Читать книгу Walt Whitman in Mickle Street - Elizabeth Leavitt Keller - Страница 14

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"I know an old story. It goes back to 1826, when a monument to Bellman, the Swedish poet, was unveiled in Stockholm. The King and Queen were there, and Bellman's old wife. And the King spoke of the dead poet, and praised him in a flight of purple phrases; but the old wife said, 'Oh yes, but if your Majesty only knew what a nuisance he was about the house. … ' But frankly, wouldn't you like to know what kind of a nuisance the poet was at home?"—Vance Thompson.

DISCOVERING so quickly that her new charge was decidedly a self-centered person, and seeing that waiting upon him promised to be her chief occupation, Mrs. Davis planned her work accordingly, and being an early riser was able to devote the untrammelled morning hours to preparations for the day.

Mr. Whitman usually arose at nine o'clock, but in this, as in all things, he consulted his own wishes alone. His breakfast hour was any time during the forenoon; and no doubt he did not understand how or why this could discommode his new housekeeper.

When the signal came—one that Mrs. Davis soon learned, three or four loud peremptory raps upon the floor above—she dropped whatever she might be doing and hastened upstairs.

Since Mr. Whitman's first stroke of paralysis, nearly twenty years before, he had become so disabled that he required much assistance while dressing, and for this he was not at all diffident in asking. Besides, he was "very curiously deliberate."

There being no water on the second floor, Mrs. Davis carried up and down all that he needed for his baths—and he used water freely. Then when fully dressed he consulted his own feelings in regard to coming downstairs.

In his mother's house in Long Island, and in his brother's in Camden, Walt had seldom taken his meals with the family. While living in Brooklyn, New Orleans and Washington, his meal times were of no importance to anyone except himself, and he could not see why this rule should not apply to his own house, or any house where he might be staying. To him regular meals were a bondage he could not endure.

Going up and down stairs was a difficult task, and after coming to the Mickle Street house he seldom did so unaided, so the old signal was repeated when he was ready to descend, and again Mrs. Davis hastened to him.

As he never would tell what he wanted until he was seated at the table, she always kept a supply of special things on hand; nothing elaborate—maybe steak, chops, oysters or eggs. He never found fault with his food, and although he did not often commend it he must have been fully appreciative, for all through his letters and conversations, as given in the various books about him, are allusions to Mary's good cooking.

Occasionally, to suit her own convenience, she would have his breakfast prepared; but if she mentioned this fact while helping him to dress he would invariably say, "Ah! I will not eat anything for awhile." When the dishes had been set aside to be kept warm, and Mary was again busily engaged—the wash perhaps partly hung on the line, or her deft hands in the dough—the peremptory signal would come, and on being helped down and seated at the table he would coolly demand something entirely different from what she had provided.

He commenced housekeeping by inviting company—lord or beggar—to dine with him, and would keep these guests at the table for hours; even "when he was eating off a dry goods box for a table, and drinking milk warmed over a coal oil lamp, and a few crackers with it, he would ask you to dine, with the dignity of a prince, and never apologize or mention the food." (Thomas Donaldson.)

A biographer (Horace Traubel) says, "He was very simple in his tastes, taking only two meals in a day." True; but the day was nearly consumed in getting and serving these two meals, with the after work that followed. To Mrs. Davis's surprise he did not hesitate to entertain visitors in his sleeping room if they arrived while he was there, and many of them would remain until "the wee sma' hours." There was a charm in fellowship with him, and ill and lethargic as he had grown, it was said: "Walt Whitman's friends rarely visited him without having a good laugh over something or other"; and "gifted with a clear resonant voice, the poet often gratifies his friends as he sits by a blazing wood fire—which is his delight—singing old-fashioned songs."

It was this irregularity that had worn upon his sister-in-law, for during the years in which she had endured Walt's thoughtlessness, she had had the care of Edward, the irresponsible, feeble-minded brother; and when, by the doctor's advice, she left Camden for the country, the home was tendered to Walt with this option: he was to conform to their way of living and cease turning night into day.

He did indeed have "runs of luck" after 1884, and who can deny that the greatest of these was in securing the undivided attention of a warm-hearted, unselfish woman, and in her making it possible for him to live untrammelled, in his own home? Surely the tide turned when this good woman ceased to be an independent being and became the strong prop on which he leaned; a shield between him and all annoyances.

While perplexed with settling the house, and having no time to go over the same ground twice, although the condition of the parlors troubled her, Mrs. Davis had let them go, awaiting a favorable time to clean and regulate them thoroughly. This opportunity came in the summer, during the first of Mr. Whitman's temporary absences.

Since he had been in his own house, old friends had occasionally called to take him to spend the day with them. This time he was asked to remain a week. He gladly availed himself of the change, and his housekeeper was no less pleased to have a week to herself. In it she did her best to restore order, and when she had finished was really proud of the improvement she had effected.

Mr. Whitman returned. He at once discovered what had taken place during his absence, and his consternation knew no bounds! He said that he had left everything exactly as he wished it to remain; where he could find it; now the very things he needed most were gone; in fact he could find nothing he wanted, and in the future he forbade anyone to meddle with his private property; he desired and expected to find—at all times and upon all occasions—his personal matters unmolested, undisturbed, left entirely alone.

Mrs. Davis mildly replied that she had only taken from the room some useless papers, scraps of letters, old envelopes, bits of twine and wrapping paper.

He declared that these were the very things he needed most; the ones he specially missed.

She remonstrated, but to no purpose; he silenced her; just how, she could not comprehend.

To Walt Whitman's credit be it said, he never spoke an unkind word to Mrs. Davis; never was arrogant or overbearing to her; never belittled her or put her down before others; always treated her as an equal; relied upon her judgment and often sought her advice;—but he would have his own way, and she with her yielding nature soon gave in; the struggle was only a short one; before winter commenced, confusion once more reigned.

In due time piles of periodicals were stacked on the table and on chairs; newspapers, letters, envelopes and bundles of manuscript were in the corners; and as he had immediately set about the work he had so greatly at heart, cuttings, rejected scraps of paper and general litter soon covered the floor, the confusion gradually making its way into the next room and threatening to invade the hall.

The front parlor became a veritable editor's sanctum; nothing but the smell of printer's ink and the sound of the press were wanting.

Some of his poems he altered and revised again and again, and in a short time the large waste basket Mary had placed in the room was filled to overflowing. As he would not allow her to remove or empty the basket, it became the foundation of a hillock of débris. Sometimes when he seemed off-guard she would surreptitiously remove a few dust pans full, but he was not deceived, and even this she had to discontinue.

The first summer and fall in his own house were decidedly pleasant and beneficial to Mr. Whitman. He worked as he felt able or inclined; was encouraged with the progress he was making, and gratified with the prospect before him. He believed, and must have seen, that situated so advantageously the one desire of his life was to be consummated, and that even though it were to be accomplished in a slow way, he would live to see his book completed and in a form to meet his most sanguine wishes.

Visitors retarded his work, but this was no real detriment, nor did he feel the time lost that he spent in returning visits. Making over the old material and adding to it the poems he had composed since the issue of the last edition, was something he could lay down and take up at any time. And he certainly did enjoy agreeable company, delighting whole-heartedly in their companionship as he dispensed the hospitality of his own board.

By degrees Mrs. Davis accustomed herself to her new surroundings and was no longer astonished at any of Walt's remarkable ways or unreasonable requests; besides, she remembered that the step she had taken was after all self-imposed, that all her friends had protested, and that it was now irrevocable; so with good sense and in good time she became, if not fully reconciled, at least resigned. She didn't exactly regret coming to Mickle Street, but she could judge from the few months she had passed there what the years to come might bring; yet even with this outlook she resolved not to shrink from but bravely to face the future, whatever might betide; and so unconsciously she transferred to Walt Whitman the devotion she had given to others.

She seldom left the house when he was there alone, for with that enigmatical instinct chronic patients develop he knew, and always wanted something, whenever she was busiest or on a momentary absence. Therefore after awhile she put all other considerations aside, and gave her full energies to the work she had undertaken; individual wishes were surrendered as she strove to adjust her ways to the erratic ones of the old man; familiar customs were discarded and former friends neglected. She seemed almost to lose her personality and to become a part of the house and the peculiar life lived there.

She was never obtrusive, and did all things in a quiet manner. If company lingered until midnight she remained up to assist her charge to bed; she humored his vagaries, and always had a smile and a pleasant word for him. When he was inclined to be despondent, she cheered him; when he was in pain, she had some simple remedy at hand; when he was in danger of overtaxing his strength, she gently cautioned him; and if the disorder of his rooms troubled her, she did not let him guess how much.

At first she supposed he was not in a position to purchase new clothing, and did her best to make him presentable in what he had, while she patiently awaited the time when the expected money should come in; and through her efficiency in washing, darning, patching and mending he soon presented a much improved appearance, often commented on.

His brother, his good sister-in-law, his other relatives and all his friends rested in peace. They knew the hands he was in, the shoulders upon which the burden had fallen.