CHAPTER XXII
TWILIGHT
"The noble mansion is most distinguished by the beautiful images it retains of beings passed away; and so is the noble mind."
Walter Savage Landor.
Fifteen years of suffering had left Bessie Gilbert unchanged as to the aims and work of her life. Long lonely hours of thought had shown her the need that the blind have of help and sympathy, the impossibility of independence and self-supporting work for them unless through the active charity of individuals and the co-operation of the State.
And it was the "General Welfare of the Blind" that engrossed her, and not merely their trades. She knew, no one better, how much need they have of resources from within, the pleasures of memory, the courage given by hope and aspiration. Her long years of illness enlarged her ideas of what could be done and ought to be done for them. She contrasted her own condition with that of the poor and untaught, and forgave them all their faults when she remembered their sad state.
Bessie had been carefully prepared for the inevitable solitude of her lot. Her mind was richly stored and her memory so carefully trained, that it seemed to allow no escape of anything that interested her. During the long weary days and nights of illness, when deafness isolated her even more than blindness, she would go over the whole story of a book read to her years before. She would recall the symphonies and sonatas she had listened to in early days, and find exceeding great enjoyment in the memory of her music. Indeed, towards the end she had but little pleasure in music heard through the outward ear, for her nerves were not able to endure the shock of a sudden or unexpected outburst of sound. But the music which she could call from out the chambers of memory was soft and tender, and its most impassioned passages gave her no pain. The soul of the music spoke to her soul, and silence brought to her the rapture of spiritual communion.
In early youth she had been accustomed, in the daily family prayers, to read in turn her verse of the Lessons and the Psalms. In later years she always read them to herself or had them read aloud to her. During her illness she scarcely ever failed to hear them; and the evening Psalms ended her day. She knew very many of the Psalms by heart, and "specially delighted in the glorious ascriptions of praise and thanksgiving in those for the thirtieth evening of the month." She liked to think that every month and every year at its close was accompanied by praise and thanksgiving. "It pleased and touched her greatly," writes her sister N., "that in the New Lectionary the miracle of restoring sight to the two blind men at Jericho, came as the second lesson for the evening of her birthday, 7th August.
"One of her most favourite verses in the Psalms was, 'Thou hast given me the defence of thy salvation. Thy right hand also shall hold me up, and thy loving correction shall make me great.'"
Two poems from the Lyra Germanica gave her constant comfort, and were in her heart and on her lips. She found in them the embodiment of her faith, and could use them not only as expressing her own feelings, but as bringing comfort and help, because they were the utterance of the ardent faith and devotion of others.
These two hymns really open to us the inner life of Bessie Gilbert. They show from whence she derived the strength and courage that supported her in the efforts and trials of her early life, and they reveal the source of the patient endurance of fifteen years of isolation and suffering.
Passion Week.[9]
I.
In the Garden.
Whene'er again thou sinkest,
My heart, beneath thy load,
Or from the battle shrinkest,
And murmurest at thy God;
Then will I lead thee hither,
To watch thy Saviour's prayer,
And learn from His endurance
How thou shouldst also bear.
Oh come, wouldst thou be like Him,
Thy Lord Divine, and mark
What sharpest sorrows strike Him,
What anguish deep and dark,—
That earnest cry to spare Him,
The trial scarce begun?
Yet still He saith: "My Father,
Thy will, not mine, be done!"
Oh wherefore doth His spirit
Such bitter conflict know?
What sins, what crimes could merit
Such deep and awful woe?
So pure are not the heavens,
So clear the noonday sun,
And yet He saith: "My Father,
Thy will, not mine, be done!"
Oh mark that night of sorrow,
That agony of prayer;
No friend can watch till morrow
His grief to soothe and share;
Oh where shall He find comfort?
With God, with God alone,
And still He saith: "My Father,
Thy will, not mine, be done!"
Hath life for Him no gladness,
No joy the light of day?
Can He then feel no sadness,
When heart and hope give way?
That cup of mortal anguish
One bitter cry hath won,
That it might pass: "Yet, Father,
Thy will, not mine, be done!"
And who the cup prepared Him,
And who the poison gave?
'Twas one He loved ensnared Him,
'Twas those He came to save.
Oh sharpest pain, to suffer
Betray'd and mock'd—alone;
Yet still He saith: "My Father,
Thy will, not mine, be done!"
But what is joy or living,
What treachery or death,
When all His work, His striving,
Seems hanging on His breath?
Oh can it stand without Him,
That work but just begun?
Yet still He saith: "My Father,
Thy will, not mine, be done!"
He speaks; no more He shrinketh,
Himself He offers up;
He sees it all, yet drinketh
For us that bitter cup,
He goes to meet the traitor,
The cross He will not shun,—
He saith: "I come, My Father,
Thy will, not mine, be done!"
My Saviour, I will never
Forget Thy word of grace,
But still repeat it ever,
Through good and evil days;
And looking up to heaven,
Till all my race is run,
I'll humbly say: "My Father,
Thy will, not mine, be done!"
W. Hey, 1828.
Fifteenth Sunday after Trinity.
Be thou content; be still before
His face, at whose right hand doth reign
Fulness of joy for evermore,
Without whom all thy toil is vain.
He is thy living spring, thy sun, whose rays
Make glad with life and light thy weary days.
Be thou content.
In Him is comfort, light, and grace,
And changeless love beyond our thought;
The sorest pang, the worst disgrace,
If He is there, shall harm thee not.
He can lift off thy cross, and loose thy bands,
And calm thy fears, nay, death is in His hands.
Be thou content.
Or art thou friendless and alone,
Hast none in whom thou canst confide?
God careth for thee, lonely one,
Comfort and help will He provide.
He sees thy sorrows and thy hidden grief,
He knoweth when to send thee quick relief.
Be thou content.
Thy heart's unspoken pain He knows,
Thy secret sighs He hears full well,
What to none else thou dar'st disclose,
To Him thou mayst with boldness tell;
He is not far away, but ever nigh,
And answereth willingly the poor man's cry.
Be thou content.
Be not o'er-mastered by thy pain,
But cling to God, thou shalt not fall;
The floods sweep over thee in vain,
Thou yet shalt rise above them all;
For when thy trial seems too hard to bear
Lo! God, thy King, hath granted all thy prayer.
Be thou content.
Why art thou full of anxious fear
How thou shalt be sustain'd and fed?
He who hath made and placed thee here
Will give thee needful daily bread;
Canst thou not trust His rich and bounteous hand,
Who feeds all living things on sea and land?
Be thou content.
He who doth teach the little birds
To find their meat in field and wood,
Who gives the countless flocks and herds
Each day their needful drink and food,
Thy hunger too will surely satisfy,
And all thy wants in His good time supply.
Be thou content.
Sayest thou, I know not how or where,
No hope I see where'er I turn;
When of all else we most despair,
The riches of God's love we learn;
When thou and I His hand no longer trace,
He leads us forth into a pleasant place.
Be thou content.
Though long His promised aid delay,
At last it will be surely sent:
Though thy heart sink in sore dismay,
The trial for thy good is meant.
What we have won with pains we hold more fast,
What tarrieth long is sweeter at the last.
Be thou content.
Lay not to heart whate'er of ill
Thy foes may falsely speak of thee,
Let man defame thee as he will,
God hears and judges righteously.
Why shouldst thou fear, if God be on thy side,
Man's cruel anger, or malicious pride?
Be thou content.
We know for us a rest remains,
When God will give us sweet release
From earth and all our mortal chains
And turn our sufferings into peace.
Sooner or later death will surely come
To end our sorrows and to take us home.
Be thou content.
Home to the chosen ones, who here
Served their Lord faithfully and well,
Who died in peace without a fear,
And there in peace for ever dwell;
The Everlasting is their joy and stay,
The Eternal Word Himself to them doth say
Be thou content!
Paul Gerhardt, 1670.
For weeks together during her illness Bessie was at times unable to sleep during the night. She was too considerate to her nurses to disturb them for mere sleeplessness. She would then, as we have said, recall to memory music and books which she had heard, and at these times Shakespeare and Sir Walter Scott were a great resource to her. The characters she admired lived for her, and she would try to picture to herself how they would act in circumstances which she invented for them. Her knowledge of English history was also a source of interest, and often astonished those around her. One evening in 1884 a young niece preparing for an examination asked in vain for information as to the "Salisbury Assize" until the question was put to "Aunt Bessie," who at once explained it.
There were long lapses, as it were, in her life. After the sleepless nights she had to sleep when she could, and her room in the daytime was hushed and silent, all external life and interest excluded. At night she was again fully awake, but it was to find herself alone in the "chambers of her imagery."
One of the two sisters who were her constant companions, and nursed her with unfailing devotion for fifteen years, writes as follows:
All through her illness, with the occasional exceptions when she suffered from deafness, her cheerfulness was marvellous, her patience never-failing, and her consideration and thoughtfulness for those around her very wonderful and touching.
She had a special name of her own for each of her nurses, all of them loved her, and upon several of them the influence of her patience and goodness was strongly marked, and will be of lifelong endurance. Her first sick-nurse came in 1872 and stayed two years. She often afterwards visited her. She came to see us after Bessie's death, and said with tears, "Oh, I did not do enough for her. I wish I had done more."
Bessie would often arrange little surprises and pleasures for us and give us flowers. She was anxious we should have all the variety we could, and took the greatest pleasure in hearing an account of what we had seen and done whilst away from her. She liked to see visitors when she was well enough, but was often nervous about it, fearing lest the excitement should do her harm, and interfere in any way with what little she could do for the Institution.
Perhaps few realised how much she suffered; she was so patient, so bright, so sympathetic that it was difficult to do so. The last few months of her life were full of pain.
No record of Bessie's illness would be adequate which did not speak of the love that lightened every burden laid upon her. Sisters and brothers bound by so strong a bond of family love as the Gilberts are even more closely united by affliction. No day passed without its tribute of affectionate remembrance from absent members of the family. Her eldest brother, Mr. Wintle, always spent the afternoon of Sunday with her, when she was able to receive him. The Vicar of Heversham, the beloved "Tom" of her youth, saw her in London whenever it was possible. Married sisters visited and wrote to her, and a whole cloud of nephews and nieces hovered around her.
She valued highly the friendship as well as the skill of Mr. Sibley, the surgeon who for many years attended her. She depended upon him for almost daily visits. Very little could be done to arrest the progress of her malady; nothing to save her from much inevitable suffering. Alleviation, not cure, was all that could be looked for, and he was always ready to attempt, and often able to effect, some mitigation of the ills she had to endure.
Among many others who were kind and helpful, ready to aid her work and so to give her almost the only pleasure she could receive, were the Duke of Westminster, Lord and Lady Selborne, Madame Antoinette Sterling, who would sometimes sing to her, and the old and dear friends of the family, Dean and Mrs. Hook. No word can here be said of the two sisters, whose whole life was given up to her; none would be adequate. They knew, and they were known. That is enough. We may not lift the veil under which they passed so many years with Bessie in her long agony.
FOOTNOTE:
[9] From Lyra Germanica, second series.