The only difference remarkable on this particular Sunday, 19th of October, was, that whereas my husband was dreadfully punctual, and with military precision as the clock struck we had to be in our places at the table, at half past seven he seemed to dawdle about the room, putting things away. He said to me, "You had better go in to table;" and I answered, "No, darling, I will wait for you;" and we went in together. He dined well, but sparingly; he laughed, talked, and joked. We discussed our future plans and preparations, and he desired me on the morrow to write to Sir Edmund Monson, and several other letters, to forward the preparations. We talked of our future life in London, and so on. About half-past nine he got up and went to his bedroom, accompanied by the doctor and myself, and we assisted him at his toilette. I then said the night prayers to him, and whilst I was saying them, a dog began that dreadful howl which the superstitious say denotes a death. It disturbed me so dreadfully, that I got up from the prayers, went out of the room, and called the porter to go out and see what was the matter with the dog. I then returned, and finished the prayers, after which he asked me for a novel. I gave him Robert Buchanan's "Martyrdom of Madeline." I kissed him, and got into bed, and he was reading in bed.
"I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Which says I must not stay;
I see a hand you cannot see,
Which beckons me away."
——Thos. Tickell.
"Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar
When I put out to sea.
"But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
"Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell
When I embark.
"For tho' from out our bourne of Time and place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar."
——Tennyson.
The Sword falls—He is called away.
At twelve o'clock midnight he began to grow uneasy. I asked him what ailed him, and he said, "I have a gouty pain in my foot. When did I have my last attack?" I referred to our journals, and found it was three months previously that he had had a real gout, and I said, "You know that the doctor considers it a safety-valve that you should have a healthy gout in your feet every three months for your head, and your general health. Your last attack was three months ago at Zurich, and your next will be due next January." He was then quite content, and though he moaned and was restless, he tried to sleep, and I sat by him magnetizing the foot locally, as I had the habit of doing to soothe the pain, and it gave him so much relief that he dozed a little, and said, "I dreamt I saw our little flat in London, and it had quite a nice large room in it." Betweenwhiles he laughed and talked and spoke of our future plans, and even joked.
At four o'clock he got more uneasy, and I said I should go for the doctor. He said, "Oh no, don't disturb him; he cannot do anything." And I answered, "What is the use of keeping a doctor if he is not to be called when you are suffering?" The doctor was there in a few moments, felt his heart and pulse, found him in perfect order—that the gout was healthy. He gave him some medicine, and went back to bed. About half-past four he complained that there was no air. I flew back for the doctor, who came and found him in danger. I went at once, called up all the servants, sent in five directions for a priest, according to the directions I had received, hoping to get one, and the doctor, and I and Lisa under the doctor's orders, tried every remedy and restorative, but in vain.
What harasses my memory, what I cannot bear to think of, what wakes me with horror every morning from four till seven, when I get up, is that for a minute or two he kept on crying, "Oh, Puss, chloroform—ether—or I am a dead man!" My God! I would have given him the blood out of my veins, if it would have saved him, but I had to answer, "My darling, the doctor says it will kill you; he is doing all he knows." I was holding him in my arms, when he got heavier and heavier, and more insensible, and we laid him on the bed. The doctor said he was quite insensible, and assured me he did not suffer. I trust not; I believe it was a clot of blood to the heart.
My one endeavour was to be useful to the doctor, and not impede his actions by my own feelings. The doctor applied the electric battery to the heart, and kept it there till seven o'clock, and I knelt down at his left side, holding his hand and pulse, and prayed my heart out to God to keep his soul there (though he might be dead in appearance) till the priest arrived. I should say that he was insensible in thirty minutes from the time he said there was no air.
It was a country Slav priest, lately promoted to be our parish priest, who came. He called me aside, and told me that he could not give Extreme Unction to my husband, because he had not declared himself, but I besought him not to lose a moment in giving the Sacrament, for the soul was passing away, and that I had the means of satisfying him. He looked at us all three, and asked if he was dead, and we all said no. God was good, for had he had to go back for the holy materials it would have been too late, but he had them in his pocket, and he immediately administered Extreme Unction—"Si vivis," or "Si es capax"—"If thou art alive"—and said the prayers for the dying and the departing soul. The doctor still kept the battery to the heart all the time, and I still held the left hand with my finger on the pulse. By the clasp of the hand, and a little trickle of blood running under the finger, I judged there was a little life until seven, and then I knew that, unless that happened which had happened to me,[2] that I was alone and desolate for ever.
The Sixty Hours between Death and Funeral.
I sat all day by Richard, watching him, and praying and expecting him also to come to. I thought the mouth and left eye moved, but the doctor told me it was imagination. But what was no imagination, was that the brain lived after the heart and pulse were gone;[3] that on lifting up the eyelids, the eyes were as bright and intelligent as in life, with the brilliancy of a man who saw something unexpected and wonderful and happy; and that light remained in them till near sunset, and I believe that soul went forth with the setting sun, though it had set for me for ever. I was so convinced of his happiness, that I lifted up my heart to God in a fervent thanksgiving for him, and I knelt down with my broken heart and said my "Fiat voluntas tua," and when I rose up I said, "Let the world rain fire and brimstone on me now." It has!