. Still, he had been able to go out sometimes, had taken part in a number of social gatherings, where he had enjoyed the pleasure of congenial company, had even had "some jolly dinners" in his own house; but nothing could compete with the delight he experienced when he was under the blue sky. His drives were absolutely joyful to him, and the first one set all his recuperative forces in action. His rapid gain was distinctly perceptible, and everything looked hopeful and promising.

On May 31, 1888--his sixty-ninth birthday--a lawyer, one of his later friends (_Mr. Thomas B. Harned, Horace Traubel's brother-in-law_), and one at whose hospitable board he was often found, gave a reception and supper in his honor. It was a most enjoyable affair.

But four days later, after a lengthened drive Mr. Whitman was tempted to visit the river bank to contemplate the setting sun. He imprudently prolonged his stay until the evening dampness caused him to feel a sensation of chilliness, which increased momentarily until upon his reaching home it terminated in a real chill, followed by still more serious consequences, for from it resulted a paralytic shock. It was not a heavy shock, but was quite violent enough to cause alarm. At the first symptom Mrs. Davis summoned a physician, and did everything in her own power to alleviate his sufferings. He was seriously ill throughout the night, and next day had two recurrences of the shock, one in the morning and the other at noon. After the third it was believed, even by his physicians, that the termination of all was near at hand. For hours he was speechless, and to every appearance in a comatose condition.

His friend Dr. R. M. Bucke of Canada--who had come to Camden to attend the birthday celebration--had not yet returned home, and hurried at once to the bedside, where he was unremitting in his care and attention. Dr.

Bucke was a skilful physician and a man of great executive ability, and his timely presence was a great blessing to all. His appreciation of Mr.

Whitman as a writer, and his personal friendship for him, were of long standing.

To the surprise and relief of everybody, an unlooked-for reaction took place, and the sick man's first words on recovering his speech were: "It will soon pa.s.s over, and if it does not it will be all right." He was carried to his sleeping apartment, and from this time to his death he used the front parlor only as a sitting room.

Dr. Bucke and Mr. Donaldson had talked much while their old friend was lying in the comatose state, and both were troubled that things were so complicated, and that no one in particular seemed to have the least supervision over him or his personal belongings. Both were surprised when they learned that he had never made a will, and had never offered a suggestion or given any directions in regard to his literary affairs.

They were anxious as well, because they knew that in case of death, which seemed so close at hand, his papers and ma.n.u.scripts would be scattered and lost. As to home matters, Dr. Bucke said that Mrs. Davis was worn out and a permanent nurse must be provided. This point Mr.

Donaldson cordially endorsed. Of Mr. Whitman's pecuniary standing the Doctor had no knowledge, but Mr. Donaldson was better informed in regard to the sums he had received, and after consultation both fully agreed that the time had come when someone must take charge of affairs and no longer allow them to run on in the old haphazard way.

They decided to talk with Mrs. Davis, and upon their doing this she gave them a correct, full and truthful statement of the facts of the case. She could well enlighten them on the subject of outgoings, and both men were genuinely astonished to learn that Walt Whitman had never contributed one farthing towards the maintenance of the house,--for repairs, supplies, furniture or fuel. She told them that while so many had been solicitous of Mr. Whitman's comfort and interests, she felt aggrieved that no one had ever exhibited the least consideration for her; that she had spoken to Mr. and Mrs. George Whitman a number of times, and they had a.s.sured her that Walt was in a position to meet all expenses of the house, and to the best of her belief they both supposed that he was doing this, though neither had made any inquiries of her.

She said that in addition to her giving her time as general servant to all, her funds were rapidly diminishing, her goods going to rack and ruin, her health failing; and she felt that she could bear the burden no longer. She mentioned the promises Walt had made, and added that she did not doubt that in his way of thinking, and of doing things, he still intended to deal honestly and honorably by her; that she had endeavored to talk with him and come to a satisfactory understanding, until she was convinced that he avoided the subject purposely. She felt that in no way was she secured, and it was a positive fact that two years more would bankrupt her. What she asked was a settlement on the spot, and that someone might be found to take her place.

_Take her place!_ Was there a woman upon earth who could or would do this? It was a proposition that neither of her auditors would consider; up to this time the thought of her leaving had never entered their minds; indeed, no one had ever stopped to think that she might in time wear out and be obliged to give up, or perhaps get discouraged and go of her own free will. They urged her to abandon such an idea. What would the Mickle Street house be without her? The mere suggestion was the extreme of cruelty, for the sick man, although a little better at present, was too low for any change, especially one that would touch him so closely. Dr. Bucke gave her his word that he would be personally responsible for all she had spent, and for proper payment for her services as housekeeper both in the past and the future; he told her that her work would be lightened immeasurably, as a regular nurse was to be engaged; and that in case Mr. Whitman should die before matters were settled, her interests should be carefully looked after. Relying on this promise, she remained.

In a few days Mr. Whitman's friends spoke to him and proposed that out of his bank account, which had grown to some thousands of dollars, he should hereafter purchase his own wood, pay for one-half the other fuel, keep the house in repair, and settle his private expenditures, to all of which he gave a ready and willing a.s.sent. Next day they advised his making a will, which he did, and it is known that in this he made some provision for Mrs. Davis, but its full contents were never disclosed, as he wrote it himself. On learning that according to Jersey law a woman could be the executor of an estate, he said it was his wish and desire that his esteemed sister-in-law, Louise Whitman, should close his. (This will was replaced by one made in December, 1891, during his last sickness.)

In regard to his literary matters, it was thought best that they should be placed in the hands of three executors, Dr. Bucke being one.

When it was made known that in future Mr. Whitman was to have a regular nurse, some of his young admirers volunteered to solicit a monthly contribution from his numerous friends to meet this expense. The patient made some inquiries regarding the nurse fund, and on being told that it was all right and attended to, never alluded to the subject again. The task of keeping the fund up fell to Horace Traubel; for when it was first started people subscribed under the impression that it was a temporary matter, that Mr. Whitman's life hung on a thread, and that they would only be called upon once or twice; so all ran smoothly for a while. But as months merged into years some donors became tired of giving, while others found themselves unable to continue. Mr. Traubel was indefatigable in his endeavors to serve his friend. As one subscriber after another fell out, he called upon people or wrote to them in order to fill the vacant places. Besides this matter, in the four years in which he was connected with the poet he did much writing and corresponding for him, and was of great service to him.

The sick man improved slowly, and when there were no longer any indications of a relapse and everything had been satisfactorily arranged, Dr. Bucke returned to his home; not however until he had again talked with Mrs. Davis and had once more a.s.sured her that full justice should be done, and that she need no longer feel uncertain as to her own well-being.

While Mr. Whitman was so very ill, there was no difficulty in securing a professional nurse. The first, a gentlemanly middle-aged man named Musgrove, left when the patient had in a measure regained his normal condition. Other nurses were in turn engaged, but the place was so undesirable, the duties so varied and uncongenial, accommodations so lacking and the remuneration so small, that after a short trial each one left, all of them testifying to the housekeeper's goodness to them, and to her unselfish surrender of herself to their patient.

After Mr. Musgrove's first few weeks there was not much regular nursing, and at Mr. Whitman's request Mrs. Davis did most of this; but there remained the heavy lifting and hard work. The wood was bought in cord lengths and thrown through the slanting door into the cellar, where it was sawed and split. The cellar was not only cold and damp, but the wood was often wet and clumsy to handle. Besides sawing, splitting and carrying the wood up two flights of stairs, the nurse was expected to do sufficient carpentering to keep the house in repair, shovel snow in winter, run errands for his patient, and later wheel him about the streets in an invalid chair. This chair was purchased from the proceeds of a birthday dinner given for the poet in his own city, May 31, 1889.

One hundred and twenty-five dollars were donated on the occasion, and as Mr. Whitman had now become too decrepit to use his carriage, that and the horse were disposed of, and the wheel-chair subst.i.tuted.

There was so much trouble in getting a nurse who cared to remain, that late in the fall following the shock Dr. Bucke sent a young Canadian to fill the place. This young man, who desired to study medicine, had accepted the position with that object in view, and coming through personal interests alone he was naturally much engrossed in his own affairs, and never lost sight of his own advantages. He saw that by embracing this opportunity he could attain the necessary knowledge, keep a roof over his head (one that generally leaked, but this did not dampen his ardor), earn his board and clothing, and have besides the great benefit of attending lectures in Philadelphia.