From 10 till 11.30 p.m. worked at notes for “White Weather” article.
Dec. 6. Wed. In the forenoon worked at Gaelic material partly for articles, partly for other things. But not up to writing. There is a sudden change to an April-like heat: damply-hot; though fine: very trying, all feel it. After lunch walked up the north heights with Alec, then joined E. and D. L. in carriage and drove up past Otaheite to the Saw-Mills. Lovely air, gorgeous windy sky in the west, and superb but thunderous clouds in S. and E. Another bad change I fear. Etna rose gigantic as we ascended Otaheite-way, and from Serraspina looked like an immense Phantom with a vast plume of white smoke.
In afternoon (from 5.30 till 7.30) wrote 1200 words of “White Weather.”
Thursday. 7th. This morning fresh and bright and clear, a welcome change from these recent days—with the Beechwoods all frosted with snow. The Simeto swollen to a big rushing river.
Worked at and finished the latter part of “White Weather,” and then revised and sent off to Mary to forward with note to Country Life. Also other letters. Turned out the wettest and worst afternoon we’ve had yet, and return of severe thunderstorm.
Dec. 8. Friday. A fine morning but very doubtful if yet settled. Went out and was taken by Beek to see the observatory instruments and wind-registers and seismographs. Then took the dogs for a walk, as “off” work today.
Wrote a long letter to Robert Hichens, also to R. L. S. Also, with poem “When Greenness comes again” by W. S. to C. Morley Pall Mall Magazine. In afternoon we had a lovely drive up above the Alcantara Valley along the mountain road toward Cesaro.”
And here the Diary ends, and here too ends the written work of a tired hand and brain, but of an eager outlooking spirit. Ever since we left London it was evident that his life forces were on the ebb-tide slowly but surely; and he knew it, but concerned himself little, and believed he had at any rate a few months before him and possibly a whole year. Yet he seemed to have an inner knowledge of what was to be. In Scotland, in the summer, he told me it would be his last visit there; that he knew it, and had said farewell to his mother. On the afternoon when we drove up to the Saw-Mills in the oak-woods he got out of the carriage and wandered among the trees. When I urged him to come away, as the light was waning rapidly, he touched the trees again and again and said, “Ah dear trees of the North, dear trees of the North, goodbye.” The drive on the 8th, so beautiful, to him so full of fascination, was fatal to him. We drove far along a mountain pass and at the furthest point stopped to let him look at the superb sunset over against the hillset town of Cesaro.
He seemed wrapt in thought and looked long and steadfastly at the wonderful glowing light; it was with difficulty that I persuaded him to let us return. On the way back, a sudden turn of the road brought us in face to the snow covered cone of Ætna. The wind had changed and blew with cutting cold straight off the snow. It struck him, chilling him through and through. Half way back he got out of the carriage to walk and get warm. But the harm was done. That evening, before dinner, he said to me: “I am going to talk as much as I can tonight. That dear fellow Alec is rather depressed. I’ve teased him a good deal today; now I am going to amuse him.” He was as good as his word, anecdote, reminiscence, followed one another told in the gayest of spirits, and in saying goodnight to me our host declared, “I have never heard Will more brilliant than he has been tonight.”
The next morning my husband complained of pain which grew rapidly more severe. The doctor was sent for, and remained in the house.