THE GENERAL RECEIVES THE VISIT OF A PRIEST.
In March he revived a little, and Mr. Tudor no longer denied me hope; on the 18th Alex came to our arms and gratulations on his fellowship; which gave to his dearest father a delight the most touching.
I have no Diary in his honoured hand to guide my narrative in April; a few words only he ever wrote more, and these, after speaking of his sufferings, end with "Pazienza!
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Pazienza!"—such was his last written expression! 'Tis on the 5th of April. . . .
On the 3rd of May he reaped, I humbly trust, the fair fruit of that faith and patience he so pathetically implored and so beautifully practised.
At this critical period in April I was called down one day to Madame la Marquise de S-, who urged me to summon a priest of the Roman catholic persuasion to my precious sufferer. I was greatly disturbed every way; I felt in shuddering the danger she apprehended, and resisted its belief; yet I trembled lest I should be doing wrong. I was a protestant, and had no faith in confession to man. I had long had reason to believe that my beloved partner was a protestant, also, in his heart ; but he had a horror of apostasy, and therefore, as he told me, would not investigate the differences of the two religions; he had besides a tie which to his honour and character was potent and persuasive; he had taken an oath to keep the catholic faith when he received his Croix de St. Louis, which was at a period when the preference of the simplicity of protestantism was not apparent to him. All this made me personally easy for him, yet, as this was not known, and as nothing definite had ever passed between us upon this delicate subject, I felt that he apparently belonged still to the Roman catholic church; and after many painful struggles I thought it my absolute duty to let him judge for himself, even at the risk of inspiring the alarm I so much sought to save him! . . . I compelled myself therefore to tell him the wish of Madame de S-, that he should see a priest. "Eh bien," he cried, gently yet readily, "je ne m'y oppose pas. Qu'en penses tu?" I begged to leave such a decision wholly to himself.
Never shall I forget the heavenly composure with which my beloved partner heard me announce that the priest, Dr. Elloi, was come. Cheerfully as I urged myself to name him, still he could but regard the visit as an invitation to make his last preparations for quitting mortal life. With a calm the most gentle and genuine, he said he had better be left alone with him, and they remained together, I believe, three hours. I was deeply disturbed that my poor patient should be so long without sustenance or medicine - but I durst not intrude, though anxiously I kept at hand in case of any sudden summons. When, at length, the priest re-appeared, I found Page 430
my dearest invalid as placid as before this ceremony, though fully convinced it was meant as the annunciation of his expected and approaching departure.
THE LAST SACRAMENT ADMINISTERED.
Dr. Elloi now came not only every day, but almost every hour of the day, to obtain another interview; but my beloved, though pleased that the meeting had taken place, expressed no desire for its repetition. I was cruelly distressed ; the fear of doing wrong has been always the leading principle of my internal guidance, and here I felt incompetent to judge what was right. Overpowered, therefore, by my own inability to settle that point, and my terror lest I should mistake it, I ceased to resist ; and Dr. Elloi, while my patient was sleeping from opium, glided into his chamber, and knelt down by the bedside with his prayer book in his hand. Two hours this lasted; but when the doctor informed me he had obtained the general's promise that he should administer to him the last sacrament, the preparations were made accordingly, and I only entreated leave to be present.
This solemn communion, at which I have never in our own church attended with unmoistened eyes, was administered the same evening. The dear invalid was in bed: his head raised with difficulty, he went through this ceremony with spirits calm, and a countenance and voice of holy composure.
FAREWELL WORDS OF COUNSEL.
Thenceforth he talked openly, and almost solely, of his approaching dissolution, and prepared for it by much silent mental prayer. He also poured forth his soul in counsel for Alexander and myself. I now dared no longer oppose to him my hopes of his recovery - the season was too awful. I heard him only with deluges of long-restrained tears, and his generous spirit seemed better satisfied in thinking me now —awakened to a sense of his danger, as preparatory for supporting its consequence.
"Parle de moi." He said, afterwards, "Parle—et souvent. Surtout
Ò Alexandre; qu'il ne m'oublie pas!"(325)
"Je ne parlerai pas d'autre chose!"(326) I answered . . . and
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I felt his tender purpose. He knew how I forbore ever to speak of my lost darling sister, and he thought the constraint injurious both to my health and spirits : he wished to change my mode with regard to himself by an injunction of his own. "Nous ne parlerons pas d'autre chose!" I added, "mon ami!—mon ami!—je ne survivrai que pour cela!"(327) He looked pleased, and with a calm that taught me to repress my too great emotion.
He then asked for Alexander, embraced him warmly, and half raising himself with a strength that had seemed extinct but the day before, he took a hand of Alexander and one of mine, and putting them together between both his own, he tenderly pressed them, exclaiming, "How happy I am! I fear I am too happy!"
Kindest of human hearts! His happiness was in seeing us together ere he left us his fear was lest he should too keenly regret the quitting us!
At this time he saw for a few minutes my dear sister Esther and her Maria, who had always been a great favourite with him. When they retired, he called upon me to bow my knees as he dropped upon his own, that he might receive, he said, my benediction, and that we might fervently and solemnly join in prayer to Almighty God for each other. He then consigned himself to uninterrupted meditation : he told me not to utter one word to him, even of reply, beyond the most laconic necessity. He desired that when I brought him his medicine or nutriment, I would give it without speech and instantly retire; and take care that no human being addressed or approached him. This awful command lasted unbroken during the rest of the evening, the whole of the night, and nearly the following day. So concentrated in himself he desired to be!—yet always as free from irritation as from despondence— always gentle and kind even when taciturn, and even when in torture.
When the term of his meditative seclusion seemed to be over, I found him speaking with Alexander, and pouring into the bosom of his weeping son the balm of parental counsel and comfort. I received at this time a letter from my affectionate sister Charlotte, pressing for leave to come and aid me to nurse my dearest invalid. He took the letter and pressed it to his lips, saying, "Je l'aime bien; dis le lui. Et
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elle M'aime."(328) But I felt that she could do me no good. We had a nurse whose skill made her services a real blessing ; and for myself, woe, such as he believed approaching, surpassed all aid but from prayer and from heaven—lonely meditation.
When the morning dawned, he ordered Payne to open the shutters and to undraw the curtains. The prospect from the windows facing his bed was picturesque, lively, lovely: he looked at it with a bright smile of admiration, and cast his arm over his noble brow, as if hailing one more return of day' and light, and life with those he loved. But when, in the course of the day, something broke from me of my reverence at his heavenly resignation, "Rsign?" he repeated, with a melancholy half smile; "mais comme ah!" and then in a voice of tenderness the most touching, he added, "Te quitter!" I dare not, even yet, hang upon my emotion at those words!
That night passed in tolerable tranquillity, and without alarm, his pulse still always equal and good, though smaller. On Sunday, the fatal 3rd of May, my patient was still cheerful, and slept often, but not long. This circumstance was delightful to my observation, and kept off the least suspicion that my misery could be so near.
THE END ARRIVES.
My pen lingers now!-reluctant to finish the little that remains.
About noon, gently awaking from a slumber, he called to me for some beverage, but was weaker than usual, and could not hold the cup. I moistened his lips with a spoon several times. He looked at me with sweetness inexpressible, and pathetically said, "Qui?" He stopped, but I saw he meant "Who shall return this for you?" I instantly answered to his obvious and most touching meaning, by a cheerful exclamation of "You! my dearest ami! You yourself! You shall recover, and take your revenge." He smiled, but shut his eyes in silence. After this, he bent forward, as he was supported nearly upright by pillows in his bed, and taking my hand, and holding it between both his own, he impressively said, "Je ne sais si
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ce sera le dernier mot—mais ce sera la dernire pense—notre runion!"(329) Oh, words the most precious that ever the tenderest of husbands left for balm to the lacerated heart of a surviving wife! I fastened my lips on his loved hands, but spoke not. It was not then that those words were my blessing! They awed—they thrilled—more than they solaced me. How little knew I then that he should speak to me no more !
Towards evening I sat watching in my arm-chair, and Alex remained constantly with me. His sleep was so calm, that an hour passed in which I indulged the hope that a favourable crisis was arriving; that a turn would take place by which his vital powers would be restored; but when the hour was succeeded by another hour, when I saw a universal stillness in the whole frame, such as seemed to stagnate all around, I began to be strangely moved. "Alex!" I whispered, "this sleep is critical! a crisis arrives! Pray God— Almighty God!—that it be fav—." I could not proceed. Alex looked aghast, but firm. I sent him to call Payne. I intimated to her my opinion that this sleep was important, but kept a composure astonishing, for when no one would give me encouragement, I compelled myself to appear not to want it, to deter them from giving me despair. Another hour passed of concentrated feelings, of breathless dread.
His face had still its unruffled serenity, but methought the hands were turning cold; I covered them - -I watched over the head of my beloved; I took new flannel to roll over his feet; the stillness grew more awful; the skin became colder.
Alex, my dear Alex, proposed calling in Mr. Tudor, and ran off for him.
I leant over him now with sal volatile to his temple, his forehead, the palms of his hands, but I had no courage to feel his pulse, to touch his lips.
Mr. Tudor came - he put his hand upon the heart, the noblest of hearts, and pronounced that all was over!
How I bore this is still marvellous to me! I had always believed such a sentence would at once have killed me. But his sight—the sight of his stillness, kept me from distraction! Sacred he appeared, and his stillness I thought should be mine, and be inviolable.
I suffered certainly a partial derangement, for I cannot to this moment recollect anything that now succeeded, with truth
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or consistency; my memory paints things that were necessarily real, joined to others that could not possibly have happened, yet so amalgamates the whole together as to render it impossible for me to separate truth from indefinable, unaccountable fiction.
Even to this instant I always see the room itself charged with a medley of silent and strange figures grouped against the wall just opposite to me, Mr. Tudor, methought, was come to drag me by force away; and in this persuasion, which was false, I remember supplicating him to grant me but one hour, telling him I had solemnly engaged myself to pass it in watching. . . .
But why go back to my grief? Even yet, at times, it seems as fresh as ever, and at all times weighs on me with a feeling that seems stagnating the springs of life. But for Alexander ,our Alexander!—I think I could hardly have survived. His tender sympathy, with his claims to my love, and the solemn injunctions given me to preserve for him, and devote to him, my remnant of life—these, through the Divine mercy, sustained me.
May that mercy, with its best blessings, daily increase his resemblance to his noble father.
March 20, 1820. (288) M. d'Arblay, who was, it appears, still lame (boiteux) from the kick which he had received from a horse.-ED,
(289) Half-pay.
(290) The Comte de Narbonne and Comte F. de la Tour Maubourg.
(291) He had studied mathematics in Paris according to the analytical method, instead of the geometrical, which was at that time exclusively taught at Cambridge.
(292) See infra, p. 387-8.-ED.
(293) It is not without pain that we find Fanny, in this letter defending the harsh treatment accorded by the Bourbon king to Lavalette and others of the partisans of the emperor. Lavalette had served Napoleon both as soldier and diplomatist. At the restoration of the Bourbons in 1814 he retired from public life, but on the return of Napoleon he again entered the service of his old master. He was arrested after the downfall of the emperor, tried for treason, and condemned to death. His wife implored the king's mercy in vain, Lavalette was confined in the Conciergerie, and December 21, 1815, was the day fixed for his execution. The evening before that day his wife visited him in the prison. He exchanged clothes with her, and thus disguised, succeeded in making his escape. His safety was secured by three English gentlemen, one of whom, Sir Robert Wilson, conveyed Lavalette, in the disguise of an English officer, across the Belgian frontier. For this generous act the three Englishmen were tried in Paris, and sentenced, each, to three months' imprisonment.-ED. (294) At the sale of the collection, formed by Mr. Thrale, of portraits of his distinguished friends, painted by one of the most distinguished of them-Sir Joshua Reynolds. The collection comprised portraits of Johnson, Burke, Dr. Burney, Reynolds, etc. Reynolds painted two portraits of Johnson for Mr. Thrale. That referred to by Fanny is probably the magnificent portrait painted about 1773, and now in the National Gallery, for which Thrale paid thirty-five guineas.-ED.
(295) "His wife and son."
(296) M. d'Arblay had been promoted by Louis XVIII. to the rank of Lieutenant-General.-ED.
(297) "Certainly, and very certainly, my dearest, your beautiful strictures upon the knowledge and the customs of the world would have given another current to my ideas."
(298) "For the future."
(299) "He is still but a child."
(300) "That is not our case." (301) "Will be quite another thing; but I think you are mistaken."
(302) This paragon of perfection, then, was an actual person, whom General d'Arblay was thinking of as a wife for his son!-ED.
(303) Self-love.
(304) Wounded. (305) Esther Burney.-ED.
(306) Volumes of plays.-ED.
(307) Stove.
(308) "Make short work."
(309) "Gloomy discouragement."
(310) "Apathy."
(311) "You are quite mistaken."
(312) "You give it up, don't you?"
(313) An interesting and humorous novel by the Rev. Richard Graves, the friend of Shenstone.-ED.
(314) Blue stockings.
(315) "So to speak."
(316) The Princess Charlotte, only child of the prince and princess of Wales, was married at the age of twenty (May 2, 1816) to Prince Leopold of SaxeCoburg. On the 5th of November, 1817, she was delivered of a still-born child, and died a few hours later.-ED. (317) "I have never loved life so much! Never, never has life been dearer to me!"
(318) "How I admire your courage!"
(319) "I should like us to talk of all that with calmness,— mildly,—even cheerfully."
(320) "Never have I so much loved life as now that I am in so great danger of losing it ; notwithstanding that I have no fever, nor is my head in the least affected ; and not only is my mine] clear, but my heart perfectly at ease. God's will be done! I await the result of a consultation this evening or to-morrow."
(321) "Of his unheard-of sufferings."
(322) "What a strange malady! and what a position is mine! there is one perhaps more grievous yet, that of my unhappy companion— with what tenderness she cares for me! and with what courage she bears what she has to suffer! I can only repeat, God's will be done!"
(323) "February 20. I feel that I am getting horribly weak—I do not think this can last much longer." (324) "Well, I have no objection. What do you think of it?"
(325) "Speak of me! Speak—and often. Especially to Alexander; that he may not forget me!"
(326) "I shall speak of nothing else!"
(327) "We shall speak of nothing else! my dear!—my dear!—I shall survive only for that!"
(328) "I love her well; tell her so. And she loves me."
(329) "I do not know if this will be my last word—but it will be my last thought—our reunion."
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SECTION 27.
(1818-40)
YEARS OF WIDOWHOOD. DEATH OF MADAME D'ARBLAY'S SON. HER OWN DEATH.
(Extracts from Pocket-book Diary.)
MOURNFUL REFLECTIONS.
May 17, 1818. This melancholy second Sunday since My irreparable loss I ventured to church. I hoped it might calm my mind and subject it to its new state—its lost—lost happiness. But I suffered inexpressibly; I sunk on my knees, and could scarcely contain my sorrows—scarcely rise any more! but I prayed—fervently—and I am glad I made the trial, however severe. Oh mon ami! mon tendre ami! if you looked down! if that be permitted, how benignly will you wish my participation in your blessed relief!
Sunday, May 31.-This was the fourth Sunday passed since I have seen and heard and been blessed with the presence of my angel husband. Oh loved and honoured daily more and more! Yet how can that be? No! even now, in this cruel hour of regret and mourning it cannot be! for love and honour could rise no higher than mine have risen long, long since, in my happiest days.
June 3.-This day, this 3rd of June, completes a calendar month since I lost the beloved object of all my tenderest affections, and all my views and hopes and even ideas of happiness on earth. . . .
June 7.-The fifth sad Sunday this of earthly separation! oh heavy, heavy parting! I went again to church. I think
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it right, and I find it rather consolatory-rather only, for the effort against sudden risings of violent grief at peculiar passages almost destroys me; and no prayers do me the service I receive from those I continually offer up in our apartment by the side of the bed on which he breathed forth his last blessing. Oh words for ever dear! for ever balsamic! "Je ne sais si ce sera le dernier mot—mais ce sera bien la dernire pense—notre runion."
VISITS RECEIVED AND LETTERS PENNED.
June 18.-My oldest friend to my knowledge living, Mrs. Frances Bowdler, made a point of admission this morning, and stayed with me two hours. She was friendly and good, and is ever sensible and deeply clever. Could I enjoy any society, she would enliven and enlighten it, but I now can only enjoy sympathy!—sympathy and pity!
Alex and I had both letters from M. de Lafayette.
June 23.-To-day I have written my first letter since my annihilated happiness-to my tenderly sympathising Charlotte. I covet a junction with that dear and partial sister for ending together our latter days. I hope we shall bring it to bear.
With Alex read part of St. Luke.
June 29.-To-day I sent a letter, long in writing and painfully finished, to my own dear Madame de Maisonneuve. She will be glad to see my hand, grieved as she will be at what it has written.
With Alex read part of St. Luke.
June 30-I wrote—with many sad struggles—to Madame Beckersdorff, my respectful devoirs to her majesty, with the melancholy apology for my silence during the royal nuptials of the Dukes of Clarence, Kent, and Cambridge; and upon the departure of dear Princess Eliza,' and upon her majesty's so frequent and alarming attacks of ill health.
With Alex read the Acts of the Apostles. . . .
July 8.-I have given to Alex the decision of where we shall dwell. Unhappy myself everywhere, why not leave unshackled his dawning life? To quit Bath—unhappy Bath!—he had long desired: and, finally, he has fixed his choice in the very capital itself. I cannot hesitate to oblige him.
August 28.-My admirable old friend, Mrs. Frances
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Bowdler, spent the afternoon with me. Probably we shall meet no more but judiciously, as suits her enlightened understanding, and kindly, as accords with her long partiality,- she forbore any hint on that point. Yet her eyes swam in tears, not ordinary to her, when she bade me adieu.
August 30.-The seventeenth week's sun rises on my deplorable change! A very kind, cordial, brotherly letter arrives from my dear James. An idea of comfort begins to steal its way to my mind, in renewing my intercourse with this worthy brother, who feels for me, I see, with sincerity and affection.
Sept. 5.-A letter from dowager Lady Harcourt, on the visibly approaching dissolution of my dear honoured royal mistress ! written by desire of my beloved Princess Mary, Duchess of Gloucester, to save me the shock of surprise, added to that of grief.
Sunday, Sept. 6.-A fresh renewal to me of woe is every returning week ! The eighteenth this of the dread solitude of my heart ; and miserably, has it passed, augmenting sorrow weighing it in the approaching loss of my dear queen!
Again I took the Sacrament at the Octagon, probably for the last time. Oh, how earnest were my prayers for re-union in a purer world! Prayers were offered for a person lying dangerously ill. I thought of the queen, and prayed for her fervently.
Sunday, Sept. 27-This day, the twenty-first Sunday of my bereavement, Alexander, I trust, is ordained a deacon of the Church of England. Heaven propitiate his entrance! I wrote to the good Bishop of Salisbury to beseech his pious wishes on this opening of clerical life.
REMOVAL FROM BATH TO LONDON.
Sept. 28.-Still my preparations to depart from Bath take up all of time that grief does not seize irresistibly; for, oh! what anguish overwhelms my soul in quitting the place where last he saw and blessed me!—the room, the spot on which so softly, so holily, yet so tenderly, he embraced me and breathed his last!
Sept. 30.-This morning I left Bath with feelings of profound affliction - yet, reflecting that hope was ever open— that future union may repay this laceration—oh, that my torn soul could more look forward with sacred aspiration! Then better would it support its weight of woe. Page 438
My dear James received me with tender pity; so did his good wife, son, and daughter.
Oct. 6.-My dear Alexander left me this morning for Cambridge. How shall I do, thus parted from both! My kind brother, and his worthy house, have softened off the day much; yet I sigh for seclusion—my mind labours under the weight of assumed sociability.
Oct. 8. I came this evening to my new and probably last dwelling, No. 11, Bolton-street, Piccadilly. My kind James conducted me. Oh, how heavy is my forlorn heart ! I have made myself very busy all day ; so only could I have supported this first opening to my baleful desolation ! No adored husband! No beloved son ! But the latter is only at Cambridge. Ah! let me struggle to think more of the other, the first, the chief, as also only removed from my sight by a transitory journey!
Oct. 14.-Wrote to my—erst—dearest friend, Mrs. Piozzi. I can never forget my long love for her, and many obligations to her friendship, strangely as she had been estranged since her marriage.
Oct. 30.-A letter from my loved Madame de Maisonneuve, full of feeling, sense, sweetness, information to beguile me back to life, and of sympathy to open my sad heart to friendship.
Nov. 7.-A visit from the excellent Harriet Bowdler, who gave me an hour of precious society, mingling her commiserating sympathy with hints sage and right of the duty of revival from every stroke of heaven.
Oh, my God, Saviour! To thee may I turn more and more.