Work was a tonic to him, and, while painting, the rebellious organs of his body were submissive to his genius.
He would forget himself when, brush in hand, he stood before a canvas.
During the spring of 1903 he had been far from well. Into May he worked, but not regularly nor for long at a time. In June he was quite ill, and his friends were apprehensive; but in the early part of July he began to gain, so that he took long drives and planned resuming his work.
On the afternoon of July 16 he was out for a drive and in the best of spirits, with plans for the future that even a younger man could not hope to execute.
Art, the ever-youthful mistress of his life, urged him on. Should he confess before her the ravages of years? In dauntless enthusiasm, in boundless ambition, in spirit unsubdued he was still young. He struggled to his feet and for the last time stood before the canvas,—the magic mirror from which he, wizzard-like, had evoked so many beautiful images; he thought of the things he yet would do, of lines that would charm for all time, of colors that would play like the iridescent hues upon the surface of the shimmering sea, of the wraith-like images of people which lurked in the depths of the canvas awaiting the touch of his wand to step forth in all their stately dignity and beauty.
And the soul of the master was filled with delight.
But the visions of beauty were shattered,
Like forms of the mist they were scattered—
As bubbles are blown by a breath—
By the grim, haunting spectre of Death.
The tired body could not respond, and there where he had worked, on the afternoon of Friday, July 17, the great painter died.
On the following Wednesday the funeral services were held in the old church at Chelsea where he often went with his mother, and he was buried beside her in the graveyard at Chiswick.