For myself, well opining how my sudden demand, “How long can I live?” might sound, if uttered with abrupt sincerity, I submitted patiently to all the little gossip of the little world of this place,—its envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness—which certainly are prime features in an English colony on the Continent—all, that I might at last establish a character for soundness of mind and calmness of purpose, ere I put my quore.
The favourable moment came at last, and I asked in full earnest, but with a manner that shewed no sign of dread,—“Tell me, Dottore mio, how long may such a chest as mine endure? I mean, taking every possible care, as I do; neither incurring any hazard nor neglect; and, in fact, fighting the battle bravely to the last?”
He tried at first, by a smile and a jocular manner, to evade the question; but seeing my determination fixed, he looked grave, felt my pulse, percussed my chest, and was silent.
“Well,” said I, after a very long pause, “I await my sentence, but in no mood of hope or fear. Is it a month?—a week?—a day?—nay, surely it can hardly be so near as that? Still silent! Come, this is scarcely fair; I ask simply—”
“That which is perfectly impossible to answer, did I concede that I ought to reply, as categorically as you ask.”
“Were I to tell my reasons, doctor, you might judge more harshly of my intelligence than I should like; besides, you would certainly misinterpret my meaning. Tell me, therefore, in the common course of such changes as my disease involves, can I live a year? You shake your head! Be it so. Six months?—Three, then?—Have I three? The winter, you say, is to be feared. I know it. Well, then, shall I own that my convictions anticipate you at each negative? I feel I have not a month—nay, not half of one—a week will do it, doctor; and now excuse scant ceremony, and leave me.”
Alone—friendless—homeless—ruined, and dying! Sad words to write, each of them; sadder when thus brought in brotherhood together. The world and its pageants are passing fast by me, like the eddies of that stream which flows beneath my window. I catch but one glimpse and they are gone, beneath the dark bridge of Death, to mingle in the vast ocean of Eternity.
How strange to see the whole business of the world going on, the moving multitude, the tumult of active minds and bodies,—at the very moment when the creeping chill of ebbing life tells of days and hours numbered!
I am alone—not one to sit by me to combat thoughts that with the faintest help I could resist, but which unaided are too strong for me. In this window-seat where now I rest, who shall sit this day week? The youth, perhaps, in gushing pride of heart and buoyancy, now entering upon life, ardent and high-souled—or the young bride, gazing on that same river that now I watch, and reading in its circles wreathed smiles of happy promise. Oh, may no memories of him, whose tears fall fast now, haunt the spot and throw their gloom on others!
I am friendless—and yet, which of those I still call friends would I now wish beside me. To drink of the cup of consolation? I must first offer my own of misery—nay, it is better to endure alone!