"You have a good housekeeper."—E. L. Keller.
"Yes, good, square—tip-top—devoted to me. Behind all she has spunk, 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 pass 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 manuscripts 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 assured 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 assent. 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 assured 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 substituted.
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.
During the five months between the shock and the advent of the student nurse, Mr. Whitman had resumed his writing, and his bedchamber became his sanctum. Before his illness Mrs. Davis had managed to keep the upper portion of the house in passable order. Now it was gradually assuming the late appearance of the parlors, for here at least Mr. Whitman had full control, and would brook no interference whatever. When the nurse found that his best endeavors to bring about a change in this merely meant wasted time, he quietly went his own way and left his patient to do the same. He confessed that he thought him "the most singular mortal" he had ever met, and said: "When I was first employed he would chat ten minutes at a time with me; now we pass about twenty words a day. Keeps his own business to himself, and talks but little even with his intimates."
The young man's application to his studies appeared so commendable to Mrs. Davis that she at once set about trying to forward his efforts. The only method she saw was to do his washing, ironing and mending, that the small weekly sum thus saved might go towards purchasing books he needed and could not afford to buy. He was delighted to own the volumes so obtained, and would pore over them for hours at a time, totally unmindful of the fact that the real donor was performing many duties that should justly have fallen to him. Having no room of his own, the kitchen was necessarily his study, and in a letter he writes: "Mr. Whitman calls me by knocking on the floor, I usually being in the room below."
Mrs. Davis always prepared the invalid's meals, carried them to him, and if possible sat with him when he partook of them. These were their times for exchanging confidences and chatting on home topics. "More than anyone else was she his confidant, and deserved to be." (Thomas Donaldson.)
He was interested in simple things, and little home talks never wearied him. He used few, plain and ordinary words in conversation, and his manner was simplicity itself. Mrs. Davis never spoke of anything unpleasant to him, and was always on guard lest others might do so; she was a good listener, not a loquacious talker, and her voice, naturally soft, had a soothing effect.
His literary matters were well looked after, and he seldom called his nurse except for some actual need. Such comments, however, as the following are misleading: "He treats his household as by a holy law, Mrs. Davis his housekeeper never finds him indifferent, condescending or morose. His spirit ignores all petty household worries...." ("In Re Walt Whitman.")
Mrs. Davis also sat with the sick man, or within call, whether his nurse had gone on an errand for him, or to Philadelphia on his own account. And yet the student-nurse made no sign of reciprocating her many kindnesses to him; took everything she did for him as his just due; accepted any and every service she might render him, but most emphatically refused to give one in return. He left Camden the last of October, 1889, and returned to Canada. He parted both with Mr. Whitman and Mrs. Davis on the most friendly terms, saying that much as he disliked to leave them, his own worldly future depended upon other work than nursing.
"A time-worn look and scent of oak attach both to the chair and the person occupying it" (Letter from Walt Whitman)
"Am anchored helpless here all day, but get along fairly. Fortunately have a placid, quiet, even, solitary thread quite strong in weft of my disposition."—Walt Whitman (Aug. 22, 1890).
"Whitman's stalwart form itself luxuriates in a curious great cane-seat chair, with posts and rungs like a ship's spars; altogether the most imposing heavy-timbered, broad-armed and broad-bottomed edifice of the kind possible. It was the gift of the young son and daughter of Thomas Donaldson of Philadelphia, and was made especially for the poet."—William Sloane Kennedy.
THE long confinement to his room covering more than half of '88, and extending into the next year, had forced Mr. Whitman to relinquish his summer and autumn drives. This was the one thing to which he could not be reconciled; the one thing to which he had looked forward so wistfully all the previous winter and spring. Alas! the fatal river drive was his last. As already explained the horse and carriage, now useless to him, were disposed of, and the wheel-chair took their place. This chair was indeed a boon to him, and he appreciated the thoughtful kindness of his friends in the appropriate gift.
As soon as his strength would permit, which was some months after his attack, he had resumed his writing. He had also read his papers and periodicals, and thus managed to wear the long days through. The cheery canary had done his part in helping to beguile the irksome hours, and Watch, the coach dog, sure of a friendly greeting had made a daily call. Towards spring the time had been less tedious, and in March the invalid had become sufficiently strong to be assisted downstairs. At this he was highly encouraged, for he realized the advancement he had made.
While he had been so low in the past summer, Mrs. Davis had once more instituted a regular cleaning and renovating of the parlors. This he must have noticed, but he made no remarks in regard to it. He was led now to his favorite window, where stood his armchair with the white wolf-skin thrown over the back; in this he was placed, and day after day sat contentedly anchored. It was a sad disappointment to him when ailments occasionally prevented his coming downstairs; here he preferred taking his evening meal and meeting his friends. Writing materials were always at hand on a small shelf under the window sill, but these he used only to jot down passing thoughts or to indite a friendly line.
Soon he could come into the kitchen, where he often chose to dine. Sometimes his friends would join him in a "jolly dinner" in the dear old place; but things had changed—were but a semblance of what had been—and his desire to remain undisturbed and with his housekeeper alone during meal times grew upon him.
During the summer and fall he had incidental outings with his nurse (Eddie Wilkins, the student). The first few were necessarily of short duration and slow of motion, then as his strength returned they were lengthened, and he realized the pleasure in store for him should his life be prolonged another year.
After each ride Mrs. Davis met him with some light refreshment, after which all he desired was rest—a long rest, sometimes of several days.
It was impossible to receive one-half of the people who called upon him—indeed, this would have been a tax upon a strong man. Mrs. Davis always answered the door bell; and it was no uncommon thing for him to tell her that as he wanted to have a day of unbroken tranquillity, no one was to be admitted to his room—excepting always a number of dear old friends, and his ever-welcome brother and good sister-in-law.
Strange that these were often the days when visitors would flock there, the great majority of whom would leave deeply disappointed, and for this cause the inoffensive housekeeper—she who had to bear the brunt of everything—incurred the displeasure, even the enmity, of some people. So little was known to the world at large of the poet's private life and of his state of health, that strangers would sometimes go to certain persons in Philadelphia to inquire how they might have an audience with him. This condition of things did not develop until after the illness of the previous year, and much trouble resulted from it, as visitors would show their cards or letters of introduction and insist upon going to his room. Friends living either in Philadelphia or in Camden, especially those who saw much of the poet, should have been mindful that so sick a man might not at all times feel inclined to talk with strange people, or might not be equal to it if he were so inclined. But his wishes or needs were not conformed with, and in some cases the protestations of Mrs. Davis were wholly disregarded.
She invariably met each individual pleasantly and never spoke hastily or abruptly to anyone; she always gave civil answers to their questions; often went to Mr. Whitman to intercede for them; and it was through her influence alone that many were admitted to his presence. But if he was not disposed to yield, her best efforts would be in vain, and the only alternative left her was to offend others instead of him.
During the seven years she was with him she had numberless strange or even unique experiences, but having quick perception she was seldom deceived. Some people would haughtily demand an audience with the poet; others would compromise by interviewing her, while the more determined would force their way in uninvited and positively refuse to leave the house until they had spoken with the owner. Many brought gifts which they wished to present in person; and veterans came asking that they might only clasp the hand that had ministered to them so tenderly at some time during the civil war. Nor were souvenir fiends wanting, and many trinkets, ornaments and keepsakes belonging to Mrs. Davis were surreptitiously carried off.
A few people spoke slightingly of the housekeeper, but never in Mr. Whitman's presence, for "Mary" was "Mary" to him at all times and in all places.
A number who had rendered him services—those in particular who within the last year or two had given money towards his support (as was supposed)—were indignant that Mrs. Davis should presume to speak so decidedly to them, believing that were their names only taken to Walt he would be delighted to see them. And yet a visit to the poet in his own house was to some people a decided disappointment, even when they were able to see and talk with him. They did not find what they had been looking for, something based on idle rumor and curious expectation, something extraordinary or even outlandish.
One of the most noticeable things about him, says one, was "an absence of all effort to make a good impression, or of posing." Instead of finding a gruff old fossil, or bearding a lion in his den, they found an everyday, quiet, dignified man.
"He (Mr. Wilkins) left Mr. Whitman in October, 1889, and was succeeded as nurse by Warren Fritzinger, a young man of twenty-five, and a son of Mary O. Davis, his housekeeper and friend. Mr. Fritzinger (Warry) remained with Mr. Whitman until his death, a faithful, earnest man."—Thomas Donaldson.
"I get along well, am comfortable, have a fair appetite, and keep a good oak fire."—Walt Whitman.
WHILE the question of getting another nurse was pending, Harry and Warren Fritzinger returned to Camden. It was a mutual surprise, for the brothers had lost trace of each other and came from different parts of the world. It was indeed a joyful reunion, and though seven years had elapsed since they had seen their foster-mother, their love had not abated and each brought her a substantial gift in money. Coming from California, Warren's gift was in gold—double eagles.
They remembered Walt Whitman as a man, but neither of them had read his poetry, and although their mother had mentioned the change at the time it was made, they knew nothing of the way in which she was living, and both were much alarmed at her altered appearance. Not at all satisfied, they urged her to resign her position; to move into a more fitting place, and let them take care of her.
But believing, as did others, that Mr. Whitman's life was drawing to a close, she pleaded that she could not reconcile her mind to deserting him in his helplessness. She enlightened them in regard to financial matters, saying that she thought it wiser to wait quietly where she was until things were adjusted. Again, the house practically contained her possessions only, and these she could not think of moving at a time like the present; the sick man could not abide the confusion. She furthermore said that the house had become homelike to her, that all of Mr. Whitman's friends were kind to her, especially his sister-in-law, who made weekly visits, always bringing something with her; that she had implicit confidence in Mrs. Whitman, and knew that should any controversy arise in the settling of affairs, this upright and capable woman would be on her side. Again, she had pledged her word to stay; it was expected of her; and yet the strongest argument came from her own kind heart—the old man needed her.
In her many talks with Warren she told him how she dreaded the coming of another strange nurse, even though his term of service was likely to be so short; and as she could not see how a few months, at most, could make any material difference to him, she did wish that he would make up his mind to apply for the position. Mr. Whitman's friends and literary executors at once caught at this, and all brought their influence to bear, pressing the place upon him and promising that, should he remain until Mr. Whitman's demise, they would stand by him and see him placed in some good way of earning a livelihood.
The situation had no inducements for him; it was in fact decidedly distasteful; but feeling assured that it couldn't really affect his worldly career, he consented. He was not one to do things by halves, and from the day he undertook this work until the last hour of his patient's life, he performed his manifold duties in a cheerful, willing and most capable manner.
He loved the sea, with its broad spaces, and soon the narrow limits of the little house became intolerable to him. This he did not betray, and being naturally light-hearted and always appearing happy, few who met him realized the trial he was undergoing. He was honest and straightforward, and believed everyone to be the same.
Mr. Whitman, who had taken to him at once, was delighted when he was told that this bright "sailor boy" was to be his next attendant. Warren was indeed a blessing, not only to the patient, but to his mother, for he was always ready to assist her and to help out in times of need. But, better than all, he soon acquired a way of quietly managing the "good gray poet" that no other living mortal ever attained. When it was decided that massage would benefit Mr. Whitman, he took a course in a Philadelphia hospital and became a professional masseur, as well as wood-sawyer and amateur carpenter.
Good places were offered him, but he was bound, and could accept none of them. One excellent position was kept open for months and he was advised by his friends not to let so good an opportunity go by, but Mr. Whitman lingered on, and the place was filled. In going to sea as a boy, Warren was at a disadvantage on land. This he realized, and in the situation thus surrendered he had seen a way in which he could retrieve his lost time.
Walt's literary attainments and associations were pleasant enough to encounter, but they were of no material benefit to him, and the remuneration was much smaller than he had ever before received. This was a great drawback, for having met a young lady whom he hoped to marry, he felt inclined and perfectly able to better himself.
As his predecessor's prediction, that Mr. Whitman would not outlive the year, was not verified, and New Year's Day, 1890, not only found him alive but in a much improved condition, with no indications of immediate danger, it came home to Warren that he had unfortunately tied himself to an uncertainty, and that his term of service might be years instead of weeks. There seemed no present help, however, so he philosophically accepted the conditions and stuck to his work with manly courage.
Warren's engagement commenced so late in the season that Mr. Whitman had but a few outings before another winter shut him in. He had however two or three trips to the river bank, which he enjoyed greatly; all the more because they led to conversations on ships and ocean life. Warren was a fluent and interesting talker, which made him an enviable companion for anyone who, like the poet, was an ardent lover of freedom and the boundless deep. He often referred to Warren as his "sailor boy," and said that he was of much service to him when he was at a loss about the names of different parts of a ship. The young "sailor boy" had a vein of poetry in his own composition, and although he might not be qualified to weigh the bard's words and their import in the same scale with some others, he got a clear insight into their meaning.
The sick man had his ups and downs during this winter, but was seldom confined to his bed more than a week at a time. When he was at all able, he was helped downstairs to sit by the window. He spent more time in the kitchen with Mrs. Davis, and took a lively interest in anything she might be doing; he talked to the birds, made a playmate of the cat, had fellowship with the dog—in short his home life resembled that of any old man in his own home and with his own kin. He would read and write a little at a time, or glance over his papers, but there was a perceptible falling off in all ways, and his domestic life became more and more dear to him; it had no jars, ran smoothly along, and was to him his world.
He was still just as inflexible about having his own way. However, it had so long been a part of his housekeeper's life to yield to this, that he seldom had to insist upon anything. He would usually retire early now, though this was not a stated rule. He might be in bed by eight o'clock, or up until midnight, and he was as ingenious as ever in making work for other people. As his massage was to be the last thing before sleep, Warren could not calculate upon his own doings for a single evening. He might go out before dark, make a call or do an errand, then hasten home to wait up two or three hours or even longer; or on going out and remaining but a little beyond eight, would on his return find his patient in bed groaning, and saying that he had been suffering severely for his rubbing, or "pummelling," as he called it. Suffice it to say he was as exacting with his willing nurse as he had always been with his faithful housekeeper. During the two and a half years that Warren was with him, he had but a single untrammelled evening, for Mr. Whitman wanted him always near, even when no service was required. And so things jogged on satisfactorily to friends and admirers, but tediously indeed to the young marine.
Horace Traubel writes: "Warren Fritzinger, who attends upon Mr. Whitman and is provided for through a fund steadily replenished by a group of Walt's lovers—and who finds his services a delight—attests that whatsoever the hour or necessity, Whitman's most intimate humor is to the last degree composed and hopeful." ("In Re Walt Whitman.") Others have written of this period as one of grave neglect; a time when the aged man was deprived of the care and comfort so essential to one in his condition. They underrated both his means and the attention lavished upon him.
"He is old and poor," says one, "and were it not for small contributions from time to time from friends who sympathize with him in his poverty, age and helplessness, would actually suffer for the bare necessaries of life. For many years his income from all sources has not exceeded an average of two hundred dollars, which to a person in his helpless condition goes but a little way even in supplying the roughest and commonest of food and care." And again: "His wants are not many, for he lives simply from necessity and choice; but in his old age and constantly failing health, he needs that comfort and attendance which he has not the means to procure."
The poet himself was neither discontented nor dull. As his infirmities brought new privations, he bowed to the inevitable. He missed the outdoor life keenly, but was grateful for such trips as he could get under Warren's care. As for indoors, conversations if protracted wore upon him, and he could no longer take part in them with anything of his old enthusiasm and vim. But there was no fundamental infirmity of mind, no childishness of senility; he was essentially young in his habits, thought and manner, and remained so until his death. Sometimes, indeed, the flame of mental energy rose high again; and it was never extinguished.
"The body was fading; the vital parts seemed reluctant to die even in their own exhaustion. The soul, the mind, the man were there, and at times in full vigor, while the case was wrecked. Grandly and clearly his mentality stood above the slowly straining and wasting body." (Thomas Donaldson.)
But others suffered with and through him. Warren had relinquished hope after hope, had on several occasions abandoned his resolve to better himself and get married; his mother's entreaties and the reiterated promises and solicitations of Mr. Whitman's friends, especially his literary executors, were more than he could combat. But with all outward signs of contentment, the confinement soon left visible marks upon him; a second pair of rosy cheeks faded, and from handling the icy wood in the cellar a lasting cold was contracted.
He purchased a writing desk—one that fitted the niche between the chimney and the window in the anteroom—and here he wrote, studied and read when not actively employed; always busy, always within call. When the monotony and confinement became too pressing, he purchased a violin and took music lessons. He declared that this saved him from fits of desperation.
Mr. Whitman himself was not the only old person dependent for comfort upon Mrs. Davis and her sons, for the maternal grandparents of the latter, living in Beardstown, Pennsylvania, octogenarians and both amazingly jealous of the poet, had to be visited, looked after and consoled.
One great annoyance to Warren was Mr. Whitman's aversion to prompt payment. The old man had signified his willingness to purchase his own wood, but he was so delinquent about settling for it that the proprietor of the woodyard, a man whose heart had never been warmed by the poet's effusions, saw no reason why he should warm his body gratis, and so sent him bill after bill, until at length he refused to deliver a load until the previous one was paid for. Be it understood, Mr. Whitman intended to pay for his wood, but he intended to pay in his own time, and not be dictated to; consequently there was a controversy when each load was delivered. "His pride was adamant to anything that seemed concession." (John T. Trowbridge.)
Warren knew that the old man had money, that right was on the wood-dealer's side, and he would not follow his mother's way of putting people off—telling them that Mr. Whitman was too miserable to be troubled, asking for an extension of time, etc., then paying the bill herself and lacking the courage to present the receipt. No, "Warry" would approach the subject in such an original fashion and hand the bill to his patient in such an offhand way that it would appeal to him directly, and as a rule the money was counted out with a quiet chuckle. Eddie Wilkins wrote: "Mr. Whitman is stubborn and self-willed. You can only get along with him by letting him have his own way." Warren would meet the stubbornness and self-will with just as persistent good-nature, and would usually gain his point. He was the only person Walt Whitman never chloroformed with one of his "Ahs!"
Early in April, 1890, the poet was asked to read his Lincoln lecture at the Art Club rooms in Philadelphia, and he agreed. He was just recovering from a bad spell, and Mrs. Davis did her best to dissuade him from such an undertaking, but without avail; he summoned up his resolution once more and had his own way. With the assistance of Warren and others, he dressed and painfully dragged himself to the place of destination, and there, before a gay and crowded assembly, he appeared for the last time in public as a speaker. But the effort was too great, and when the reading was ended and the congratulations over, he was taken home in a suffering and nearly unconscious condition and carried to his bed, where, exhausted and worn out, he was for some days obliged to remain. However, on May 31 he was sufficiently recovered to attend a birthday dinner at Reiser's in Philadelphia. When the guests were assembled—some fifty or sixty in number—Warren wheeled him into the room, where without leaving his chair he joined in the convivialities of the occasion. He did not fear to dissipate a little at events like this, nor did he always pause at the point of prudence, for he knew that in whatsoever state he might reach home the best of after-care awaited him there.
During the spring and summer the chair rides were resumed whenever he was at his best, and he entered into the enjoyment with zest and appreciation. When feeling particularly well he would make up for lost time, until the rolling chair with its distinguished occupant and handsome boyish-looking propeller was often seen by the hour as it passed through the streets of Camden and adjacent suburbs. This chair stimulated the interest of the neighbors and whenever it was carried to the sidewalk the news spread quickly, so that by the time Mrs. Davis appeared with Warren, helping the old man down the stoop, they had a good-sized and extremely attentive audience. No doubt they had long since ceased to look upon Mr. Whitman as a mysterious personage, but they comprehended that he was not one of them, and everything new connected with him still excited their curiosity.
Warren's advent at a season when he was so needed was indeed a blessing to his mother. Now she could count upon her time and arrange for her work, could go out with no anxiety as to home matters, and could have the kitchen to herself when she wished.
The heat of this summer debilitated the invalid more than that of the previous one, or even of the famous (or dreadful) one of 1887, devoted so exhaustingly to art. For days the old man would now be too overcome for any outing, and would be glad instead to sit on the sidewalk, as of old, in the shade of his cherished tree. He spent some evenings with friends, and occasionally went out to a Sunday dinner or to meet certain people; but this became too strenuous, and the after-effects too serious.
The chair rides, though so often interrupted, were continued until late in the fall.
"Was out in wheel-chair yesterday, November 8, from twelve to two-thirty."
He made a few visits to the river, and seated in his chair took his last boat rides across it. In October he visited Philadelphia for the last time.
"Christmas Day, 1890, was spent by Walt Whitman in giving himself and all his family a Christmas present for all eternity. He went out to Harleigh Cemetery, a suburb of Camden, to select a site for a tomb."—William Sloane Kennedy.
ON the evening of October 21, Colonel Robert Ingersoll gave a lecture in Horticulture Hall, Philadelphia, for the benefit of Mr. Whitman. The subject was "Liberty in Literature."
This form of assistance to the poet was suggested to Colonel Ingersoll by Mr. Johnston of New York, one of Walt's oldest and most valued friends, who came to Camden to talk the matter over and make the necessary arrangements. Mr. Whitman took unusual interest in the project and was desirous of being present. Mr. Johnston, who had great confidence in Mrs. Davis and much regard for her opinion, consulted her upon the subject. She said that recent cool weather had done much for the old man, and barring unlooked-for accidents, she believed that he could be counted upon. Mr. Whitman himself, who was well aware that his later appearances in public had proved a great tax upon his strength, declared his intention of husbanding the little that remained for the event. This he did; the evening arrived, the weather was favorable, and all was well.
Every possible exertion had been spared him, and he started off in high spirits. An easy carriage had been secured, and he reached the hall without fatigue; even in better condition than had been anticipated. He was accompanied by a friend, and by Warren and Mrs. Davis, for both Mr. Johnston and Colonel Ingersoll had insisted upon her being one of the party. On alighting from the carriage and entering the hall, Mrs. Davis was given a seat in the audience not far from the stage, and Mr. Whitman and Warren were taken behind the scenes, where the lecturer and some gentlemen awaited them. An armchair had been placed for the poet by the speaker's stand. A few moments before the lecture began, he came upon the stage and seated himself. He was greeted with enthusiasm by the overflowing house, and when the eloquent speaker had closed his fine address, he arose, came forward and spoke a few words. This was his last appearance in public.
Colonel Ingersoll had engaged a room in a nearby hotel, where at the close of the lecture a small company were invited to partake of a collation and pass an informal, social hour. When all were seated at the table, the Colonel handed Mr. Whitman $870 as his share of the proceeds, and upon doing so remarked to Mrs. Davis: "That sum will keep you all in comfort this winter." But like all other sums received by Mr. Whitman, it was deposited unbroken in the bank.
Mr. Whitman stood this exertion well, but the reaction came later; the borrowed strength gave out, and the winter found him much the worse for wear. He came downstairs a number of times in October and November, and had occasional outings, but he passed the time chiefly in his own room, and the big chair which Warren and his mother had carried up and down stairs, to the place where it was needed for the time being, was never again taken below. He sat up much less, however, and would lie upon his back for hours, with his eyes partially closed and his hands crossed upon his breast.
Letters came with kind wishes and friendly words; these he appreciated, though he could seldom answer them. Yet he still read and wrote a little, still looked over his newspapers and periodicals, and the accumulating litter therefore received its weekly contributions; but at his mother's earnest request Warren did not interfere. When little things were carried upstairs, the old man would often ask that they might be left. If any article were taken up he would usually say, "Leave it a while longer; I may want it by and by." This accounts for the soiled dishes frequently seen in his room.
Old friends and new ones were constant, and seemed to devise ways in which they could shower attentions upon the sick man. The oysterman in the next street sent word that he was at all times welcome to a free share of his stock in trade, and there was no time when oysters were not kept unopened in the cellar; but Mr. Whitman beyond doubt overstepped the bounds of the donor's generous intentions when he treated his company so lavishly to stews and half-shells, also when he ordered supplies for his young men friends in return for services they rendered him. Mrs. Davis and Warren did not approve of this, and each was ashamed to visit the little place so many times; they without money, and the oysters without price.
Did Mr. Whitman, in truth, have an accurate or an undeveloped knowledge of the cost of living?
Eddie Wilkins writes: "Oh, he knows the value of money, and is very careful with his own."
His benevolence to the sick and wounded soldiers during a great part of the civil war is an old and often repeated story, but in this he was to a great extent the almoner of others. His self-sacrificing labors as a volunteer visiting nurse were his own free-will offering, and from them came his long years of suffering, for his early paralysis was the result of these exhaustive and unremitted efforts.
"His devotion surpassed the devotion of woman." (John Swinton, in a letter to the New York Herald, April 1, 1876.)
Most of the time while he was living in Washington he occupied a small room up three flights of stairs. He had but little furniture and no dishes; he ate out of paper bags and subsisted upon a very meagre sum of money. This sufficed for that period of his life, when he was in "his splendid prime." (John Swinton.) He had health, strength and only himself to think of; and taking a house of his own in after years—humble as was the one in Mickle Street—did not seem to mature in him any realizing sense of the intrinsic value of money, or reveal to him his own pecuniary obligations. He never seemed to question what housekeeping involved, never seemed to pause and think that certain responsibilities rested upon him alone, or feel that he might be wronging others, especially those whose services he accepted and whose embarrassments he never inquired into, never offered to relieve. But Mrs. Davis, conservative, conscientious, and true to him, did not disclose his domestic failures or discuss them with others. His financial standing was not revealed to his English friends, and remained quite a secret until the Christmas season of this year, when he was given a site for a grave in Harleigh Cemetery.
It is not unreasonable to believe that he had special designs in putting money so quietly aside, one of which—and the greatest, perhaps—was to build a family vault. It has been said that it was for this very purpose he accumulated money; hoarded, accepted and saved in the most minute of things. Thomas Bailey Aldrich often told the delightful story of a certain $9.00 which Whitman borrowed from him—magnificently, but also irrevocably—in Pfoff's restaurant on Broadway.
After he had accepted and secured the site, he spoke freely of his wishes and intentions regarding the tomb. He specified that certain members of his family should be placed in it, and requested in particular that his parents should be brought from Long Island to sleep with them there.
It was to be of granite, massive and commodious; and on a projection above the door was to be a granite statue of himself, standing. His ideas were excessive, and the expense far beyond his means; still, he may have thought that the proceeds accruing from his book would warrant an extravagance for death that he never vouchsafed to life. The tomb was begun according to his orders, but was finished on a much smaller scale—as it now stands—and just in time to lay him therein.
When it became known that preparations had been made to erect this costly mausoleum, it dawned upon some of his friends that he had a way of keeping things to himself. It certainly did seem strange that some of them should pay a monthly tax for his support when he had means of his own, and could contemplate such an expenditure as this. In truth people were getting tired of the constant drain upon their purses, and many had long questioned why they should so frequently be called upon, and wondered what could become of the money that flowed in large and small streams into the Whitman exchequer. A few even suspected Mrs. Davis of appropriating it, and of this—unknown to her—she was accused. She was also charged with wastefulness, neglect of the invalid, and gross incompetence.
The poet still kept his affairs to himself, and "it may be he thought that what he received from his admirers was but a portion of the debt they owed him." (William Sloane Kennedy.)
January and February of this winter were hard months to the sick man. He suffered with severe headaches, lassitude and inertia, added to which he had long and obstinate spells of indigestion. He remarked to some old friends that he suffered somewhat from want of persons to cheer him up; most visitors came to him to confess their own weakness and failures, and to disburden themselves of their sorrows. It was just the opposite disposition in his two constant attendants that made their companionship so agreeable to him. Warren's witty and playful sallies always provoked a quiet smile, and his mother's "inventive thoughtfulness" was rewarded with an appreciative, approving look.
During March he made some gain, but it was not until April 15 that he got out of doors to enjoy the sunshine and invigorating air. With his rides new courage came to him, and in May he was able to be taken to the cemetery to witness the progress made on the tomb. But in the last ten months of his life he was so worn by pain, and had so aged, that his restful, reliable home comforts were the dearest of all earthly things to him.
"There was one more birthday dinner celebrated with his friends in the Mickle Street house on May 31, 1891. Whitman was seventy-two. That privacy, which is the normal privilege of old age, was one of the kinds of happiness which he didn't experience."—Bliss Perry.
"Munching a little bread dipped in champagne and talking about Death. He had never been more picturesque."—Bliss Perry.
ON May 31, when Mr. Whitman had reached the age of seventy-two, his last birthday (as it proved) was celebrated by a dinner given in his own home. This arrangement was adopted as the only means of ensuring his presence, and the gathering was the final social event in that little house.
The managing committee was composed of young men, most of whom knew nothing of the limited dimensions of the place, and had not reflected upon the incongruity of their undertaking; nor, until the plans were all made, arrangements nearly completed and the invitations issued, was Mrs. Davis told what was to take place. When the youngest of the three literary executors, who had devised and was at the head of the scheme, finally informed her, she said she feared that such a thing as seating thirty-six people in the parlors was impracticable; however, she would do her best in helping them to carry out their wishes.
It was by good luck that the arrangements were in the hands of inexperienced, enthusiastic and hopeful young people, for the difficulties to be overcome would have discouraged older and more experienced folk at the outset. It was better still for them that they found a well-balanced mind, willing hands and managing skill in their home agent, as this alone saved them from ignoble failure. First the parlor doors, double and single, together with the hall and kitchen doors, secured with old-fashioned six-screw hinges, were removed and carried into the yard; the spare bed put up since Mr. Whitman's last stroke was taken down, together with the stove, and with the entire furniture likewise removed. This was literally turning the parlors inside out.
Mrs. Davis, as usual, succeeded in making a place for everything. Warren did most of the hard work and lifting, while his mother swept the rooms, cleaned the windows, put up fresh curtains and made the place so presentable that the young men of the committee, who took kindly to her encouraging words and wise suggestions, acknowledged that they did not see how they could have managed without her ready and efficient coöperation. On the morning of the birthday she was of equal service to the waiters who, when the tables, chairs and dishes arrived, discovered many drawbacks in such an unlooked-for banquet hall.
The head table was placed across the front parlor, in a line with the windows, the other, the length of the back parlor, forming a T with it; and these, with the small chairs, so completely filled the rooms that only just sufficient space was left for the waiters to serve the guests through the two doorways. Most of the viands came ready cooked, and the caterer had done full justice to them; the coffee was made on the kitchen stove, which, with the little one in the shed, was brought into requisition for heating purposes. Mrs. Davis was usefulness itself in getting things in readiness, advising with the caterer and helping him out of quandaries. When the dinner had been decided upon she had been told that it should put her to no extra work; and when she made the matter really possible she was told that she had done her part, which should end there, as the committee would attend to putting things to rights afterwards.
Getting Mr. Whitman ready, and seeing that he was in no way overtaxed, was of much importance, and it was carefully looked after. At the appointed hour, seven P. M., the guests assembled, and there being no reception room, each took his or her assigned place at the table; then, when all were seated, the venerable host was brought down. He was met with congratulations, and led to the head of the table. There were twenty-seven men and five women present, and not until the greetings were over did he and his old friends observe that Mrs. Davis had been left out. Room at the table was not wanting, as three chairs were vacant through the non-arrival of the expected occupants; besides, two of the ladies were strangers to the poet. Mrs. Davis felt the slight, although she could not very well have formed one of the company in any event, her presence being indispensable elsewhere.
It was a good dinner and well served, all things considered. The day was insufferably hot, and the windows and the front door were left wide open. Many noticed and remarked that during the dinner no loungers were about the front of the house, "no boys looking in, yelling or throwing stones or mud—no curiosity gazers. Respect for Mr. Whitman possibly prevented this." (Thomas Donaldson.) Respect for Mr. Whitman in part, no doubt, but a greater respect for a contract made beforehand; Mrs. Davis had bought them off; something good for each one of them for good conduct. She was not so successful in securing the same considerate behavior from Watch, her coach dog, for to her great mortification, just as one gentleman commenced to read "O Captain! my Captain!" he came into the parlor doorway, "put his nose up in the air and uttered a series of the most ungodly howls ever listened to." (Thomas Donaldson.) He continued to howl until the reading ceased, then abruptly left the room.
The dinner lasted until ten o'clock—three hours. A stenographer took down the toasts, responses, scraps of conversation, etc. But while these were at their height, one compliment, one little speech, was not recorded. Mr. Whitman looked around the table as if seeking something, and on being asked, "Is there anything you want, Walt?" replied, "Yes, I want a piece of Mary's bread." It was brought to him. Mr. Whitman, no doubt, feeling that Mary had been slighted, took this peculiar way of his own to show his regard for her.
The next day the tables and chairs were taken away, but the committee's promises of assistance were probably forgotten, for regardless of the poor days Mr. Whitman passed in consequence of the dinner, and his need of extra care, no help whatever was proffered and Mrs. Davis and Warren were left to right the house by degrees, working as they could.
The summer following the invalid was glad to pass quietly in his room. The heat overcame him, for he had lost all his resistant power, and truly needed the attention and care that it was his good fortune to receive. Part of the time he was up and dressed, but he seldom felt equal to more than this. His outings were few in number, the reading fell off, and the writing was nearly discontinued. However, this did not prevent the litter in his room from mysteriously increasing in the same slow, sure, steady ratio. As this did not bother him, and he was inclined to be tranquil and satisfied, no one disturbed him, or interfered in any way with his idiosyncrasies.
His world had become contracted to still smaller dimensions; the four walls of his own room enclosed it. He had relinquished his hold upon outside life with its bustle and excitement, and more than ever wished to be left alone, left to himself. He was his own best company, apparently, for he often evinced disapprobation on being roused from one of his long reveries. At intervals he would seem to be the old-time man, would rouse up and talk, even jest, after which would follow spells of depression or dreaded indigestion. In the latter case, day would succeed day when his only nourishment would be a light cup-custard or a small glass of iced buttermilk.
The fall did little for him, and there was an unmistakable and steady decline until December 17, when after a number of miserable days he was seized with a chill, the precursor of pneumonia. For a week his life hung in the balance; friends and relatives were summoned, and the best medical advice was procured. Each hour the final call seemed at hand; then came a pause, and the issue was uncertain; next there was a slight improvement.
The burden of all this fell mainly upon Warren, who was only relieved temporarily day or night by his no less worn-out mother. Believing that each day would be the last, each had held up and gone on, until on the 28th the limit of endurance was reached, and they asked for assistance. As the patient's symptoms were tending toward a protracted illness rather than a speedy death, his friends saw that this was imperative, and Dr. Bucke, who had recently arrived in Camden, went to Philadelphia to engage a professional nurse.
"Well, I told you doctors when I was so very bad, 'let me go; let me die.' I felt you would not listen to a word ... you would not think of it for a moment, and here I am.
"I chose to go. I may pull through it and have it all to go through again; it looks more so to-day than for a fortnight. You are all making a strong pull for me, I can see that."—Walt Whitman.
THE requirements in the nurse were maturity, experience in the care of sick men, and the ability to take notes and keep a careful record. Dr. Bucke engaged a suitable person, and talked freely and unreservedly to her about the patient, his physical condition and his eccentric habits. He said it was his firm belief that his life could not last more than a few days longer, and that he was confident that another such room as the one he was in, littered and uncared for, did not exist upon the face of the earth. He further said that his poor old friend had been in wretched health for some years past, that he was in no way able to look out for himself, and that he was in the hands and at the mercy of a designing and unprincipled woman,—the unrefined and ignorant widow of a sailor,—who as a housekeeper was unreliable and dishonest, and who alone was responsible for the condition in which the sick room was to be found. He added that it had been arranged that the nurse should go out to all her meals at the expense of the patient's friends; that she was to have nothing whatever to do with the housekeeper, and above all things she was not to allow her to enter the sick man's room. To put the matter to her concisely, she was, during the entire engagement, long or short as it might prove, to speak to but three persons, these being the two literary executors living in Camden, Mr. Harned and Mr. Traubel, and her own colleague, Warren Fritzinger. He told her that the first things he desired her to do were to get the sick room into order, and to begin recording the daily transactions; she must be careful to note all Mr. Whitman's words as they were uttered, and to write them down faithfully. Dr. Bucke spoke as one having full authority, and the nurse had no reason for disbelieving anything he had said. (And ever after believed that Mrs. Davis had been cruelly maligned (but by whom?) and that Dr. Bucke, who lived at a distance and saw little of his friend's home life, had been deceived and misled.) He assured her that money in abundance would be supplied for all the sick man's needs, and that it was the wish of his friends that he should have every comfort possible until the end.
By a second appointment Dr. Bucke met the nurse at the ferry, and they set out together for the dying poet's home, the Doctor, while crossing the Delaware, repeating and dwelling upon what he had previously said.
The ring at the door was answered by a pleasant, ladylike woman, between whom and the Doctor there was a show of mutual good feeling. The back parlor was given to the nurse as her room, and when she had laid her wraps aside Dr. Bucke led the way upstairs. To the relief of all Mr. Whitman had made no objections to a lady as nurse, and when she entered his room he extended his hand. A number of gentlemen were present, among them his brother George and the two literary executors, who had remained to take leave of Dr. Bucke. An artist who had just completed some etchings of the poet had sent him six complimentary copies, one of which he presented to his departing friend, at whose request he was raised up to autograph it. This, it was supposed, would be his last signature.
The prospect being that he would not only survive the night, but would pass it in comparative comfort, his friends and relatives left, excepting only his niece, Miss Jessie Whitman, the daughter of his brother Jefferson.
Poor Warren was overjoyed at the idea of going to bed, for in the last four days and nights he had had no rest, and since the chill, ten days before, had not found time to change or remove his clothing. While giving the nurse her instructions he confessed that he was completely done up, that such a siege as he had just passed through was worse than a storm at sea; nevertheless he wished and expected to be called at any moment if his services were required.
Mrs. Davis, totally unconscious of any ill feeling toward her and disposed to show every courtesy to the nurse, prepared a nice supper to which she invited her to come. What could the nurse do? No way had been opened for her to go outside to her meals—at least for the present—and no one except Dr. Bucke had mentioned such a thing; it was dark, she was in a strange city and ravenously hungry. She could not make up her mind to refuse and run off at once to seek a restaurant, especially at a time like this; could not risk leaving a patient so dangerously ill, even for a minute; nor could she desert the two weary people who were looking to her for relaxation and relief. No; she would sooner fast for the night. But fasting was not necessary; so descending the stairs, passing through the hall and running headlong into the flour barrel, she entered the little cabin-like kitchen.
Mrs. Davis was so worn out for sleep that even while standing her eyelids would close. She apologized, saying that she had been awake so many hours she was not at all herself. The nurse begged her to lie down at once, believing this weary, sad-looking woman must be a relative of her patient's, or a dear friend who had come there to bridge over the present crisis. Dr. Bucke had not mentioned the housekeeper's name, and the kindly, hospitable person who had been introduced as Mrs. Davis belied in every way the description of the sailor's unrefined widow. Besides, Warren called her mother.
The sick man required but few attentions during the night, and was so painfully still the nurse went to his bedside a number of times to assure herself that he was breathing. Warren came in twice to reconnoitre and turn him over, and when morning peeped into the window of the dull little anteroom and he found that no new complications had developed and that Mr. Whitman had not suffered from the change, he was jubilant over it.
After preparing breakfast, Mrs. Davis, as was her custom, went upstairs to sit with the patient while the others were below. She entered his room, and he—who up to this time had lain with downcast eyes, speechless, almost immovable—looked up, smiled, and exclaimed in a pleased voice, "Ah, Mary!" There was no mistaking the friendly relation between these two people, and before noon the nurse learned that the coarse housekeeper, the dreaded housekeeper, was no other than this pleasant, tired-out woman, whose kindness she appreciated because she had at once made her feel so much at home. What did the nurse think!
When Mr. Whitman was supposed to be dying, Mrs. Davis had in a way managed to meet the emergencies of the occasion; when a rubber sheet was called for, and no one offered to procure or order one, she gave her own oilcloth table cover to supply the need. When extra sheets were in demand and were not forthcoming from any quarter, she bought a piece of cloth, tore off the lengths, and was obliged to use them unlaundered and unhemmed, for even in this trying time only one person, besides her personal friends, had offered her the least assistance or inquired as to the straits to which she was put. This single exception was Mr. Whitman's sister-in-law, who had left a sick bed to come to Camden and do what she could.
When with the coming of the nurse, and cessation from immediate anxiety, Mrs. Davis found time to look around, she discovered more than an abundance of work. An enormous wash had accumulated, her boiler had given out, and damp and cloudy weather necessitated drying everything within doors. Then as the eaves trough had fallen down, and the kitchen ceiling leaked, Warren's skill in carpentering was in instant demand.
They found the nurse willing to assist in any way, and the housekeeper was delighted that she was plain spoken and matter-of-fact, and knew almost nothing of her patient as a writer; that she regarded him only as a sick and helpless old man, needing personal care, and not the adulation with which he was surfeited. Mr. Whitman himself took kindly to her, for like Mrs. Davis she never questioned him, and if she spoke at all, always touched upon the most simple, commonplace subjects.
On one occasion she ventured to say to him: "I suppose you would be disgusted with me if I told you that I had never heard of Leaves of Grass until I came here?" He laughed a little and replied: "I guess there are plenty of people in the world who can say the same. Leaves of Grass was the aim of my life. In these days and nights it is different: my mutton broth—my brandy—to be turned promptly and kept clean—are much more to me and appeal to me more deeply."
Little by little, much was accomplished; the sheets were hemmed, and the nurse with part of the small and only sum of money given to her soon had a new boiler on the stove; then when the table cover, which had become stiff, wrinkled and ruined, was replaced with a smooth rubber sheet, and a rubber ring purchased, which gave the patient great relief, and a few trifling articles secured, the money was exhausted. Mrs. George Whitman added some things to the supply, after which it fell to Mrs. Davis to resort to her own means as of old, and one by one the gold pieces—Warren's gift—melted away.
In the course of a couple of weeks the nurse learned that she was boarding at the expense of the housekeeper, and finding that no arrangements had been made to this effect she wrote to Dr. Bucke, laying the matter before him, as it had been agreed that she should write to him semi-weekly and in full confidence. In her next letter she told him of her own belief in Mrs. Davis as a most excellent woman; she enlarged upon her devotion to Mr. Whitman and his fondness for her, and expressed her great astonishment that a man of his experience could be so mistaken in anyone. In reply he wrote that he was pleased to know that he had been misled.
Mrs. Davis was much distressed in regard to the cleaning of the sick room. She feared it would make Mr. Whitman unhappy, and she felt that as his life was to end in so short a time, further indulgence might be granted him. But he was found to be not at all disposed to make objections; indeed, he was passive in the extreme, and when the nurse in any doubt or difficulty would occasionally appeal to him, he had but one reply: "Ask Mary."