Part 5

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.

XI

A SHOCK, AND SOME CHANGES

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

"_Yes, good, square--tip-top--devoted to me. Behind all she has 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.