Whilst he worked, his wife tried to make use of her leisure: she interested herself in poor children, sketched flowers, read novels ... life flowed peacefully in spite of the underlying drama.
Yet the thought that he was not fulfilling his obligations was intolerable to Metchnikoff. He thought of resigning and founding a small book-shop at Madeira in order to be independent and not obliged to leave his wife, but lack of funds made this plan impossible. In his search for new resources, he went to Teneriffe to look for a subject for an article. He met with several disappointments on this trip; yet he saw the Villa Orotava, with its celebrated giant dragon-tree, which had already then been brought down by a storm. He also visited the Caves of the Guancios, the primitive inhabitants of the Canary Islands. Having gathered the necessary observations, he hastened to return to Madeira, where months passed without bringing any change.
The book-shop idea was abandoned as being impracticable and Metchnikoff had to return to Odessa, asking his sister-in-law to come to Madeira in his place. When she had arrived, he confided the two girls to Mertens and to the care of the devoted Dr. Goldschmidt, and went away conscious of the uselessness of his efforts and more deeply pessimistic than ever.
When he reached Odessa, in October 1872, he found there his friend Setchénoff, whom he had previously proposed for a Physiology Lecturer’s chair, and whose affection was a great comfort to him at this sad time. The correspondence between him and his wife during that period is full of an infinite tenderness, as if they felt the supreme separation coming near, and yearned to express their mutual love.
At the end of January 1873, between two classes, Metchnikoff received a letter from his sister-in-law telling him to come in haste if he wished to find his wife still living. He delivered his lecture like an automaton, then went to obtain his leave and hurried off. He accomplished the whole journey without a break. On arriving at Madeira he found his wife so changed that he scarcely knew her, and it was only through sheer force of will that he kept his alarm from her. She suffered so much that she had to be given morphia constantly and could no longer leave her bed.
Metchnikoff himself was in very poor health; his eyes were so sensitive from overwork that he had to remain in the dark, only going into the garden at dusk to observe spiders and snails. Time was progressing slowly and miserably, and bringing nothing but anxiety as to the means to support this sad existence. Metchnikoff had hoped to receive the Baer prize for a zoological work, but did not obtain it: it was refused on the pretext that his memoir had been presented in manuscript instead of being printed. In reality, the German party had wished to give it to a fellow-German.
A friend of his, who sent him the bad news, offered to lend him 300 roubles, and Metchnikoff accepted; he could now think of nothing but holding out till the end.
One morning the patient’s condition suddenly became much worse. The doctor was sent for in a hurry and declared that it was now a question of a few hours.... When Metchnikoff went back to his wife he found her with eyes wide open and so full of mortal anguish and utter despair that he could bear it no longer and went out hastily, not to show her his dismay.
This was his last impression; he never saw her again.
Only half conscious, he walked up and down the drawing-room, opening and closing books without seeing them, his mind full of disconnected pictures; he wondered to himself how his family would hear the news. Time passed without his realising it. Then his sister-in-law came to tell him that all was over. This was on the 20th April 1873.