Chapter XX: Conclusion 187 (3)

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.

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.

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.

XIV

FRIENDS, MONEY, AND A MAUSOLEUM

"_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.