VI
MR. WHITMAN DRIVES
"I swear I will never again mention love or death inside a house, and I swear I will never translate myself at all, only to him or her who privately stays with me in the open air."—Walt Whitman.
"For such a lover of nature not to be able to get out of doors, was a calamity than which no greater was known."—Thomas Donaldson.
THE first winter over, spring came and was passed in about the same daily routine; but before the summer was far advanced Mrs. Davis was convinced that the old man's walking days were rapidly drawing to a complete close. This troubled her greatly, and during one of Mr. Thomas Donaldson's frequent evening visits she talked earnestly with him about it.
Mr. Donaldson, the poet's intimate and constant friend, was a practical man; one ready to listen to the suggestions of others, and to assist in forwarding their plans. Between him and Mrs. Davis there was a mutual understanding; each knew the other's worth. He had always shown consideration for her; had sought her out in her own house, and stood manfully by her side in her ministrations to the invalid.
She told him she was certain, from the number of letters Mr. Whitman received, his many visitors from other cities and abroad, his increasing list of invitations and requests for personal interviews, that he must be a man in whom others were deeply interested.
She said that for some time she had had a plan in her mind. It was this: that he should write to Mr. Whitman's friends—as he knew just who they were—and solicit a subscription of ten dollars from each of them, the fund to be appropriated to the purchase of a horse and carriage for the poet's use.
Mr. Donaldson fell in with the scheme, and thirty-one of the thirty-five letters written by him received prompt replies, and in each was the sum asked for. As the gift was to be a surprise, only a few friends were let into the secret. A comfortable buggy was ordered and a gentle pony selected, as it was supposed the drives would be quiet ones, in suburban places.
On the fifteenth of September all was completed, and Mr. Donaldson came over in the afternoon, ostensibly to make a call. He found his friend on a lounge in the front room, and seating himself commenced to chat with him upon the topics of the times. This he continued to do until he heard the gift carriage drive up to the door. His young son Blaine sat by the driver's side.
Mr. Donaldson went to the window, and Mr. Whitman hobbled after him to see who had arrived. "Bless me," he said, "what a fine turnout! And there is Blaine! Well, well, how the lad does seem to fit it; how comfortable it does look! What does it all mean?"
"It certainly does look comfortable," Mr. Donaldson replied, "and Walt, it's yours." This statement he repeated twice before his astonished friend could believe he had heard aright, and even then he did not appear to take in or comprehend the full meaning of such an announcement. While still dazed and hardly himself—impassive as was his natural demeanor—his friend handed him a letter containing the names of the contributors, in an envelope with $135.40 enclosed. Mr. Whitman read the letter and was completely overcome; tears trickled down his cheeks, and he was unable to articulate a word.
When he was somewhat composed, Mrs. Davis, who had been slyly watching the scene, came in with his coat and hat, and proposed that he should at once—and for the first time—take a drive in a turnout of his own. It proved to be a long drive, as it was late in the afternoon when he returned.
Mrs. Davis was delighted; the gift surpassed her highest expectations, was much nicer and more expensive than she had thought it was to be; and she rejoiced to see the poor old man, who not two years before had shuffled to her door, now riding in a carriage of his own!—and one provided, too, by those friends he had told her of, friends she had believed to be but myths conjured up in his own lonesome mind.
Mr. Whitman deeply appreciated the compliment paid him. He said: "I have before now been made to feel in many touching ways how kind and thoughtful my loving friends are, but this present is so handsome and valuable, and comes so opportunely, and is so thoroughly a surprise, that I can hardly realize it. My paralysis has made me so lame lately that I have had to give up my walks. Oh! I shall have a famous time this fall!"
Previous to the presentation an arrangement had been made at a nearby stable for the care of the horse, the running expense of which was to be met by a number of friends; a young man was also engaged to harness the horse and drive the rig to the door. But who was to summon it? That part being unprovided for, it fell to Mrs. Davis, and Mr. Whitman became as erratic with his horse as he was with all other things. Some mornings it would be: "I must give up my ride to-day, the weather is so uncertain"; soon after: "It looks like clearing up, I will go"; then on Mrs. Davis's return from the stable: "I have made up my mind to defer my ride." Again would come the determination to go, followed with the afterthought of remaining at home, until ordering the carriage and countermanding the order would keep the obliging messenger running to and from the stable until dark.
Riding was so great an enjoyment to Mr. Whitman that when once in his carriage he was loth to leave it. "Only one thing seemed to have the power of forcing from him an occasional lament, and that was prolonged stormy weather when bad health kept him indoors for days and weeks."
Poor Frank, the pony, had not been selected for speed or endurance, and in an amazingly short time he succumbed to over-driving. At the expiration of only two months, Mr. Donaldson says, "the pony showed the effects of Mr. Whitman's fast driving, and had a shake in the forelegs—or rather tremble—that gave the impression that he was getting ready to lie down.... Some weeks after this I was again in Camden, and while on the main street I saw a cloud of dust rising from a fast-approaching vehicle. In a moment a splendid bay horse attached to a buggy came into view. He was coming in a mile in three minutes' gait, and to my amazement, in the buggy was Walt Whitman holding on to the lines with one hand for dear life. When he observed me, he drew up with great difficulty and called out, 'Hello, Tom, ain't he splendid?' My breath was about gone. I managed to speak. 'Mr. Whitman, in the name of common sense what has come over you? Where is Frank?' 'Sold; I sold him. He was groggy in the knees and too slow. This horse is a goer, and delights me with his motion.'"
The ready sale of Frank was a great mortification to Mrs. Davis, and she felt it keenly; the more so as the pony had been, in a measure, the outcome of her suggestion.
Although the horse and carriage were "a source of infinite joy and satisfaction to Mr. Whitman, and aided him to pass three years of his invalid life in comparative ease, giving him touches of life and air and scenery otherwise impossible," they were a constant expense and vexation to others.
He seldom went for a drive alone, and as a rule chose as his companion one of the many young men of his acquaintance. He always wished to hold the lines himself. Although Mrs. Davis was the usual messenger to and from the stable, although she got her charge ready for his drives, assisted him to the carriage and almost lifted him in and out of it, neither he nor anyone else ever proposed that she should have the pleasure of a drive, or suggested that an occasional airing might do her good.
While owning the horse Mr. Whitman did not wholly discontinue his ferry rides, but he no longer "haunted the Delaware River front" as formerly.
What a change two years had made in his surroundings!—and what a change in those of Mary Davis! He had come more prominently before the great world; she had nearly passed out of her own limited sphere. The tide which turned when they entered the Mickle Street house was now in full flood for him. But what for her?
His book had had a good sale; private contributions were sent to him, amounting to many hundreds of dollars; and from this time on he did little with his pen, though he got occasional lifts from periodicals for both old and new work, and the New York Herald paid him a regular salary as one of its editorial staff. But he resigned this position the following year.
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 passed 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 assurance 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 assiduously 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 preëminent 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 associates had never spoken of her protégé 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 assist 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 pass 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 passionate 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 passers-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 constitution 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 embarrassments. 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 assured 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 passing 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 passed, 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 anticipations 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 surpassed 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 glasses and proceeded to read from a little book, upon whose pages the manuscript 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.
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 prone 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 cumbersome 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 promptitude, 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 assisted 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 passed 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 pass 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 space 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 passers-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 passage 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 passing 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 associates 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 anticipating 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 butter, 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 embarrassing 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 passed 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 retarded 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 seashore 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 succumbed. 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 assistance, 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 assisted her in her preparations, and she set off with pleasurable anticipations. 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.
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 instituted. 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, passed 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 assistant, 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 buttered with fresh country butter, 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 manuscripts 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 bump 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.