Part 6

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.

XII

ANCHORED

"_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.

XIII

WARREN FRITZINGER

"_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.