Walt Whitman in Mickle Street Part 10

Mr. Whitman did not know that the nurse kept an account of his words, or wrote anything whatever regarding him; for of all things he disliked, the worst was to feel that there was someone at hand or just out of sight with pencil and paper in readiness for instant use.

One day Warren told him that his brother Harry's Christmas present was a little boy that he had named for him: Walt Whitman Fritzinger. This pleased the sick man, and he expressed a wish to see his little namesake. The child was kept in readiness for a week; then early one evening, when Mr. Whitman was feeling better than usual, he was sent for. His nurse brought him over, carried him into the sick room and laid him in the arms of the old man, who kissed the little fellow, held him a few minutes and repeated a number of times: "Well, well, Little Walt Whitman, Little Walt Whitman." There were present the child's mother and nurse, Mrs. Davis, Warren, and Mrs. Keller, Mr. Whitman's nurse. He never saw the child again, but often inquired after him, and added a codicil to his will bequeathing him two hundred dollars. (My name is on the codicil as witness to the signature.--E. L. K.)

The invalid had never bought himself a new mattress, and the one given him by Mrs. Davis seven years before--too wide for the bedstead and extending several inches beyond it at the back--had from long and constant usage become hollow in the centre, making it difficult to turn him from one side to the other, for he would often slip back into the hollow place. Warren once said: "When I come on this side of the bed you slip away from me." "Ah, Warry," he replied, "one of these fine mornings I shall slip away from you forever."

One evening a member of the editorial staff of the New York _Evening Telegram_ visited him. Mr. Whitman knew that he was coming, and had made up a little roll of his writings to give him. (Mr. Traubel always made these engagements, met the parties and accompanied them to the house.) Upon leaving, the gentleman said that the paper had raised a fund wherewith to purchase flowers for the poet's room. Afterwards learning that the defective lung made the fragrance of flowers stifling to him, the paper requested that the money be applied in some other way. Mrs.

Davis suggested a longer bed and a firm, level mattress. This was agreed to, the money came duly to hand, and the two nurses went together to select the bed. The one decided upon was a single one, made of oak and standing at least three inches higher than the old one; the mattress was of sea-gra.s.s. When the useful gift, which was a surprise to Mr. Whitman, arrived and was being set up--February 22, 1892--Walt was seated for the last time in his big chair.

Warren said it would be a pity to have this bedstead battered up as the old one had been--for the old man still kept his cane within reach and often pounded upon the footboard; so he rigged up a bell in the anteroom, and carried the wire over the door and into the sick room, where a drop string came down to the bed. Mr. Whitman found this an easier way of summoning aid; it was the "quaint bell" mentioned by two or three writers.

When the patient was settled on the new bed, he looked at Mrs. Davis and said: "You can have the old one, Mary."

The _Evening Telegram_ gift was a great acquisition, and it is to be regretted, for the sake both of the invalid and those who waited upon him, that it did not come in some way years before.

XVII

"s.h.i.+FT, WARRY"

"_Come, lovely and soothing death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later, delicate death._"

--WALT WHITMAN.

"_She was his loyal friend and nurse. She stood by him in life, and closed his eyes in death._"--THOMAS DONALDSON.

In January, when Mr. Whitman first rallied, wrote the few short letters and autographed the pictures, his friends were much encouraged; but subsequent sinking spells destroyed their hopes, and his extremely low condition led them to believe that he would wield his pen no more. In his poor days scarcely a word was spoken in the house, and his three nurses worked silently, almost mechanically, about him. Then with another temporary reaction, hopes were again renewed and a change in everything was manifest; even the dull little anteroom seemed brighter.

On February 5, he had so far regained his strength as to request writing materials. His old way of writing in bed was to be firmly propped up, with a pillow before him on which to rest a light smooth-covered book.

Now he was too weak to hold the book, and although well supported at the back he found it an almost insurmountable task to indite even a few words. Mrs. Davis believed he could do much better were something devised on which the paper before him could rest firmly. She was equal to the occasion, for going to a young artist and teacher of painting (a young lady named Miss b.u.t.ton) next door she procured a drawing board, to which she had legs attached,--two short stationary ones in front, and two longer at the back, fastened with hinges--thus making it adjustable to almost any angle. The invention worked well, and the next day, when he again requested pen and ink, it was placed before him. He was surprised and pleased, and all he could say was, "Just the thing; just the thing"; then looking at the nurse he added: "_That's Mary_; that's Mary; just the right thing at the right time." Not Mary the efficient housekeeper or capable manager, but just the right woman in the right place.

It was on this board that Walt Whitman's last words were inscribed.

His book, which had been completed, was out of the press, and a few copies had been hurried through that he might see the work as it would go out into the world. Mr. D. McKay, his publisher, brought them over one evening, and the dying poet expressed to him the great satisfaction he felt at the manner in which the edition had been produced. He asked to have fifty copies bound at once in Manila paper covers, that he might give or send them to certain friends. This was done; he designated the people who were to receive them, and Mr. Traubel attended to the inscriptions. The last thing Walt wrote for printing was a notice in regard to this edition. His writing board was of the greatest service to him in accomplis.h.i.+ng this task; without it, not only this notice, but his last written words to his friends at large, his farewell Greeting or Salutation, would never have been written.

When he had completed the notice, making numerous alterations until he seemed satisfied, he called for Mrs. Davis, who on coming into the room held a secret "confab" with him, after which she got ready and left the house. The following afternoon she again left the house and on her return handed Walt a printed proof. In this, as of old, he made some corrections, and it was again taken out and again called for. These were Mary's last visits to the "quaint little printing office," and the "old fellow acquaintance's" last acts of kindness to his dying patron.

In the two days intervening between the writing of this notice and its ultimate approval, Walt wrote his last words to all--the final Greeting just mentioned to his friends at large. He wrote it himself on post office paper, and when he had covered one piece, he called for mucilage with which to add a second. He had measured the little printed slip, and had left a s.p.a.ce for it. He worked intently until the task was completed. His tendency to recline backward made it difficult for him to use the pen properly, therefore Mrs. Davis or the nurse usually sat behind him, and by leaning forward and holding him in her arms supported him in a more comfortable and convenient position. While one a.s.sisted him in this way, the other held the inkstand near him, as he could no longer reach it from its accustomed place, the chair beside his bed.

When the Greeting was finished, the printed notice was pasted in its place. The original writing was sent to Mr. Bolton of England, with the request that he would have it facsimiled and distributed amongst all Walt's friends. Here is the letter Horace Traubel wrote conveying the poet's wishes.

CAMDEN, N. J., February 8th, 1892

"W. asked me this ev'g to give you this counsel.--'If entirely convenient, facsimile the letter of February 6th, and send it copiously to European and American friends and friends anywhere,'--letting us have copies here as well. It was a great struggle to get this letter written and he wishes it to go out as his general salutation of friends to whom his strength will not permit him specially to write. It was framed with that end in view."

The request was promptly complied with and an exact reproduction was made, even to the use of two pieces of paper pasted together, as in the original. The desired copies arrived before Walt's death, and he gave or sent them to his friends, as he had done with the author's copies of his book. He evinced much interest in doing this, and kindly presented his nurses with both a facsimile and a book.

As may be supposed, everyone was on the alert to secure his last signature, and the nurse, who had the advantage of being on the spot when he was able to write, had this honor. Selecting one of the numerous photographs with which his room abounded--she subsequently learned that this was his own favorite ("_Mr. Whitman was not vain as to pictures of himself. He seemed to like best the photograph showing him sitting in a chair with a b.u.t.terfly in his hand._"--_Thomas Donaldson_)--she kept it near his bed, and when the watched-for opportunity came, one morning after he had signed some papers and had written a kindly word to his sister (Mrs. Heyde of Burlington, Vt.), while she sat behind him as a support, she reached for it, telling him that she would like to own it, and hoped if he were not too fatigued he would autograph it for her. He willingly complied, saying: "Yes, for you; but I would do it for no one else." (I gave this picture, with feelings of grat.i.tude for kindness shown me, to Dr. Lucien Howe, of Buffalo, New York.--E. L. K.) The signature was written with a blue pencil, as he had now discarded ink.

Only once again did he sign his name in full, and this was in a business doc.u.ment. He used simply his initials in his last effort to write to his sister.

Unhappily, a change of care was in prospect, for Mrs. Keller was to leave him the second week in March, in consequence of an engagement previously made. She had mentioned this to Dr. Bucke, who had a.s.sured her that it could not possibly conflict with his friend's case. But when the sick man lingered until late in February, it was seen that some steps must be taken. And yet his span of life was so uncertain, that even at this late day it was deemed wiser not to mention the subject to him until it could no longer be postponed. The matter was talked over between his executors, his sister-in-law and the doctors, and all agreed that under the circ.u.mstances a stranger in the house would not be desirable. Mrs. Davis in particular dreaded it, and had made provision against it. The friend who had before kept house for her, while she made her trip to Southern California, was to come again to do the housework, so that her own undivided time and attention might be given to the dying man.

The nurse left on March 8. From this time on Mr. Whitman grew more and more uneasy in bed, and as he could now lie upon his left side but a few moments at a time, he required almost constant turning; and for eighteen days and nights his two faithful attendants did this. A water bed was bought for him; he only had the comfort of it for a single night.

"March 25, 1.15 A. M., 1892.--We put him on the water bed at twelve o'clock. I have turned him twice since, and I can a.s.sure you from present indications if it does the old man no good, it will us. He turns just as easy again; can turn him with one hand, and then it does away with the ring. He was turned sixty-three times in the last twenty-four hours; how is that for business? Kind of beats when you were here....

Mama has one of her old headaches, has had it since yesterday, but hopes to be clear of it by morning.... We had a run of visitors to-day, and the old gent had four letters in the morning mail, of which three were applications for autographs." (_Extracts from Warren's letter to Mrs.

Keller._)

His last days were a repet.i.tion of the preceding ones; a flaring up of the torch, and a dying down; a fainter flare, and a gentle going out.

On the evening of March 26 a little card was printed and widely circulated.

Camden, N. J., March 26, '92.

Whitman began sinking at 4.30 P. M. He continued to grow worse and died at 6.43 P. M. The end came peacefully. He was conscious until the last.

There were present at the bedside when he died--Mrs. Davis, Warren Fritzinger, Thos. B. Harned, Horace L. Trauble and myself.

Alex. McAlister, M. D.

This young physician saw much of Mr. Whitman during the last three months of his life, and his faithful services were given without price.

The evening previous to his death Mr. Whitman requested to see Mr.

Donaldson, the trusted friend who had done so much to make his home life a success. He came at once, and they had a long last interview. Mrs.

Davis promised to notify him if the patient grew worse, and the next day at three P. M. she wrote for him to come, saying that Mr. Whitman was surely "slipping away" from them. He died before his friend reached the house. His last words were addressed to his faithful "sailor boy": "s.h.i.+ft, Warry." It was the time for the final turn, from life into death. Mrs. Davis closed his eyes.

XVIII

WINDING UP

"_... the grand old man whose kindly face we never shall forget._"--DR. ALEX. MCALISTER (_In a letter to Mrs. Keller_).

"_These promises are fair, the parties sure._"

--SHAKESPEARE (_I King Henry IV_).

On the morrow the little parlors were again cleared--this time to make room for a coffin--and Walt Whitman, at last free from pain, was brought downstairs. An artist was in waiting to take a cast of his face, and later a post-mortem was held. Mrs. Davis thought the latter something dreadful, believing as she did that it was either prompted by curiosity or was done simply for the sake of a newspaper article. When all preliminaries were over, the poet, clothed in his accustomed style, was laid in his coffin. This, of heavy oak, was placed in the centre of one room, and all through the afternoon friends and acquaintances came to see him. The following day the public was admitted, and thousands thronged in to look at the familiar form and face: that placid face, telling that the long sought-for rest was at last attained. People entered through one parlor door, then pa.s.sing around the coffin left by the other.

During the morning Mrs. Davis made a hurried run to Philadelphia to procure some needful things for the funeral, and on her return was surprised and horrified to find that during her absence a load of empty barrels had arrived, and that into these the literary executors--Dr.

Bucke having arrived the night before--were hastily packing all the movable contents of the two upper rooms. This, to her, heartless expediency was more than she could bear, and going upstairs she asked why Mr. Whitman's things might not remain undisturbed until after he was buried. Dr. Bucke told her curtly that his own time was limited, and it was not convenient for _him_. Overcome with grief, she sought her own room. She knew that Mr. Whitman's literary effects belonged legally to his executors, but she felt that his home was sacred to him while he remained in it. The barrels containing his writings and some articles coming under the head of personal property, such as books, pictures, his knapsack, the inkstand Mrs. Davis had bought for him while on her journey, and by him returned to her, etc., were taken from the house while he, the owner, lay there sleeping in his coffin.

Of Walt Whitman's funeral much has been said and written. It was arranged and conducted by friends, and was attended by many celebrated people. Warren was sick and worn out, but kept up bravely and was at everybody's bid and "on deck" throughout all; then he was obliged to yield to a heavy cold and utter exhaustion. Mrs. Davis was little better off, but was able to be around.