From Memory's Shrine: The Reminscences of Carmen Sylva

by Carmen Sylva

Thus the summer went by, but all at once in October Otto was seized with an attack of pain, even more violent and spasmodic than any of the preceding ones, and this being repeated and becoming of very frequent recurrence, a great specialist was consulted, who declared that an operation was necessary. This, although attended with considerable danger, was successfully performed in March, 1860, the long and painful examinations that preceded it, and that were not always carried out under anæsthetics, having been most heroically borne. But the results were not such as had been anticipated. Hardly had the little patient left his bed, before the attacks of pain began again with redoubled violence, to the consternation of the doctors, who felt their skill completely baffled by this unexpected occurrence.

The sympathy shown by the good townspeople at the time of the operation was most touching. Sometimes there was quite a little throng gathered all day in front of the iron railings before the Castle, to hear the latest tidings.

I have told of the deep interest the dear boy took in my confirmation, which took place that same summer. In the little volume of the “Imitation,” which he gave me on that day, I asked him to write a few words, and without a moment’s pause, he took his pen, and wrote in his firm clear characters:—“Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.”—Otto. The gospel of Love had passed into his flesh and blood, had become part of his inmost being.

Directly it was possible, his lessons had begun again, for that was indeed the best, the only means of abstracting his thoughts, diverting them entirely from his own condition. The letters that I have from him, during a few weeks’ absence from home about this time, point to the extraordinary self-command he had attained, whilst they also display most remarkable and varied intellectual interests. In some he tells me of his botanical studies and the experiments in horticulture that already so deeply interested him, in others, he spoke of the lectures on Art and Literature, which it had been arranged for different professors to give for his benefit. But Nature and her works he loved best of all, and I treasure the tiny little album he gave me about this time, in which specimens of various mosses were most beautifully arranged, together with a charming little essay, “My Love for the Leaves,” a complete dissertation on all his favourite plants and trees, carefully enumerated, and their foliage described in every detail.

But his sufferings grew worse, the attacks of pain succeeding one another more frequently, and on Ascension Day of that same year every faint hope of his ultimate recovery was taken from us. The surgeon, by whom the last operation had been performed, discovered, on examining him again, in addition to the original organic trouble, the existence of a very large internal tumour, and pronounced that in his opinion Otto could not possibly last another year. At the same time, my father’s lungs were subjected to thorough examination, with the alarming result that in his case also the doctor declared no hope of recovery to exist, and that he could hardly be expected to live more than two years longer. Oh! that terrible Ascension Day! what a blight was cast over all our hearts! And the fearful attacks of pain went on, increasing in duration and in intensity, and giving the poor child an opportunity of displaying almost superhuman courage and endurance, above all in his constant and heroic efforts to hide some part of his sufferings from his beloved mother, whose anguish was indeed almost unendurable. But between the paroxysms, ever the same sweet serenity, even cheerfulness, and an immediate resumption of the study or occupation interrupted just before. His activity and energy were unbounded; he was always at work, either carving, pasting or cutting out; his hands were never at rest.

That summer brought one great joy to the poor little invalid, the return of his idolised elder brother, whose course of study had caused him to absent himself from home for some years, and who had meanwhile developed from a mere schoolboy into a tall youth. Otto’s excitement was so great, that for the time being he felt no pain. Once more his laughter resounded through the house, and even out into the woods, where we lingered till quite late in those long, lovely summer days. Once more it was quite a gay, lively, youthful party that collected round the tea-table, and our merriment was so infectious that our elders would often pause in their serious conversation to listen to the nonsense we talked, and join in our peals of laughter. An exhibition of celebrated pictures had just been opened in Cologne, and we all went over there one day to see them. The cartoons by Cornelius attracted Otto’s attention more than all the rest, and he stood for a long time contemplating the one, concerning whose subject the rest of our party—although there were several scholars and artists with us—could not be agreed. To their astonishment, when the boy at last took his eyes off the picture, he said very quietly—“I know what it is!” and proceeded to describe in every detail the scene from the Odyssey, which it did indeed depict.

So long as his brother was in the house, Otto would not stir from his side. His admiration for the big elder brother, for his health and strength, was most touching, and it was refreshing to hear his generous outburst of indignation at any remark he considered in the slightest degree disparaging to his idol. Were there but the faintest hint of criticism, he would blaze up: “Wilhelm has beautiful eyes and splendid teeth, and is very, very clever!” In the warmth and sincerity of his heart, he could understand no grudging affection, no measured qualified praise. And this warm-heartedness was probably his greatest source of happiness, providing him with more glad hours than might well have been deemed possible in an existence so fraught with pain.

Very great pleasure he derived from the little farmhouse, built in the style of a Swiss chalet, which my mother had originally planned as a present to him, on his coming of age. We had passed many happy hours there, but in the autumn of 1861, he was no longer able to ride or go thither on foot, and soon even the movement of the little donkey-carriage, in which for a time he drove there daily, also became unbearable, and one evening we had to pull up in the middle of the wood and wait till a litter was brought on which to carry him home. It was a pitiable sight; the little motionless body, worn out with suffering, stretched on the litter and borne along by grave silent men, while the flickering moon-beams darting through the branches shed an unearthly light over the small white face, and overhead night-hawks and screech-owls, circling round the sad little procession, filled the air with their jarring cries.

From the following October he could not walk at all, and was carried about everywhere in a little arm-chair, which was fastened on a litter. In this manner he was brought to table or taken out into the woods, where he would lie for hours, resting on his right side, with the dead leaves falling thickly round him. After this he was never again able to lie either on his back or on the left side. The course of his illness after this I find described in my letters to my absent brother Wilhelm, a few extracts from which I give here.... “Otto suffered frightfully yesterday all day long, and was almost beside himself at the slightest movement in the room.... Sleep can only be obtained by means of laudanum.... He seems to grow more and more loving towards us all; I have never seen such depth of feeling in another; there is a strange depth in the big serious eyes, that appear to be untouched by the sufferings of the frail body. The other day, as I sat beside him in the wood, he said many such touching things, winding up with accusing himself of cowardice, in taking laudanum to procure relief from pain. I could only comfort him by reminding him that it was not of his own free will he took it, but to please others.... For the last two days Otto has stayed in bed altogether.... The agony he has suffered is indescribable; it wrings one’s heart to witness it.... Mamma has been letting him know the truth about his condition, thinking that it must comfort him to know that his suffering will soon be over. But at first he wept at the thought of parting with her, saying that he could not bear it. Then he grew calmer and discussed the matter quite quietly. He told mamma yesterday that he wished to be buried in Monrepos, under the old trees, with a white cross at the head of his grave, and quantities of flowers planted on it. Then he went on to ask, if in the life beyond he should see all the great men of antiquity, and Socrates above all—and also if he should still see mamma—sitting in her chair, just as she was then!—“I hope so, my child!” she told him.... Papa is a little better. He came down yesterday for the first time for three weeks. The meeting was a touching one; papa himself, worn to a shadow, looking down so anxiously on the poor little pale face, that was gazing with rapture up in his.... Otto suffers more and more. He begins to have hallucinations, sees himself surrounded by hideous faces that threaten him.... He seems to have reached a degree of pain, beyond which it is impossible to go. His sufferings are indescribable. A little time ago, he said he had to pray each day that he might welcome death, for the thought of the parting was still too terrible to him; but now he begins to comfort himself with the thought that there is no real separation, and to rejoice that he may at last rest and be free from pain. And he has been giving all his instructions, telling us his wishes, and always coming back to the provision to be made for his own two special attendants.... Each new day is worse than the last.... Once he cried out:—“I cannot bear it!” but when mamma said:—“Yes, we will bear it together!” he grew quieter and murmured—“Father, Thy will be done!” ... Although the doses of laudanum are constantly being increased, he sleeps very little, the pain is too agonising.... Of mamma I say nothing. What she suffers, she keeps to herself; she says sometimes she feels as if a saw were at her heart, being slowly drawn backwards and forwards.”

Otto had always taken special pleasure in following the mental development of the lives he read about. He found satisfaction in the thought that the activity of the spirit can neither be blighted nor repressed. Every fact or occurrence that seemed to bear on this theory interested him; the story of Kasper Hauser was a case in point, and delighted him greatly, whilst the inactive life of the poor young Duke of Reichstadt was simply incomprehensible to him—“To live to be twenty-two,—and have done nothing!” he would exclaim, almost impatiently.