However he went further than mere nicknames, and there is in one letter of his to Rivers a very admirable sketch of a certain personage: "one of the most cantankerous men I ever came across; fierce against the modern tendencies of science, especially in England; an anti-Darwinite &c. He rages against Huxley, accusing him of having used his position for personal vanity and gain, and of ruining the scientific and industrial prospects of England; charges of the paltriest dishonesty against H. and other such men abound in his conversation. X., it seems, was one of the original students of the Jermyn Street School of Mines, and his root grievance is the transformation of that establishment—brought about, he declares, for the personal profit of Huxley and of—the clerks of the War Office! You, he regards as a most valuable demonstration of the evils resulting from the last half-century of 'progress,' protesting loudly that every one of your books is a bitter satire on Huxley, his congeners, and his disciples. The man tells me that no scientific papers in England will print his writing, merely from personal enmity. He has also quarrelled with the scientific societies of France, and now, being a polyglot, he writes for Spain and Germany—the only two countries in Europe where scientific impartiality is to be found."
In another letter of his he says: "By the bye, an English paper states that Henley died worth something more than eight hundred pounds." One might imagine that he would then proceed to condole with him on having had so little to leave, but that was not our Maitland. He went on: "Amazing! How on earth did he amass that wealth? I am rejoiced to know that his latter years have been passed without struggle for bread."
The long letter about the Roman Empire and Roman law from which I quoted in the last chapter, was dated August 6, 1903, and I did not hear again from Maitland until November 1. I had written to him proposing to pay another visit to the south-west of France in order to see him in his Pyrenean home, but he replied very gloomily, saying that he was in evil case, that Thérèse had laryngitis, and that everything was made worse by incredibly bad weather. The workhouse—still the workhouse—was staring him in the face. He had to labour a certain number of hours each day in direly unfavourable conditions. If he did not finish his book at the end of the year sheer pauperdom would come upon him. In these circumstances I was to see that he dreaded a visit from any friend, indeed he was afraid that they would not be able to stay in St. Christophe on account of its excessive dampness. According to this pathetically exaggerated account they lived in a thick mist day and night. How on earth it came to be thought that such a dreadful country was good for consumptive people he could not imagine; though he owned, somewhat grudgingly, that he himself had got a good deal of strength there. He told me that as soon as the eternal rain ceased they were going down to Bayonne to see a doctor, and if he did no good Thérèse would go to the south of France. Finally, he was hanged if he knew how it would be managed. He ended up with: "In short I have not often in my life been nearer to an appalling crisis." At the end of this dismal letter, which did not affect me so much as might be thought, he spoke to me of my book, "Rachel," and said: "I have been turning the pages with great pleasure to keep my thoughts from the workhouse."
As I have hinted, those will have gathered very little of Maitland who imagine that I took this au pied de lettre. Maitland had cried "Wolf!" so often, that I had almost ceased to believe that there were wolves, even in the Pyrenees. All things had gradually become appalling crises and dreadful disasters. A mere disturbance and an actual catastrophe were alike dire and irremediable calamities. And yet, alas, there was more truth underlying his words than even he knew. If a man lives for ever in shadow the hour comes at last when there is no more light; and even for those who look forward, one would think with a certain relief, to the workhouse, there comes a day that they shall work no more. I smiled when I read this letter, but, of course, telegraphed to him deferring my visit until the rain had ceased, or laryngitis had departed from his house, or until his spirits recovered their tone on the completion of his great romance. One could do no other, much as I desired to see him and have one of our prodigious and preposterously long talks in his new home. I do not think that I wrote to him after this lamentable reply of his, but on November 16 I received my last communication from him. It was three lines on a post-card, still dated from St. Christophe. He referred in it once more to my book, and said: "Delighted to see the advertisement in ——— to-day, especially after their very base notice last week. Hurrah! Illness and struggle still going on here." The struggle I believed in, but, as ever with one's friends, one doubted if the illness were serious. And yet the catastrophe was coming.
At this time I was myself seriously ill. A chronic disease which had not been diagnosed resulted in a more or less serious infection of my own lungs, and, if I recollect truly, I had been in bed for nearly a fortnight. During the early days of my convalescence I went down to my club, and there one afternoon got this telegram from Rivers: "Have received following telegram from Maitland, 'Henry dying. Entreat you to come. In greatest haste.' I cannot go, can you?" This message to me was dated Folkestone, where Rivers was then living. Now at this time I was feeling very ill and utterly unfit to travel. I hardly knew what to do, but thought it best to go home and consult with my wife before I replied to Rivers. Anxious as she was to do everything possible for Maitland, she implored me not to venture on so long a journey, especially as it was mid-winter, just at Christmas-time. If I had not felt really ill she would not have placed any obstacles in my path, of that I am sure. She would, indeed, have urged me to go. After a little reflection I therefore replied to Rivers that I was myself very ill, but added that if he could not possibly go I would. At the same time I telegraphed to Maitland, or rather to Thérèse, saying that I was ill, but that I would come if she found it absolutely necessary. I do not think I received any answer to this message, a fact one easily understands when one learns how desperate things really were; but on December 26 I got another telegram from Rivers. I found that he had gone to St. Christophe in spite of not being well. He wired to me: "No nurse. Nursing help may save Maitland. Come if possibly can. Am here but ill." Such an appeal could not be resisted. I went straight home, and showing this telegram to my wife she agreed with me that I ought to go. If Rivers was ill at St. Christophe it now seemed my absolute duty to go, whatever my own state of health.
I left London that night by the late train, crossing to Paris by way of Newhaven and Dieppe in order that I might get at least three hours of rest in a recumbent position in the steamer, as I did not at that time feel justified in going all the way first class and taking a sleeper. I did manage to obtain some rest during the sea-passage, but on reaching Paris early in the morning I felt exceedingly unwell, and at the Gare St.-Lazare found at that hour no means of obtaining even a cup of coffee. I drove over to the Quai d'Orsay, and spent an hour or two in the coffee-room waiting for the departure of the express to Bordeaux. Ill as I was, and full of anxiety about Maitland, and now about Rivers, that journey was one long nightmare to me. I had not been able to take the Sud Express, and when at last, late in the evening, I reached Bayonne, I found that the last train to St. Christophe in its high Pyrenean valley had already gone hours before my arrival. While I was on my journey I had again telegraphed from Morcenx to Rivers or to Thérèse asking them to telegraph to me at the Hotel du Commerce, Bayonne, in case I was unable to get on that night, as I had indeed feared, although I was unable to get accurate information. On reaching this hotel I found waiting for me a telegram, which I have now lost, that was somehow exceedingly obscure but yet portended disaster. That I expected the worst I know, for I telegraphed to my wife the news in code that Maitland was dying and that the doctor gave no hope.
If I had been a rich man, or even moderately furnished with money on that journey, I should have taken a motor-car if it could have been obtained, and have gone on at once without waiting for the morning. But now I was obliged to spend the night in that little old-fashioned hotel in the old English city of Bayonne, the city whose fortress bears the proud emblem "Nunquam polluta." I wondered much if I should yet see my old friend alive. It was possible, and I hoped. At any rate, he must know that I was coming and was near at hand if only he were yet conscious. How much I was needed I did not know till afterwards, for even as I was going south Rivers was once more returning to Paris on his homeward journey. As I learnt afterwards, he was far too unwell to stay. In the morning I took the first train to St. Christophe, passing Cambo, where Rostand, the poet, makes his home. On reaching the town where Maitland lived I found no one waiting for me as I had expected; for, naturally enough, I thought it possible that unless Rivers were very ill he would be able to meet me. It was a cold and gloomy morning when I left the station. Taking my bag in my hand, I hired a small boy to show me the house in which Maitland lived on the outskirts of the little Pyrenean town. This house, it seems, was let in flats, and the Maitlands occupied the first floor. On entering the hall I found a servant washing down the stone flooring. I said to her, "Comment Monsieur se porte-t-il?" and she replied, "Monsieur est mort." I then asked her where I should find the other Englishman. She answered that he had gone back to England the day before, and then took me upstairs and went in to tell Thérèse that I had come.
I found her with her mother. She was the only woman who had given him any happiness. Now she was completely broken down by the anxiety and distress which had come upon her so suddenly. For indeed it seems that it had been sudden. Only four or five days ago Maitland had been working hard upon "Basil," the book from which he hoped so much, and in which he believed so fervently. Then it seems that he developed what he called a cold, some slight affection of the lungs which raised his temperature a little. Strangely enough he did not take the care of himself that he should have taken, or that care which I should have expected him to use, considering his curiously expressed nervousness about himself. By some odd fatality he became suddenly courageous at the wrong time, and went out for a walk in desperately bad weather. On the following day he was obviously very seriously ill, and sent for the doctor, who suspended judgment but feared that he had pneumonia. On the day succeeding this yet another doctor was called into consultation, and the diagnosis of pneumonia was confirmed without any doubt. But that was not, perhaps, what actually killed him. There was a very serious complication, according to Maitland's first physician, with whom I afterwards had a long conversation, partly through the intermediary of the nurse, an Englishwoman from Bayonne, who talked French more fluently than myself. He considered that Maitland also had myocarditis. I certainly did not think, and do not think, that he was right in this. Myocarditis is rarely accompanied with much or severe pain, while the anguish of violent pericarditis is often very great, and Maitland had suffered most atrociously. He was not now a strong man, not one with big reserves and powers of passive endurance, and in his agony he cried aloud for death.
In these agonies there were periods of comparative ease when he rested and was quiet, and even spoke a little. In one of these intermissions Thérèse came to him and told him that I was now actually on my way. There is no reason, I think, why I should not write what he said. It was simply, "Good old H——." By this time Rivers had gone; but before his departure he had, I understand, procured the nurse. The last struggle came early that morning, December 28, while I was at the Bayonne hotel preparing to catch the early train. He died quietly just before dawn, I think at six o'clock.
I was taken in to see Thérèse, who was still in bed, and found her mother with her. They were two desolate and lonely women, and I had some fears that Thérèse would hardly recover from the blow, so deeply did his death affect her. She was always a delicate woman, and came from a delicate, neurotic stock, as one could see so plainly in the elder woman. I did my best to say what one could say, though all that can possibly be said in such cases is nothing after all. There is no physic for grief but the slow, inevitable years. I stayed not long, but went into the other chamber and saw my dead friend. The bed on which he lay stood in a little alcove at the end of the room farthest from the window. I remember that the nurse, who behaved most considerately to me, stood by the window while I said farewell to him. He looked strangely and peculiarly intellectual, as so often happens after death. The final relaxation of the muscles about his chin and mouth accentuated most markedly the strong form of the actual skull. Curiously enough, as he had grown a little beard in his last illness, it seemed to me that he resembled very strongly another English writer not yet dead, one whom nature had, indeed, marked out as a story-teller, but who lacked all those qualities which made Maitland what he was. As I stood by this dead-bed knowing, as I did know, that he had died at last in the strange anguish which I was aware he had feared, it seemed to me that here was a man who had been born to inherit grief. He had never known pure peace or utter joy as even some of the very humblest know it. I looked back across the toilsome path by which he had come hither to the end, and it seemed to me that from the very first he had been doomed. In other times or some other age he might have had a better fate, but he was born out of his time and died in exile doubly. I put my hand upon his forehead and said farewell to him and left the room, for I knew that there was much to do and that in some way I had to do it.