There seemed at one moment to be danger of his being too severe in his judgment of others, but directly my mother pointed this out to him, he saw his mistake and took pains to avoid it.
To the last his spirit remained active, and in the intervals of pain he was always busily employed. Close beside his pillow, near the little Testament that never left him, lay a case of the different instruments he used for painting and carving, and with them he fabricated all sorts of pretty things for us all. His strong sense of the beautiful, of grace and harmony, never deserted him, neither did the humour with which he had so often enlivened us. After the fiercest attack of pain, whilst all around him were still overcome by witnessing his struggles, he would suddenly make some witty remark, and would not rest content till he had brought us all to join in his laughter.
But the pain grew worse and worse, and he was so weakened by it, that on his eleventh birthday we dared to hope, that before the day was over, he would be keeping it in Paradise. We had brought him flowers, and some of them we strewed over his bed, and wreathed around his pillow, and it might have been in his last slumber that he was lying there, so silent and still, and the sheets no whiter than his wan white face. But that mercy was not yet granted him; there was still much more suffering in store. A month later came my eighteenth birthday, and directly I came to see him in the morning, he pulled out from under his pillow a tiny marble slab, on which notwithstanding the awkward position in which he lay, he had contrived to paint in water-colours the words: “God is love.” When he gave it me, we could only throw our arms round one another and cry together. The night before he had made the remark, that whatever presents he now gave must be of a lasting nature.
For an account of the last few dreadful weeks, during which his illness made rapid strides, I turn to letters written by me at the time, and copy a few pages.
“December, 1861.—Our preparations of Christmas are being made with more than usual care, so that the festival may be kept with all due solemnity,—for the last time, as we well know, that we shall all celebrate it together on earth.... Papa is very weak, and the fits of coughing are almost intermittent. With him, as with Otto, it is only a question of time.... Christmas Eve was very solemn and peaceful and beautiful: the few days preceding it had been exceptionally good and free from pain, so that Otto could be wheeled into the room where the Christmas-trees stood ready, and it was touching to see his little face, beaming with happiness, when the trees were lighted up, and the Christmas hymn sung as usual, by the whole household, led by me from my accustomed place at the organ.... But since then he has had two very disturbed nights, and the dreadful attacks of pain have begun again.... ‘Keep calm!’ he called to mamma, after one of these,—‘it is only the body that suffers, nothing of this can hurt the soul!’
“January, 1862.—Yesterday he thought he was dying, and took leave of us all, but when he saw mamma’s tears, he again found strength to comfort her. The night that followed was a dreadful one; the sensation of suffocation so intense that, exhausted as he was, he sometimes stood upright in bed in the effort to breathe.... And through it all his patience and resignation are inexhaustible, and his affection for mamma and each one of us seems only to grow stronger.... The fits of pain are now so frequent, even mamma no longer keeps count of them. Last night she had to give him twenty-one drops of laudanum.... We pray that the end may be near. To-day his eyes are quite dim, and he can only bear that we speak in whispers.... But his first thought is still for mamma, and he says she is much more to be pitied than he.... It was her birthday yesterday, and Otto was in a great state of excitement. He gave her a flower-stand and a little casket, which he had himself designed. One could see the efforts he made to appear cheerful, whilst hardly for one moment free from pain. (He gave orders at the time for another present, for a surprise to his mother on her next birthday. She received it eleven months after his death!)....
“February.—His strength seems to be ebbing.... His one prayer is that he may die in full consciousness. Another respite.... Then a new and worse pain. The poor child is being slowly tortured to death.... Sometimes, in his agony, cries of despair are forced from him, and then again he can talk with the utmost composure of the blessedness awaiting him when the last struggle is over.... We had a visit from Professor Perthes, who sat for some hours in Otto’s room, talking to him and Uncle Nicholas. The Professor was so much struck by the invalid’s keen interest in the subject being discussed, and his clear-headed practical suggestions, that he exclaimed on coming away from him:—“That boy is not going to die yet;—he thinks and feels like a grown-up man!” But a little later, after witnessing one of the cruel paroxysms of pain, our friend also was convinced that this matured intelligence he had just been admiring, only betokened that the soul, purified and ennobled by suffering, was already ripe for a better world.... The weakness increased. All day yesterday and all night long, he lay with his hands clasped in prayer, murmuring feebly:—“When will the hour of release come? when will the Angel of Peace appear, to bear me away?” His piety and resignation never fail him for one moment.... His hands are cold as ice, his brow like marble, his eyes sunken, but still bright with intelligence.... One evening he complained that he could no longer rightly distinguish our faces. Over his poor little wasted face the shadow of death is already creeping, but he is strangely beautiful with it.... Yesterday, Monday, as we sat as usual round him, he slowly stretched out his poor feeble arms, exclaiming joyfully:—“Well, then, if this is to be the end, farewell to you all!” And his expression was rapturous, as he bade us each good-night, and prayed for blessings on us.... But even then it was not over....”
The agony lasted two days longer. He seemed to sleep, but woke from time to time with a cry of anguish. He could no longer speak, though he still saw and heard everything, and gave signs that he understood. Then, at the very last, after a few broken accents, came the rattle in his throat, and the one word “Help!” loud and clear. And then a deathly silence. And mamma bent over him and murmured—“Thanks be to God! His name be praised for evermore!”
The struggle was over. Peace and heavenly calm spread themselves over the tired features, and a sweet smile played about his lips—the deep line across the high forehead alone showing how dearly this peace had been purchased.
Our dear Otto looked like an angel sleeping there; we could scarce tear ourselves away from him. My mother kept saying—“How quietly he rests!” and if anyone sobbed on coming into the room—“Hush! hush!” she said, “do not disturb my child!” With our own hands we placed him in his last little bed, and covered him over. The old clergyman from Biebrich, by whom the benediction had been spoken at my parents’ marriage, now pronounced the last blessing over their beloved child.